3 times Scott Miller gets caught staring at you + 1 time he owns up to it. (w.c. 9.8k)
18+, mdni.
A/N: The biggest thank you to @kryptidfiles for making this fic better <3 your input and ideas were SO SO helpful and I truly couldn't have finished this without you!
I.
Chasing storms had you working up an appetite. All your brain power was spent on watching the radar, tracking the wind speed, measuring the trajectory relative to your position. And then there was the adrenaline rush, the wild drumbeat of your heart and the electricity in your limbs while Peter maneuvered Tin Man over the Oklahoma plains. All your senses sharpened by present danger.
It took a lot out of you. Of all of you on the Storm Par team, frankly. So the first stop after every chase, successful or not, was always wherever you could get food the fastest. Today, it happened to be a roadside diner whose windows were fogged with the scratches of years of sandstorms.
Storm Par filed into the lot and parked their four vehicles in a row, all official-like, but then they clamored out of their trucks like animals and any illusion about the seriousness of the group was shattered. Well, all except one, of course—Scott. He ducked smoothly out of the front seat of his SUV and stalked toward the door of the diner with the grace and heaviness of a big cat.
All of you piled into your respective vinyl booths. You had the great (dis)pleasure of sitting directly across from Scott. Next to you sat Peter, your best friend on the team and the other operator assigned to Tin Man, and across the table from him sat Javi.
The aging waitress walked over and took your orders with all the enthusiasm of a mortician. Peter and Scott talked numbers while you waited for the food but you were too hangry to jump in.
When your sandwich and fries finally came, it was all you could do not to inhale the whole thing at once. You tried your damnedest, though, and you were too hungry to care about it looking presentable.
"Need a napkin there, champ?" Scott said, smirking at you.
You glared at him with your mouth full and swallowed before retorting, "Need an attitude adjustment there, bro?"
Since you found out that Scott had been in a fraternity, you clowned on him relentlessly for it. Nevermind that it was a science fraternity and comprised of the stuffiest, blandest young scientists the world had ever seen: you still teased Scott for it like he'd been crowned Beer Pong King three years in a row.
He made a sour face at you and stole the napkin holder from the center of the table before slapping it down in front of you like he was dividing up territory.
"Maybe if you weren't eating with all the fine motor skills of a toddler and putting off my appetite, I wouldn't have an attitude, newbie."
Ugh. You'd already been on this team three months, and you weren’t even the newest hire. Scott just loved to save his barbs for you, and god, did it piss you off, because he was never short on them. It felt like he was always watching you, waiting for you to fuck up or do something stupid that he could harp on endlessly.
Peter and Javi made noises of protest, but you barely listened. Instead you held Scott's gaze while you plucked a napkin off the top of the holder and wrinkled your nose at him while you dabbed your mouth.
"Oooo, sorry, am I not performing femininity enough for you?" you snapped, cutting Peter and Javi off. "Eating too messily for the tiny little brain in your underwear to comprehend so you have to talk to me like I'm a child?" You knew he didn't mean it in a misogynistic way, but it was a card you had lots of fun playing as the only woman on the team. Besides, it kind of was a sore point for you—the real newbie, the operator on Wizard who started two weeks ago, got off clean for every mistake (and he’s made three already!) while you got berated and underestimated from day one.
The force with which Scott rolled his eyes probably could've formed a tornado right in the middle of this diner. "Jesus Christ, you know I didn't mean it like—"
"Whatever, Miller, hop off my dick and stop watching me eat," you interrupted sourly.
"Alright, guys, retract the claws," Javi said placatingly. "Everyone just eat your food, you're all hangry."
Scott huffed and you could feel the heat of his glare on you, probably incensed at not getting the last word, but you trained your eyes on your plate and dug back into your meal.
He never quite apologized, but he did start picking up more napkins for you when it was his turn to go on food runs, and you did sort of appreciate it. You did need them, after all.
II.
It was two in the morning and you were banging relentlessly on the door of Javi and Scott’s shared motel room with your laptop tucked in the crook of your elbow. You were sleep-deprived, anxious, PMSing, and there was a fucking storm cell developing just a few dozen miles away.
Javi opened it, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily at you. “What the hell?” he whispered, raspy with sleep. “Quiet down, Scott will throw a tantrum.” He slipped outside and closed the door behind him.
“There’s a cell developing southwest of here. Thirty-ish miles,” you said quietly. “Come on, we have to get everyone moving.”
Javi’s eyes met yours, bright and alert now. “Is there a warning out yet?”
You shook your head. “They’re still on a watch, but the storm is starting to become a mesocyclone.”
“You got the numbers?” he asked, nodded to your laptop.
“Yeah.”
“Get in here, show me.” Javi stepped back into the motel room and held the door open for you.
You walked in with your laptop in tow. Scott was still in bed, and the door Javi slammed shut behind you jolted him awake. He groaned, something low and animal that you didn’t have the bandwidth to handle right now, and rolled over onto his back. He hauled himself up on his elbows and squinted at you both.
“Th’ fuck’s goin’ on?” he asked irritably.
“Tornado watch in Jackson County. There’s a cell developing,” you said, deliberately refusing to look too long at Scott’s mussed, curly hair and the way his white t-shirt hugged his biceps.
Since they were the bosses, their room was the biggest and they had a small dining table with three chairs in addition to the two beds. You plopped into one of the seats, setting your laptop on the table and scrolling furiously across the screen. Both of them moved to join you, with Javi on one side of you and Scott on the other. They leaned in to take a look.
An angry blob of yellow and orange was growing in size. The sidebar indicated 98 mph northeasterly winds and a mix of rain and hail.
Scott and Javi grabbed their own devices. “It’s just a mesocyclone right now. Those winds might still die down,” Scott said.
“Sure, but look at this,” you said, switching to a different view mode on your radar app. “Look at the echo top on it. It’s only at 6,500 feet right now, but it’s rising. Those winds are gonna speed up the higher up it gets for how little resistance they’ll find in the stratosphere.”
“All I’m looking at right now is a particularly bad hailstorm. There isn’t even a tornado vortex signature,” Scott insisted.
“So, what, we should just plant our asses here and hope it doesn’t develop one?” you asked impatiently.
“No, obviously we’ll move when—” Javi began.
“Well what the hell else can we do but keep an eye on it?” Scott interrupted. “You wanna wake up our whole damn team for a drizzle?”
“You know damn well this isn’t a drizzle, Scott.”
“And you know damn well that if we hauled ass to every spot with a tornado watch and some hail, we’d just be wasting everyone’s time.”
"It’s so close and you want to wait till, what, it comes knocking on our door?” you challenged.
“Will you guys just chill out please? Your bickering is pissing me off,” Javi snapped. He turned to you. “Is Pete awake?”
“I woke him up before I came here but he might’ve gone back to sleep,” you said.
Javi sighed heavily. “Look, you guys stay here and keep an eye on that cell. I’ll bring my radio. The minute it develops a TVS, you radio me. I’m gonna wake up Peter and Victor, let them know to be on standby to get moving. And maybe get coffee.”
You nodded. He slipped into the bathroom with a change of clothes then reemerged, put on his shoes and walked out the door. Scott sighed too, got up from the dining table, and rooted around in the front pocket of his backpack on the floor for his gum. He popped a piece into his mouth and dropped back down into the chair next to you.
“Shouldn’t you go get changed too?” he asked.
You sighed and looked at him. “What?”
“Oh, were you planning on driving into hundred-mile-per-hour winds in your jammies?” he said with a smirk.
You glared. “Didn’t you just call it a drizzle?”
“Yeah, and at least I’m consistent. What kind of nutjob runs around screaming about an impending tornado and then doesn’t bother to get ready for it?”
“What the fuck does this look like?” you asked, lifting your laptop up and shaking it for emphasis.
“It looks like you’re in my motel room in a pair of tiny sleep shorts and freaking out about a storm that just barely counts as an EF1.”
You tilted your head back all the way, hanging your neck at him. Partly because you were sick of his shit and partly to hide the heat in your cheeks at his comment. “Can I just fucking do my job, please?”
He snickered. “Be my guest,” he said, blowing a bubble with his gum and popping it just as fast with a cheeky little grin.
You stared at your screen, watching the blob shift every few seconds. The echo top was slowing its upward movement. It hovered at around 10,000 feet now. The wind speeds did climb a bit too, but they stabilized at 110 mph. Your eyes unfocused a little while you watched the colors on your screen move. You put your elbow on the table and rested your head in your palm, your energy beginning to flag. In your peripheral vision, you registered Scott’s face turned toward yours.
You looked up to meet his gaze. There was something in it you couldn’t quite place—not derision; you knew very well what that looked like on Scott. Curiosity, maybe? Amusement?
“What?” you asked.
Scott raised his eyebrows at you in lieu of a response.
“What’s your problem, Miller?” you asked tiredly. He stuck his lip out and shook his head, shooting you a weak thumbs up, the picture of (false) innocence.
“I don’t have a problem,” he said casually.
You screwed your eyes shut and inhaled slow through your bared teeth. A blaze of irritation roared to life in your chest. “Then what the fuck do you keep staring at me for?”
You opened your eyes to shoot him a glare that could kill. You wished it would. At least then you wouldn’t have to be perceived in your pajamas anymore. He grinned at you, smacking his gum. “‘Cause it pisses you off.”
You moved your glare back to your screen, refusing to dignify his statement with a response and waste any more energy on an argument, and saw the yellow-and-orange blob change to just yellow. The wind speed was clocking in at 96 mph now and the echo top measurement was falling rapidly. You were watching the storm you’d been so anxious about die down like someone had flipped a switch on it—and both you and Scott knew that he’d just been proven right.
You were glad not to have to rally the brigade and haul ass to Jackson County in the middle of the night, but now Scott had even more material to give you shit about. You braced yourself for whatever barb he wanted to send your way for interrupting his night like this.
But it never came. Instead he let out a great big sigh, got up, and stretched. You studiously ignored how his shirt rose up over his tummy, exposing the trail of dark hair between the defined V of his hipbones. “Alright, kid, told ya it was a false alarm. I’m goin’ back to sleep,” he said. He barely shot you another glance before walking into the bathroom.
You figured you were both too tired to keep snapping at each other at this hour. You radio’d Javi, let him know the storm passed, and left before Scott could come back out.
III.
You may have cut it a little too close to tornado season in Oklahoma. You figured a friend's late March bachelorette weekend in Vegas wouldn't interrupt your work schedule too much, and it sort of hadn't! Or rather, it wouldn't have if the two huge cells building up in the low pressure atmosphere hadn't decided to spin into existence a couple weeks early.
So now, not only did you not get to travel with your team from the NWS HQ in Maryland to the heart of tornado alley, your flight from Vegas also got redirected to a different airport and you would have to drive down to central Oklahoma from Wichita. Occupational hazard: when everyone else is hunkering down and grounding planes, you're the one that has to figure out how to get right where they don't wanna go.
When your plane started taxiing at the airport, you immediately texted Javi.
You: dude i got fucking redirected to wichita so i guess im gonna rent a car and drive down to OKC and meet with u guys there
Javi: oh shit
Javi: wait don't rent a car, scott might be able to come get you
You: what???
Javi: he's in KS rn with family i'll text him
You stared at your phone dumbly. This, you did not expect. This, you did not plan for on any level, emotional or otherwise. Now you had two and a half hours alone in a car with Scott fucking Miller and the dregs of a hangover to look forward to. As if this trip couldn't get any worse. Just then, you got another text.
Scott: Text me your flight number.
You raised your eyes to the heavens, as if God could help you now. Scott'd barely softened towards you in the six months since you joined the team. You weren't newbie anymore, but he still sometimes hit you with kid or a condescending champ. Still teased you relentlessly for every misplaced decimal and bad call. And still, to your unending consternation, always fucking looking at you, making you feel like a bug under a microscope. At least, if he was driving, he couldn't watch your every move and dissect you with his eyes. That was your consolation. You texted him back with your flight number and started coordinating the pickup.
Later, after you bee-lined to the bathroom to do what you could to stop smelling like airplane and picked up your stuff, you walked out to the arrival floor with your bags in tow. You headed for the doors and texted Scott which one you'd be at, expecting him to roll up in his Storm Par SUV. Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
Scott: Turn around
You frowned at your phone and spun around. Your eyes glossed over the sea of people, looking for—ah, there he was. That freakishly tall tree of a man. What the hell was he doing inside? He was just supposed to roll up to the curb so you could get in and get moving fast. You let out a beleaguered sigh and tipped your chin at him when you met his gaze. One side of his mouth curled up, the dimple in that cheek showing up just slightly. You (begrudgingly) found his dimpled smile charming, even in the half-measure it was now. Maybe if it showed up more, it’d make up for his sour personality, you thought.
His gaze never let up on you as you crossed the floor, so you trained your eyes on the ground. Fucking asshole, didn’t he know how awkward it was to be stared at by someone while you were walking towards them? He couldn’t just gaze politely into the middle distance?
“Hi,” you said, finally meeting his gaze when you planted your feet in front of him.
“Took you long enough,” he said by way of greeting, immediately moving to take your bags from your hands.
You folded your lips into your mouth and bit them with your teeth so you wouldn’t snap right back. He walked ahead towards the doors without even a glance back to make sure you were following. When you finally got outside, he led you straight to a silver Ford F150 that was idling with its warning lights on.
“What the fuck, you can’t park here, Scott—” you began.
“Well, I did, and look at that! No ticket!” he replied cheekily as he finished dumping your bags in the backseat of the cab and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Hurry up, I don’t want to try my luck.”
You huffed at him and climbed into the passenger seat, buckling yourself in. “I don’t know why you even came inside in the first place,” you mumbled under your breath.
He ignored you, maneuvering the vehicle smoothly out of its spot and following the line on the dashboard screen’s GPS.
“Is this your car?” you asked. It didn’t surprise you that Scott had an F150, but it did surprise you a little that he kept it in such pristine condition.
“Certainly not Storm Par’s,” he said.
You looked at him and sighed. It was gonna be a long road trip.
“Well, it’s nice. Really clean,” you said.
He looked at you with his eyebrows raised. “Thanks.”
You hummed. “Thanks for coming to get me. I, uh…didn’t know you had family out here.”
“Yeah, my stepbrother and his family. It was my niece’s birthday this past weekend.”
“You have a niece?” you blurted.
He made a face at you. “Yeah, I have a niece. Why are you so surprised?”
“You just didn’t seem like the type.”
“The type to have a niece?” he asked incredulously, a dimple peeking out as he struggled to stifle a laugh. You’d never heard him sound like this before, at least not in any conversation he’s had with you.
“No…the type to go out of your way to celebrate one, I guess. I…didn’t really think of you as much of a family man,” you admitted.
He sobered up a little but didn’t lose his mirth. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”
The silence settled comfortably over the both of you. His phone was connected to the car radio and it was softly playing country music that was barely more than pleasant background noise to you while the pickup glided next to fields of grain.
You let yourself look over at him and study his profile a little bit. It was always novel to you to see him out of his Storm Par uniform, and today he looked every bit the Midwestern country boy he was on paper. His dark, curly hair was free of that wretched baseball cap. He wore a red and black plaid flannel over a white t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Unfortunately, he looked really, really good like this. So much softer out of uniform, less rigid.
“You keep staring at me, your neck’ll get stuck like that,” he said with a smirk.
“Was trying to find out if I could see your little devil horns with your hat off. Oh, yeah, there they are,” you said, serving it up right back before turning your face to the window.
He laughed. "It’s nice not having to hide them.”
You snorted and looked back at him. “Why hide them at all? They already shine through in your sparkling personality,” you said.
He huffed a little chuckle through his nose and shook his head. “Yeah, well, this sparkling personality is driving you two-and-a-half hours away in his own truck for free, and you didn’t even have to ask.”
You groaned. “Are you going to hang this over my head for the rest of forever now? Are you gonna be like, ‘Hey, remember when I drove you across a state line?’ every time you need a favor?”
“Ya know, I was really thinking about it,” he said.
“Well, stop thinking about it, because you’re right, I didn’t ask. Javi voluntold you to do it. If anything, he owes you the favor. I’m just the kid who got stranded in Kansas,” you said, holding your palms up in surrender.
He snorted. “Way to throw him under the bus.”
“I don’t have a principled bone in my body when I’m under duress.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you need one,” he said, smirking like he said something smart. And then the double meaning of it settled over the both of you.
“Excuse me?” you asked, an incredulous grin spreading over your face.
Scott huffed. “Obviously I meant you need more principles, not that you—should—”
“Scott Miller, are you blushing?” you asked gleefully, your eyes drinking in the flush spreading up his neck. A thick vein pulsed on the side of it from his frustration and the urge to lick it burned through you, staggering and unbidden. You blinked your eyes a couple of times to rid yourself of the thought.
“Look, it’s an involuntary bodily reaction, alright? Relax,” he said irritably.
You chuckled and turned your head back to the window. “Mmkay.”
The first hour went by quickly. You stole control of the car’s Bluetooth and subjected Scott to your taste in music, which naturally ignited a healthy argument about what could be considered “good taste.” Your ideas on it vastly differed, but you found a sliver of common ground in classic rock and indie alt, so you mostly tried to keep the tunes to those genres. But of course you found time to slip in some songs he might not have heard and force him to try new music.
Halfway through the drive, Scott pulled into a rest stop to top up on gas and grab snacks. When you offered to chip in for gas, he waved you off like the notion was ridiculous. You decided you’d cover snacks for the both of you, then.
While he fueled up the car, you headed into the convenience store and grabbed a basket. You more or less had an idea of what he liked; you’d certainly been on enough snack runs at places like this with the team. So you tossed carrot sticks, beef jerky, those Veggie Straws chips he likes, and a fresh pack of spearmint gum in the basket for him before you hunted down your favorite gas station treats.
You looked up when the bell above the door rang and made eye contact with Scott as he came in. He pointed towards the restrooms and you nodded. You then went back to staring hard at the shelves in front of you, oscillating between two candy bars in your head, before you felt a presence standing just outside your field of vision to your right.
You looked up at the person, a middle-aged guy who reeked of cigarettes and looked like every one of them had chipped away at his soul. He was staring at you.
“Sorry, am I in your way?” you asked, moving backward to give him space.
“Not at all, honey,” he said, throwing you a stained grin that he must have thought looked dashing. “You like that candy? I can buy it for you. Where ya headed?”
You straightened your spine, the klaxons in your head already flashing. “Uh, no thanks, I’m good,” you said, offering a polite smile.
He leaned toward you, saying, “Really, sugar, let me get it, let me take you out.”
You stepped back, letting the polite smile drop and straightening your spine. “Sir, I’m not interested. Can you leave me alone?”
He snorted, which wafted his beer-tinged breath at you. “Aw, you’re just sayin’ that. Don’t play hard to get with me, baby.”
“Hey, what, you didn’t hear her? She said she’s not interested, old man,” said Scott’s voice from behind you. You turned back to find him walking up the aisle toward you.
The man sized Scott up, all 6’4” of him, and seemed to lose some of his nerve. “Well who are you, her boyfriend?”
Scott rolled his eyes and gave the man a dirty look. “There’s your problem right there, the only women you respect are the ones who have a man to back them up. Will you fuckin’ piss off?”
The dude’s face soured and he walked off, mumbling under his breath. You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.
“Thanks for stepping in there,” you said quietly, grabbing both candy bars you were considering (you deserved it, obviously) and moving towards the cashier.
“No problem,” he said.
When you got everything rung up, he tried to beat you to the card reader, but you blocked it with your body and shoved your card onto it. “Stop trying to pay for everything, Jesus Christ, I get it, you have money—”
Scott made a face at you that you didn’t even see. “I’m not showing off my money. Will you just fucking let me be nice?”
The card reader beeped and you turned toward him, victorious. A grave miscalculation because he was much closer behind you than you thought and now your boobs were pressed up against his chest and you were staring straight up into his eyes. You let out a surprised little “Oh!” and stumbled back into the card reader and display of Bic lighters, but he caught you before you could knock them all to the floor.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, turning back immediately to grab the bag of your stuff the cashier had pushed toward you and bolt out the door.
The air outside wasn’t as refreshing as you’d’ve liked. It was heavier with humidity than it had been before you got to the rest stop. Your eyes scanned the parking lot in front of the store and locked in on Scott’s F150. You immediately started for it and sped up when you heard the jingling bells of the door opening behind you.
“Hey, hang on, Road Runner, door’s locked—” Scott called behind you before whipping out his keys and unlocking the car remotely. The truck lit up obediently and you launched yourself inside.
When you were seated and had a second to get your head back on straight, you had to reckon with the fact that your racing heart and heat-filled cheeks were not the result of your encounter with the creep.
Obviously you found Scott attractive, and it was just another thing that pissed you off about him before. Because you knew he was the kind of guy to use that to his advantage, especially with women. You told yourself that recognizing that would help you keep him at arm’s length. His surliness, his arrogance, his snark were easy fodder for the wall you were building up against him in your heart.
You refused to believe that all it took to tear that wall down was spending an hour alone in his car with him where you weren’t chasing weather. Where you weren’t coworkers on the clock, distracted by heat maps and wind shear. Just two people road-tripping across the plains.
Scott climbed easily into the front seat, buckled himself in, and looked at you. “You good, kid?”
“Yeah. Thanks. Let’s um, let’s get goin’,” you said, plastering on a fake smile.
He didn’t budge. He just looked at you, took in the emotions swirling in your eyes, in the set of your mouth. “We can talk about it if you want.”
“Talk about what, the creep? Really, I’m fine. It’s happened before, plus it’s over now. He fucked off,” you insisted.
Scott frowned. “I mean…sure, whatever, we don’t have to. You just look keyed up.”
“Why do you know what I look like when I’m keyed up?” you challenged, mirroring his frown. This compassion from him was confusing, unnerving. You needed to go back to a familiar dynamic, even if it was a combative one.
“So you admit that you’re keyed up?” he retorted with a smirk.
“No! Answer the question!”
“We’ve spent half a year chasing tornadoes around together. I know what it looks like when you’re anxious out of your skull, genius,” he said with an eye-roll.
You huffed. “Well maybe I’m anxious because we literally do have tornadoes to chase and we’re sitting in this humid-ass parking lot instead of getting on the road.”
Scott shook his head and threw the car into gear. “Alright, alright, we’re goin’. Don’t say I never did anything nice.”
“You know what? I actually do wanna know—why are you being so nice to me? Picking me up inside the airport, letting me play DJ, rescuing me from creeps, trying to pay for everything…” you said, counting each item off on your fingers. “Did you get body-snatched while I was in Vegas or something?”
“What are you, keeping score?” he asked irritably.
“Just saying, it’s a real departure from two weeks ago when you called me a knucklehead for giving you Doppler readings that were outdated by an hour.”
“It was a knuckleheaded move. I stand by what I said. You fucking know how fast winds change. I had to give you guff, how else are you gonna learn?”
“Jesus Christ, Scott, you’re not some wizened veteran who’s never made a wrong choice in his life. I don’t need a teacher, alright? I have the same damn master’s degree you do. God, how are you not suffocating from the thinness of the air up on that impossibly high horse of yours?”
He snorted. “Fuck off, I’m breathing just fine. And I’m not trying to be your teacher, I’m tryin’ to fuckin’ help you. And do my goddamn job.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should switch to Wizard and help Frankie instead, because that kid’s fucked up way more than me, but does he catch any heat from you? No, of course not. Just me, right? I’m your favorite punching bag?” you asked bitterly.
Scott stayed uncharacteristically silent. You moved your gaze from your fidgeting hands and turned to look at him. His brow was furrowed, eyes clouded in thought. You watched the muscles in his jaw bunch up, working, tense. “You’re not my punching bag,” he finally said quietly.
“Feels like it sometimes. A lot of the time, actually,” you murmured. “I feel like you’re always watching me, waiting for the moment when I fuck up a whole operation so you can rip me to shreds.”
He inhaled sharply next to you. “That’s not—Fuck,” he said with a sigh. “That’s not what I’m trying to do. You’re not my punching bag,” he insisted again.
You stayed silent this time. He seemed almost…contrite. And if he was about to give you an apology, who were you to interrupt?
“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” He ran a hand through his curls. “I just hate getting shit wrong. Our work has to be so precise and a lot of people count on it.”
“Then why doesn’t Frankie get shit from you?”
He chuckled, a sharp exhale from the nose. “There’s a reason Victor’s assigned to that team. Frankie’s his problem. Trust me, I’ve given Victor enough shit to last both of them a lifetime.”
You moved your head to stare out the window. “Hmmm,” was all you said.
“Maybe I could stand to be a little nicer,” he conceded. You felt the pointed shard of ice you had in your heart for him thaw, just a little.
“Maybe I could stand to check the Doppler readings more often,” you said, throwing him a smile. A white flag.
He chuckled and met your gaze for a split second before training his eyes right back on the road.
IV.
It wasn’t a plague, per se, except for the fact that it was destroying your life. Javi and Peter were sick, the latest two members of your team who’ve succumbed to the virus that seemed to be spreading like wildfire across Storm Par.
The virus was nice enough to get people sick in shifts and not all at once, so the past few weeks had been an absurd game of musical motel rooms. Sick with sick, healthy with healthy, in every combination under the sun.
Javi was already a day into his illness and was rooming with Frankie, whose fever broke in the early hours last night and was already on the mend. When you woke up to Peter rolling over listlessly in bed, covered in sweat, you knew you were screwed. And when you figured out that Javi and Peter would need to quarantine together to ride their illnesses out, leaving you to room with Scott, a blind terror gripped you and you rushed to Peter’s side, forcing him to drink water and anti-nausea meds so you wouldn’t have to go.
You’d already taken your shift with the virus and did not miss the fever, cold sweats, and nausea, nor the sound of Bobby, your quarantine-mate, retching in the bathroom. But frankly you’d rather get it again and stay with Peter than sleep five feet away from Scott Miller.
But your care didn’t fix it, of course. Peter was sick sick. So after a day of building reports, watching radars, and hoping for a miraculous recovery you knew wouldn’t come, you had to force yourself to pack an overnight bag.
Peter was dead asleep in his bed, knocked out on all manner of medication, when you finally sighed and left your room. You turned in the direction of Javi’s room—Scott’s room, you bitterly reminded yourself—and saw a very pale-looking Javi closing the door behind him with his backpack in tow.
“Oh, good, I was just—” Javi started— “hold on—” and he leaned against the wall, pressing a fist to his mouth in an effort not to throw up.
You grimaced at him. “You take your meds?”
The nausea seemed to pass a bit and Javi straightened up. He nodded weakly at you. “Haven’t kicked in yet.”
You nodded sympathetically. He waved you over and you met him just in front of his door. “Your key. Switch with me,” he said, digging in his pockets and producing his room key.
You stared at it in his hand as he held it out to you. “Uh. I—Javi, can I just sleep…somewhere else? Can I stay with Frankie? He’s fine now, right? Or Bobby! I can stay with Bobby, right?”
Javi squinted at you. “Dude. Please,” he said tiredly, shaking the key in front of you. You took it just to appease him.
“Maybe I can sleep in one of the trucks instead? One second, let me go back and grab the keys from Peter,” you began, and Javi made an aggrieved noise at you.
“I need. To be. Horizontal,” he said laboriously. You sighed, nodded, moved out of his way so he could trudge to the room you’d just left. You watched him go and dropped your backpack onto the ground.
You stared at Scott’s door like it had personally offended you. The thought of having to share a room with Scott sent your heart falling out of your ass with anxiety. Things had been much less tense between the two of you since your Great American Road Trip a month ago, and unfortunately, with that ease of tension, you found yourself warming up to Scott at a speed you did not like to think about.
That was the heart of it, really. Your dynamic with him felt like it was constantly shifting: combative, familiar, then teasing, friendly…confusing. It wasn’t much of a problem on the day-to-day since you could stumble your way through most of your interactions, but you hadn’t spent more than a couple of hours alone together…maybe ever? And now you were going to sleep next to him. Or, well, in your bed, which would be next to his bed. All night. While he was looking like he did that one time you barged in, all soft and sleep-warm. God help you.
You’d barely even noticed that you’d started pacing back and forth in front of the door. You could feel the nervous energy radiate off of you in waves and needed to expel it somehow.
All too soon, certainly sooner than you were prepared for, the door you were pacing in front of opened and there was Scott, holding it open, leaning against it and looking infuriatingly like a loungewear model in his black shorts and fitted white shirt.
“Christ, kid, will you come inside? I can hear you wearing a hole into the concrete out here,” he said, shooting you a stern look.
You stopped dead in front of him, your mouth opening and closing with the effort of finding an excuse, an out, anything. He raised his eyebrows at you and held the door open wider.
“I—I actually think I’m gonna sleep somewhere else,” you said quietly.
He frowned. “What—somewhere else? Where? Why?”
Fuck. Why, indeed? “Uh, I just—”
“I thought we were past this already. Things have been fine, right? So, what? What’s the issue?” he asked, irritation thrumming in his tone.
You exhaled hard and looked away. “Well, shit, Miller, I’ve never shared a room with a frat boy before,” you sniffed, “you might decide to haze me in the middle of the night like one of your pledges or whatever.”
Scott turned his eyes to the heavens. “How many times do I have to tell you? It wasn’t like that—we were all a bunch o’ fuckin’ nerds! You have nothing to worry about!”
You huffed. “Look, can’t it just be enough that I don’t want to sleep in your room?”
Scott didn’t respond to that but he narrowed his eyes at you. “Where do you think you’re gonna spend the night, then?” he asked.
“Fuck, I don’t know, one of the trucks, maybe?” you said, throwing your arms out. “I’ll figure it out.”
Scott gaped at you. “Figure it out? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“It’s no big deal!” you insisted. “Don’t you want the room to yourself anyway?”
“That doesn’t fucking matter. I’m not letting you sleep in one of the trucks. You’re being ridiculous,” Scott complained. “Would you just come inside? Please?” he said through a clenched jaw.
“Like hell will I let you tell me what to do. I’m sleeping in Tin Man tonight,” you retorted.
“Fat fucking chance, kid. You're stupid if you think Peter won't rise from his sickbed like a vengeful ghost to haul your ass back inside.”
You clenched your jaw. “Give me the keys to Scarecrow, then.”
He snorted. “I don’t drive Scarecrow, Praveet does. Keys are with him.”
You screwed your eyes shut and sighed. When you heard him shuffling closer, you opened them to find him standing right in front of you with the backpack you’d abandoned on the ground.
“Look, I said I’d be nicer right? So I’ll be nice. Won’t hear a peep outta me tonight. Will you just come inside?” he said with a heavy sigh before turning back and walking into the room with your stuff.
You made a noise of protest but followed him in anyway, defeated. He plopped your backpack on the floor next to the bed farthest from the door then stretched out on his own bed to resume the book he appeared to have been reading before he came outside. You didn’t look too closely at it; it was probably some boring nonfiction book about weather.
You stood in front of your backpack, staring at it like it was going to grow legs and walk away. You wished you could do the same. But you knew Scott was right, it would be stupid to sleep in a truck during peak season in Tornado Alley with a free bed right here. And you knew that knocking on every door to try to entice someone else on the team to switch with you would be pointless—Javi was the only one on the team comfortable enough with Scott to willingly room with him. So you sighed and accepted your fate.
“Mind if I use the shower?” you asked, pulling out your pajamas and toiletries from your backpack.
“Knock yourself out,” Scott said dismissively from behind his book.
You did your best to proceed with your nightly routine like normal. You brushed your teeth, showered, put on your skincare, and got dressed up in a big, boxy T-shirt and sleep shorts before emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. You plopped down onto your bed with a comb, your leave-in conditioner, and your towel and started working the product into your hair. You loved the smell of your skin- and haircare products: you found them, and the ritual of putting them on, deeply relaxing. It made you feel like an ancient princess, anointed with holy oils.
“That…smells nice,” said Scott. You looked up and met his gaze. He was still sprawled out on his bed, his book lying open, face down, on his stomach. How long had he been watching you?
You gave him a soft smile. “Thanks. It’s conditioner.”
He hummed in acknowledgment. “Do you do that every night?”
“What happened to ‘not a peep’?” you asked playfully.
He huffed then turned back to his book. “Was just trying to make conversation,” he said crossly.
You laughed. “No, I don’t put it on every night. Just when I wash my hair, really. You use any products for that curly hair of yours?”
He put the book back down and ran his fingers through his curls. “No, I don’t do anything to it besides wash it. Probably should, I guess.”
You hummed. “You lucked out. It’s nice on its own.”
He stopped, pulled his fingers out of his hair, and stared at you. “Thanks,” he said, with a look on his face that you couldn’t quite place.
Once you’d finished anointing yourself with your oils and serums, you put your toiletries away and then plopped back onto your bed to fuck around on your personal laptop for a bit. You settled down onto your stomach with the laptop in front of you, your feet towards the sky, ankles crossed behind you. After twenty minutes, you started to feel a little stiff, so you moved to lie down on your side, curled around your laptop. While you changed position, you glanced up at Scott and found that he’d been sitting exactly the way he had been this whole time. His book abandoned on his stomach. His face turned towards you.
You chuckled when you met his gaze. “You’re staring, Miller.”
He blinked. “Sorry,” he said, and picked his book up again.
“You do that a lot,” you said.
“What?” he asked without looking at you.
“Stare at me.”
“Mmm, do I?” he asked, sounding skeptical.
You took a deep breath, shut your laptop, and got up to sit cross-legged on your bed, facing him. “You do. Why?”
He paused, then dog-eared his book, tossed it aside, mirrored your posture, and finally met your gaze. You both sat there, staring at each other for a beat.
“I dunno,” he said with a shrug.
“Scott. Stop fuckin’ around.” The beds were close enough together that you uncurled one leg from beneath you and kicked him lightly in the shin. “Do I remind you of someone, or something? Do I just always have something in my teeth?”
“No.”
His noncommittal answers and the unsettling way he refused to look at anything but you sent a tingle of irritation up your spine. “Then what is it? Because for real, I feel like I’m living in a panopticon sometimes.”
“A panopticon?” he repeated with a tense laugh. “Nobody’s watching you.”
“You are. Always. I thought it was because you were waiting for me to fail, looking for an excuse to kick me off the team or something. Is that it?” you asked, annoyed.
He growled and ran a hand through his hair.“You fucking know that’s not it!” he exploded. “What do you want me to say? That I think you’re beautiful? That I can’t keep my eyes off you for some fucking reason? Is that what you wanna hear?”
You stared at him, mouth agape. Shocked silent.
He stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of you. “You want me to tell you that I find you distracting as hell? That I can’t get any fucking work done within twenty feet of you because all I can do is look at you?”
Your eyebrows furrowed together. “If you felt that way then why have you been shitting on me all this time?”
He threw his head back to stare at the ceiling and then looked right back down at you. “I told you before, I wasn’t trying to shit on you, I was trying to help you.”
You stood up in front of him and he froze in place. Your gaze bore into his. “So instead of being empathetic or even polite, you thought it would be helpful to call me names and make fun of me whenever I made a mistake? What is this, the third grade? You were pulling on my pigtails because you liked me?”
The last time you were this close to him, you had to run to the car to quell a panic attack. But that was before—before you knew why Scott did what he did, acted the way he acted. Before you figured out that the look of his that only seemed to showed up around you, the one you didn’t know how to read or couldn’t place, wasn’t curiosity or amusement like you’d initially thought. It was attraction.
“What if I was? What if I do?” he said quietly. His gaze flicked down to your mouth and watched as you licked your lips.
“You tell me,” you murmured. “You gonna do something about it?”
His eyes met yours, briefly, and they must’ve found what they were looking for in them because he took your face in his hands and kissed you hard.
You groaned into his mouth and pressed yourself closer, winding your arms around his waist. He pushed you backwards onto your bed and let you fall to the pillows as he held himself up on top of you. He dipped his head back down and captured your lips with his. You luxuriated in the weight of him, the surprising softness of his mouth, the scratch of his five o’clock shadow warming your cheeks. He smelled so good above you, like rain and fresh linen.
“Been thinkin’ about this for a while,” he murmured. He ran his warm hands over your shoulders, down your arms, across your stomach. Just feeling you. You sighed and scratched at the short hairs at the back of his neck.
“Could’ve happened sooner if you weren’t such a dick,” you whispered playfully as he broke off to plant kisses across your jaw, down your neck.
He nipped you there sharply at your comment and you let out a shocked laugh.
“C’mon, you tellin’ me you didn’t enjoy our back-and-forth? Not even a little?” he asked. You could hear the devious smile in his voice.
You huffed. “I’d have enjoyed it more if you’d also been touching me like this.”
He laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
And then he surged up to kiss you again, sliding his tongue into your mouth to taste you. His fingers wandered down to the hem of your shirt and slipped underneath it to trace the skin of your stomach just above the waistband of your shorts.
“You want this?” he murmured against your mouth.
“Yeah. Take it off,” you whispered, and he wasted no time pulling the shirt over your head. He flung it over onto his bed, out of the way, and returned to kiss you, but stopped short. His gaze slipped down and he made a face.
“Were you going to sleep in a sports bra?” he asked, incredulous.
You made a bewildered face at him. “Obviously. I wasn’t just gonna let my tits hang out while sleeping in the same room as you. Wasn’t exactly expecting…this.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Next time, leave it off,” and he pulled it off you. You both struggled a bit to peel it off of you but it eventually found its way onto Scott’s bed with your shirt.
“Next time?” you joked.
He paused, and for a second you thought you’d offended him, but a slow, teasing grin grew across his face. “Yeah, next time. You think I’m gonna have you like this and then never again? I thought you were smart.”
You leaned up, took his lower lip into your mouth and bit down. He groaned. “Be fucking nice,” you murmured.
He chuckled and slid his hand over your tit, tweaking the nipple a bit before moving down, down, down to your panties where he cupped your pussy and squeezed. You groaned at the pressure and bucked your hips up a little, chasing it.
“This don’t feel nice to you?” he asked playfully as he pushed the gusset of your panties aside and slid his fingers through your slick folds. He let out a heavy breath as you inhaled shakily. “Your body’s telling me otherwise.”
“Is that mouth gonna keep running or are you going to make it useful?” you asked, a challenge.
He grinned. “Oh, this mouth is very useful.” He disappeared from above you, kissing his way down your body.
“Really? ‘Cause all it’s doing is yap, yap, y—ah, fuck—”
He’d pulled your panties off and flicked them over to the other bed with the rest of your stuff before drawing his lips over your cunt and licking a hard stripe up it. You groaned and threaded your fingers through his curls, pushing his face even closer into you. He hummed against your cunt, pleased.
“Fuck, Scott, right there—” you moaned, your back arching up into the air as his tongue laved over your clit, licking, sucking, tasting. Your fingers in his hair tightened. “Mmmm, more, put your fingers inside me.”
Scott obliged, slowly easing in one long, thick finger. “Look at you,” he said, staring at your cunt while he fucked one finger, then two into it. “Taking my fingers so good. You like that?”
“God, yes, I like it,” you groaned. “Faster, c’mon, I’m not made of glass.”
He huffed a little laugh but anything he might’ve said after that was lost to you. His mouth, his hands, worked you so efficiently, so deliciously, that what felt like seconds later, you were biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep from screaming his name, but that didn’t do much to stifle your moans of pleasure. Every single one of your muscles relaxed into the bed.
You heard Scott chuckle from between your legs and then he was climbing up and pressing his slick mouth to yours. You groaned at the taste of yourself on his tongue.
“God, that was hot,” you breathed when he finally pulled away.
“Tell me about it,” he said teasingly, and his gaze flicked down to his shorts, where his dick was already standing at attention.
You smiled sweetly at him and reached down to grasp him through the fabric. “I can help you with that.”
“Yeah?” he breathed, his blue eyes blown wide. You surged up to kiss him again.
“Only if you take your clothes off. Gettin’ a little lonely being the only naked one here,” you joked, moving to pull his shirt up over his head. He laughed at your attempt at getting it over his shoulders on your own before he took over, slipping it easily off himself.
You got up to give him more room and watched as he canted his hips up and pulled his shorts and underwear off in one fell swoop. He tossed his clothes onto his bed with your stuff. You stood over him, raking your hungry gaze up his gorgeous body. You exhaled hard.
“At the risk of enlarging your already over-sized ego, I gotta say. You are so fucking hot, Miller.” When your eyes landed on his face, you saw he’d been staring, admiring you as you were him. He grinned when he met your gaze.
“Look who’s talkin’,” he said. You laughed and leaned down to press a quick kiss to his mouth like it was second nature.
“Sit up against the headboard,” you ordered, and he obeyed immediately, his heated gaze never leaving yours.
You knelt on the edge of the bed then swung one leg over his, straddling him. You stared at each other for a second with his hard length between you, then you tangled your fingers in his curls once more and kissed him. It was soft, slow, almost exploratory. You shifted closer, pressing your hips into his and rubbing up against his dick, and he groaned, deepening the kiss in response. His hands fell to your hips, kneading the flesh there.
“Scott. I need you to fuck me,” you moaned against his mouth. He groaned again and gave your hips an especially hard squeeze. “Do you have anything?” you asked.
“In my suitcase, yeah,” he said breathily, and you moved off of him so he could retrieve the condom.
You watched his naked form move across the room, appreciating the generous curve of his ass, the strong slope of his back and shoulders. When he came back with an open box of condoms and a little foil square in his hands, you were all too happy to welcome him back into bed. Your hands skated across his back, his arms, then his chest as he settled back into the headboard and you straddled him once more.
You plucked the condom from his fingers, holding his gaze as you ripped the wrapper with your teeth and slid the rubber on his dick. It was hot in your hands, slick from the precum dripping down it, and you gave it a light squeeze as you began jacking him off.
“Such a pretty dick,” you cooed. “So big. Can’t wait to have it inside me.”
Scott exhaled hard, cupped your face, and pulled you in to kiss you hard. “Fuck. I want you so fucking bad,” he said against your mouth. You’d never heard him so desperate. It sent a thrill straight through your cunt to think that the snarky, untouchable Scott Miller could come this undone by you.
You kissed him once, twice, then held his gaze as you held yourself up, guided him to your entrance, and slowly sank down. “Fuck,” you breathed. It wasn’t just the length of him—it was the girth. He filled you up like nothing you’d ever felt before, and you hadn’t even taken all of him in yet. When you finally bottomed out, your mouth hung open and you just stared.
“Jesus Christ, Scott,” you moaned. “You feel so, so fucking good, oh my fucking god.” With his perfect cock, he had irreversibly transformed you into a size queen. You were almost pissed off knowing how completely this would ruin other men for you.
“God, baby, so do you,” he sighed. “N-not gonna last long.”
You grinned at the pet name and kissed him again. “That’s okay, baby. Just feel it. Want you to feel good too.” You started rocking slowly, rolling your hips against his agonizingly slowly as your tongue explored his mouth. His hands explored too, and they were everywhere on you: in your hair, cupping your jaw, and then kneading your tits, working each nipple into hard nubs, and then down your back, groping your ass and helping you bounce on his lap.
“F-fuck, gonna come,” he groaned. His hips bucked, fucking up into you with force, and you met him thrust for thrust. His eyes were screwed shut, face contorted in a beautiful mask of pleasure. You took his chin in your hands and guided his face towards yours.
“Eyes on me, Miller,” you murmured, the corner of your mouth curling up into a smirk. “Since you like to stare so damn much.”
His lips quirked up at that, but his gaze was no less heated, no less intense. You almost regretted ordering him to stare because, as corny as it might have sounded, you felt like you were drowning in his eyes. He looked at you with so much desire that it almost looked like devotion and your breath caught in your throat. So you caught his lips with yours, pushed your tongue in his mouth, and reveled in the taste of him. His thrusts got sloppier, clumsier, and then he moaned your name into your mouth, holding you tight to his chest as he spilled into the condom. You both stilled, breathing hard, and just looked at each other.
Finally you let yourself catalog the minute details of his face. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the freckles painted across his nose, the dimples in his cheeks. Your hands were still buried in his hair, twirling his curls around your fingers.
“Really unfair that your hair is this nice without product in it,” you said offhandedly.
He laughed. “For how much you’ve been pulling on it? The product would’ve come right off.”
You rolled your eyes and smiled. He tapped your hip twice.
“C’mon, let’s get cleaned up,” he said. You pulled yourself gingerly off of him and padded straight to the bathroom while he knotted off the used condom and tossed it into the garbage.
Later, after he joined you in the bathroom and got you both rinsed off in the shower, you both put your clothes back on. You tried to cuddle in your twin bed for a bit, but with Scott’s height, it just wasn’t comfortable, so he begrudgingly went back over and slipped under the covers of his own bed. Once the lights were out and you were blanketed by darkness and the warmth of this budding thing between you, Scott spoke.
“Let me take you out. Do this right. Dinner and a movie, if you want,” he said quietly.
You grinned into the darkness. “Think you’ll be able to quit staring at me long enough to watch a whole movie?”
The quiet chuckle he let out made something fizz in your chest. “Jury’s out.”
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after a long night on patrol, your boobs are dick grayson's favorite pillows ❤︎ fluff
Dick barely lets you settle onto the bed before collapsing on top of you and burying his face between your breasts.
"Dick."
He answers with a muffled hum, turning his head until his cheek settles comfortably against the curve of one. His arms wind around your waist, one leg thrown over both of yours.
"You're crushing me."
"No." His hair is still damp from the shower, cold against the skin above your neckline. "I'm holding you. There's a difference."
You look down at him. Only his eyes and the top of his head remain visible, the rest of his face thoroughly cushioned against you. Three new bruises darken the arm slung across your waist, and he keeps shifting weight off one shoulder every time he adjusts. None of that, apparently, warrants any real medical attention when cuddling you is an option instead.
"Do you plan on moving?"
"Eventually."
"When?"
"You ask a lot of questions for a pillow."
You give the back of his head a gentle flick, and Dick responds with an exaggerated groan, lifting his head just enough to show you the deeply offended look on his face.
"Ow. I'm injured," he reminds you.
"You barely felt that," you say, trying not to laugh.
He drops his head and presses his face against your chest again with a wounded little huff, and your fingers slip into his hair anyway. Dick falls quiet the moment your nails begin scratching lightly against his scalp, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing.
After a moment, he shifts, dragging his cheek from one breast to the other as though carefully comparing them before wedging his face comfortably between both.
"There," he murmurs. "Best pillows I've ever had."
"You're unbelievable."
"Soft. Warm. Supportive."
You tug lightly at his hair. "You sound like you're reviewing a mattress."
"Five stars."
You tell him you're going to throw him off the bed. That only makes Dick hook his leg more firmly over yours and turn his face deeper into your boobs, ensuring that removing him would now require considerably more effort than you're willing to make.
Gradually, his breathing begins to deepen, each exhale warm against your skin.
"You okay, baby?" you ask softly.
He nods against you.
"And your shoulder?"
"A little sore."
You offer to get him something for it—an ice pack, painkillers—but Dick only gives a small shake of his head and pulls himself closer.
"M'comfortable," he says, eyes slipping closed. "Seriously, these are so much better than the pillows at the manor."
You raise an eyebrow. "Alfred buys absurdly expensive pillows."
Dick turns his head, pressing his ear to your chest. "So? None of them have a heartbeat."
Your fingers slow. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"I like hearing yours," he says eventually. There's no teasing in his voice now. Only exhaustion and quiet sincerity. "It's nice. After patrol."
You've always suspected this is part of why he reaches for you on nights like these, but hearing him finally admit it softens you more than you expect.
You run your thumb along his cheekbone. "You could have just said so."
"And where's the fun in that?"
He presses a drowsy kiss against your skin, barely more than a brush of his lips, then nestles into you again. Your hand slides to his back, tracing slow circles there. As he drifts off, his hold on you loosens, his palm resting warm against your bare stomach while his cheek grows heavier against your chest.
"Dick?"
Nothing.
A careful nudge to his side earns only a quiet sound as he burrows deeper into the softness beneath him without opening his eyes. With a sigh, you reach around the entire acrobat sprawled across you and pull the blanket over both of you.
He's annoying, clingy, and completely ridiculous. By morning, your back will ache and at least one of your limbs will be numb. Still, your arms close around him, ready to hold him there all night.
meeting ODYSSEUS when his crew lands on your island, heading into the nearby village on a hill to trade for food and supplies… if your lord welcomes them.
but peaceful negotiations quickly turn into violence, and you can hear screams from outside your window in a matter of minutes.
you try to keep quiet in your house, putting out the fire and rushing to hide family heirlooms before he storms in, jaw tight until he catches sight of your widened, glassy eyes, frozen still like a deer in headlights.
for a split second, you see gaze face soften at the helpless look on your face before his blade clatters onto the floor. still, he doesn’t move, almost like he’s afraid to scare you off.
he’s wearing a golden pin of the goddess athena near his belt.
you’ve heard stories of him; the trickster hero, odysseus.
lost with his crew on their way home from the beaches of troy.
his men are exhausted, starved.
but he’s hungry in more ways than one.
“please—“
“are you going to be good for me?” he asks you. “or are you going to make me do something I don’t want to do?”
you stammer, words lost on your tongue for a moment until he makes his move, taking a cautious, yet dominating step forward.
his voice lowers, “do you know who I am?”
you step backwards as he takes another step, then another.
“yes.” you answer wryly, “odysseus, of ithaca...”
you swallow when you feel the table press against your back, odysseus now caging you in.
“… hero from the trojan war,” you add.
he nods slowly as you speak, surveying your body language carefully, neck craning to watch your chest heave rapidly up and down under his armor. his gaze darkens when he meets those fragile doe eyes once more.
“and will you be good for me?”
your heart thumps wildly against your ribs as you gaze into the blue eyes of the beast in front of you. then, with a deep breath, you answer to him in a whisper.
“yes.”
calloused fingers grab you by the nape of your neck and slam your lips into his.
he loves his wife, but he needs you right now.
the kiss is intense, deepening quickly as he forces his tongue into your mouth. he drinks you up like the fresh water he hasn’t had in months.
his lips are dry, and you can taste the salty mix of sea and sweat on him as his beard scratches against the soft skin of your chin.
he contrasts you in every way.
soon enough, he’s pulling up your dress and sliding a hand between your legs, introducing his index finger to your pussy. he hums admirably at how warm you are, desperate hole already drooling when a second finger to slide through your folds. when they catch on your clit, you jump.
“you’re sensitive,” he comments between kisses.
all you can do is whine into his mouth in response, thighs spreading wider for better access.
it’s pathetic, how he’s able to reduce you to such a brainless slut with only a few movements.
next thing you know, he’s pulling you down to the floor, settling between your knees as he sheds his armor, discarding it beside you before he hikes up your robes above your waist and exposes your needy hole.
as he hungrily eyes your cunt, you can’t help but feel embarrassed, trying to close your knees around him. he shakes his head disapprovingly before pushing your thighs apart once more.
he shimmies out of his pants, freeing his cock, already red and angry. you swallow nervously at the size, not knowing when the last time you were in this compromising position was.
you let out a quiet whimper when his tip prods at your tight heat, and he pauses, glancing up to you through thick brows and getting lost in your gentle, wide-eyed gaze once more.
without another word, he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and grips you by the hips, dragging you down onto his lap and positioning himself in line with your pussy before plunging into your hole with one quick thrust, growling deep at the way your soft walls clench around him. your jaw falls slack as you gasp at the stretch.
his movements are fast, rugged, starved. with every push of his cock, you’re sobbing at the feeling of his tip kissing your cervix; and with every pull, you’re trying to drag him back in.
it’s not long before you’re completely lost in the feeling. you need him like you need air.
he watches your euphoric expressions like a hawk, eyes crossing ever so slightly every time he thrusts back into your cunt, and when he glances down to see where your bodies meet, he can see a faint frothy ring of your slick mixed with his precum forming around the base, and he loses himself.
odysseus reaches down beneath your thighs, pinning your knees to your chest and leaning over you, giving himself the perfect angle to watch how your swollen pussy swallows him whole as he pounds into you, and giving you the perfect angle to feel his pubic bone grind against your clit with every thrust as he reaches spots inside of you that you never knew existed.
you can’t help but yelp at the intensity of the new position, but odysseus is quick to slap a thick palm over your mouth, catching your knees over his shoulder, letting you cry into his hand as he continues to ruin you.
you watch his strong biceps glisten with sweat above you as he fucks you, watching the muscles twitch with every movement. you claw at his forearm, nails leaving little crescent marks in their wake as a familiar warmth grows in your core.
you clamp down around him, soft abs twitching as your orgasm comes barreling towards you, with his not far behind. your moans against his palm grow louder and whinier as the flames lick your nerves, thighs shaking beneath his grip. your heart skips a beat as the wick finally lights, and the fireworks are set off inside.
your back arches when your orgasm crashes over you, pussy spasming around his cock. he bows his head, jaw clenched tight as the coil in his stomach grows tighter, tighter… he’s only seconds behind you when he spills inside you with a punched-out groan.
he stays buried inside you as he rides it out, balls pressed against your ass as he pants, figure curled over you as his troubled mind swims with pleasure. you watch his muscles relax, vein in his forehead softening.
a soft hand comes up to caress his jaw, shaky as the adrenaline still courses through your veins. his eyes open again, gazing down at you with a mix of exhaustion and solemn. he doesn’t speak, but his eyes say a thousand words.
when the afterglow fades, odysseus slips out of you, catching only a quick glance of the seed dripping from your hole before tucking himself back into his pants and sliding his chest plate back over his head.
then, he tends to you, pulling the skirt of your dress back down and carefully dusting it off like the gentleman he is, even in his darkest moments.
he helps you back to your feet. when your knees wobble slightly, he catches you, leaning you back against the table again, right where you were before he kissed you.
then, a loud pounding on your door pulls you from the moment, and back to reality.
the door swings open, and odysseus turns to meet eurylochus, who barely spares you a glance before nodding to his general.
“let’s go.”
he leaves without looking back.
minutes later, you can see him lead his men back to their ship, sacks of food slung over their shoulders.
your only memory of him exists in the ache between your legs as his seed drips down your thighs.
Characters: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, ft. Rebecca Barnes and Steve Rogers
Word Count: <3.9K
Summary: One date has changed everything. What should be an ordinary summer day at Rockaway with friends becomes the turning point between what was and what could be.
Prompt(s): "Do you trust me?" / "Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" / 🌌 “So… what happens after this?”
Content Warning: Fluff, best friend’s brother, reader is falling but Bucky’s already down bad, gun usage (skill game), creative liberty when it comes to photo development in the early 40s (it’s for the plot, sue me), love confession, first kiss (everyone cheer!).
A/N: Apparently I can’t write this series without making each entry part of a writing event. And this is a three-for-one. Oops. Going out with a bang. Thanks to @castielscaplan for the Disney Celebration challenge, to @star-and-shield-monthly for July’s challenge prompts, and to @juniebjonesin for setting up the amazing picnic blanket prompts. And a quick thank you to @phoenix-in-writing for your gun knowledge! Felt silly asking, but you’re a supportive queen and ily. Gif credit.
Main Masterlist
Sleep doesn't come easily.
You try to tell yourself it's the faint honking from passing vehicles three blocks over, the distant crash of a steel trash can on a curb, or it being a warm summer night. But the only thing warm is your cheek, the feeling of Bucky's lips lingering for far too long and making your skin tingle.
Every time you roll over and smack the pillow in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, your mind replays memories of the night like images flashing across the silver screen. The crooked, excited smile on his face. His hand tugging yours to the dance floor. The gentle way he held you when the music slowed, his arm wrapping more securely around you. The look in his eyes when he pecked your cheek, like he wanted more but wasn't going to take it.
Your heart stutters.
Bucky wanted more.
The man who is—was?—like a brother to you, who listened to you complain about the way men treat you like you're something to claim, who never actually gave the advice you asked for and offered reassurance instead. He wanted more. But he didn't take it. He didn't even ask for it.
Because despite all the stories people have told about him since his freshman year of high school, despite all the women who have chased him, James Buchanan Barnes is, first and foremost, a gentleman.
Your gaze flicks to the vase your mother set near your windowsill. The flowers he brought specifically for you stand proudly under the soft glow of the streetlights outside, each petal a delicate display of something dangerously close to affection. Knowing he somehow knew exactly what flowers you prefer has something warm settling in your chest.
Years of being around the Barnes siblings, of being Rebecca's best friend. Years of looking at him like he's just Bucky. Now? The world has shifted, tilted on its axis before you could even think to brace yourself for the flood of realizations and subsequent emotions that can only mean one thing: you have feelings for him.
The thought makes your heart race and cheeks burn like a nervous schoolgirl.
Flipping your pillow over for the cool side, you shove your face into it hoping if it doesn't help you fall asleep, maybe it'll smother the thoughts running rampant in your brain.
Because Bucky Barnes is suddenly no longer just anyone.
And Rebecca is going to kill you.
The sun is just beginning to light the sky when sleep finally claims you, only waking at the incessant ring of the telephone down the hall. You're already pulling yourself out of bed and rubbing sleep from your eyes when the warm sound of your mother's voice answers the call. She smiles when you poke your head out the door.
"Phone's for you, dear." She holds out the receiver.
Mind still foggy with sleep and remnants of a dream you can barely recall, you head to the phone.
"Hello—"
"Come over, we're going to Rockaway," Becca's voice comes over the receiver, quick and impatient.
"No greeting?" you tease, leaning against the wall and fighting back a yawn. The house smells of lemon and sugar, making your stomach growl.
She sighs and you swear you hear her eyes rolling. "Hi, hope you're well. Bucky and Steve both have the afternoon off and if we leave soon we might still see daylight. Get over here."
— — —
The door to the Barnes residence swings open almost as soon as your knuckles touch it. A wild-eyed Becca beams the second her eyes land on you, the scent of Winnifred's fresh baked bread wafting out into the street.
"It's about time! That train is going to take us forever," Becca turns, calling to who you can only assume is Steve and Bucky in the living room. "She's here! Let's go!"
Steve's the first to come around the corner, a couple strands of his blond hair falling to the middle of his forehead. He offers a polite smile and a nod in greeting before Bucky rounds the corner, tossing an arm around his best friend's shoulders and meeting your gaze.
He looks unfairly handsome today; dark hair perfectly mussed, a grease smudge lingering near his temple from working at the garage this morning. The easy smile forming on his lips makes your stomach flip.
"Nice of you to finally show up," he says coolly. His gaze trails over your face, like he's searching for something. Or maybe he sees right through you.
Before you can even think to stop yourself, your mouth opens. "Miss me that bad?"
Bucky's eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly, his eyes flashing with something too quick to interpret.
"Maybe I did."
Becca, who is pretending not to watch the interaction and failing miserably, smirks and clears her throat. "Hey, Romeo, can we go now?"
Your eyes widen. Steve bites back a laugh while silently mouthing "Romeo?" and Bucky chuckles, already stepping forward and dragging Steve along with him out the door. Becca grins, clearly proud of herself, the loose curls of her hair bouncing as she falls into step beside you.
The day is bright and warm, bordering on uncomfortably hot as the mid-afternoon sun beats down on the sidewalks of Brooklyn. By the time you step off the train in Rockaway, mild relief comes in the form of a salty ocean breeze as the group walks down the boardwalk.
People sprawl out in all directions along the beach and across the street to Rockaways' Playland, earning a displeased grumble from Becca before leading the way through the crowd. She slips through easily, Steve following quickly behind her. Bucky falls in step behind you. Despite all the people, you can't help but be aware of exactly where he is, the sound of his shoes on the pavement, the low "excuse me" as he brushes past someone to keep up with you.
The crowd inside the park is only slightly less crowded as the beach itself. A line for the park's specialty wooden coaster snakes around in a neat line before ending near the carousel. The scent of fried funnel cakes and popcorn mixes with the salty air. It brings back memories of all the times this same group went to Coney Island growing up, when everything felt effortless for four kids in Brooklyn.
Your gaze lands on Bucky. He's laughing with Steve as they approach the line for the ticket booth ahead, carefree and happy as the afternoon sun highlights his sharp features.
Becca catches you looking and hooks her arm in yours. She leans over and whispers conspiritorially, "How was the date last night?"
Your eyes snap to hers, heart racing. Bucky glances over across the midway.
"Date?" you ask a little too quickly. As if Rebecca Barnes hasn't been able to read you like a book for most of your lives. You hadn't told her yet. You hadn't mentioned any Friday night plans to her, let alone that said plans had involved her older brother.
She gives you a look, all but rolling her eyes as the corners of her lips pull into a knowing smile.
"With my idiot brother, obviously."
Years of friendship, of shared laughter, tears, secrets and jokes have made you as close as any two people can possibly be. Things have changed overnight. You know it. She knows it. Yet she doesn't seem angry. If anything, she sounds relieved, like she's been waiting for the day Bucky finally stepped up.
"You're not mad?"
"Of course not," she scoffs before pressing further, giving you a little shake. "Details, girl, come on."
You swallow and huff a nervous laugh, suddenly finding a nearby pigeon incredibly interesting. "It was fine." Understatement of the century.
"Just fine?" she asks, leaning closer, voice raising in utter disbelief. "He came home practically floating on cloud nine last night. I've seen him go on a lot of dates over the last ten years, but there's only one person I've seen make him smile like—"
"Atom Smasher, ladies, let's go!" Bucky calls, his voice booming louder than necessary and pointing to the coaster rumbling by. People nearby glance at him sideways. Someone spills popcorn. He's staring at Becca with the look of an older brother knowing exactly what's about to be said and silently begging her not to continue.
She looks at you but doesn't finish her statement, turning on her heel and leaving you standing near a hot dog cart processing her words. You follow slowly, stomach flipping from more than just the thought of the roller coaster.
The afternoon moves in a blur of laughter, adrenaline, and too much sunlight for anyone's own good. Bucky attempts to play ring toss, insisting his aim is perfect, before wildly missing two of the three shots.
"What was that?" Becca snorts, doubling over in laughter and wiping non-existent tears from her eyes.
"Distracted, Buck?" Steve asks. His lips twitch with a knowing smile.
"What? No," he says quickly. The tips of his ears turn pink. "My arm's tired from the shop, shut up."
You bite back a smile from the sudden realization that James Barnes isn't always as suave as he appears and is, in fact, human—nerves and all.
He catches your eye before he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. "Anyone up for the shooting gallery? A quarter says I can hit the bullseye on the first try."
Steve and Becca glance at each other sideways.
The gallery sits toward the middle of the park, tucked between concessions and skill games against the roller coaster, with scooter cars across the midway. Lights flicker on, the sun beginning to set and casting an orange glow across the various structures. Bucky doesn't hesitate the moment the gallery comes into view. He rushes over and hands a dime to the attendant, wearing a grin that is far more confident than it probably should be.
The moment the gun touches his hand, his demeanor changes. He lifts it with all the seriousness in the world—intense focus and smooth movements that speak of a man who's done this more times than he can count. He pulls back the forend and fires a shot before you even blink. A bulb flashes immediately.
"Bullseye!" The attendant calls, grabbing the photo that just printed and setting it on the counter next to Bucky.
"Lucky shot," Steve scoffs.
"Jealous, Rogers?" he asks, lowering the gun.
"How—" you start.
Bucky glances over at you, his grin back. He grabs the picture and shoves it in his pocket unceremoniously. He shrugs, but the look on his face betrays just how confident he is. "Easier than it looks."
"Liar," Steve and Becca mumble simultaneously.
Bucky ignores them, his focus solely on you. "I'll prove it. Give it a try." He gestures with his head for you to come closer, the gun securely in his hands.
As you step towards him, interest piqued yet moving slower than strictly necessary, you barely register Steve clear his throat. "We're gonna go find something to drink," he announces before dragging Rebecca off somewhere.
"I'm going to embarrass myself," you mutter when you finally reach him.
Bucky's lips curl into a smirk that would be almost infuriating if it didn't make your pulse spike. "Not a chance, I'll help you. Do you trust me?"
"After ring toss? No."
He blinks, looking offended for a moment before a smile spreads across his face. "Oh come on, did I not just prove myself right here?" he laughs. "I'm better with a gun, I promise."
"Fine." With a resigned sigh and a roll of your eyes, you take the gun from him and step up to the counter. It's heavier than expected, the metal cool against the summer air, the wood polished just enough to be smooth in your palms.
Bucky waits for you to nod before he steps behind you. His hands are warm and careful as they guide your form; firm grip on the forend, butt plate braced against your shoulder, elbow just so.
His hands move to your shoulders, fingers squeezing gently. "Relax. Too stiff in the shoulders and you'll definitely feel it tomorrow."
"Easier said than done," you mutter, all too aware of how close he's standing and how heat is radiating from him.
He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he just watches, waiting. Your eyes are locked on the center of the target, finger on the trigger guard, breath coming out a little too quick.
You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, making your heart beat quicken. Then he leans down slightly.
"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" His breath is hot against your ear. You shiver. You don't even have to look at him to know his lips are curved into that familiar Barnes grin that means trouble.
"Shut up," you huff, the gun still aimed at the target. Heat warms your cheeks, and the way your heart beats against your chest makes it hard to focus on the target in front of you.
He chuckles and takes a half step back, giving you space to focus.
"Rest your cheek against the wood. Line up both sights and take a breath. You can do it."
You take a deep breath, grateful for the space. The coaster roars by, rattling the ground beneath your feet. Then, with relaxed shoulders and a slow release of breath, you pump the forend and squeeze the trigger.
A bulb flashes.
"Bullseye!"
You stare at the target in disbelief. A beat passes. Two. A low whistle sounds from behind you.
"Would you look at that," Bucky murmurs, tone full of pride. "Careful. With a shot like that, they might send you to Camp McCoy."
A laugh slips from your lips and you shake your head, lowering the gun and handing it back to the attendant who hands you the souvenir photo.
You glance at the picture in your hands and everything stops.
Centered in the image is you, hair slightly ruffled from the afternoon's activities, face focused. Behind you is Bucky. Standing just beneath the Shoot-A-Photo sign, he stands tall. Proud. His eyes aren't on the target; they're on you, with a look on his face you've never noticed before—a soft smile, softer eyes. It makes your breath catch.
Bucky peeks over your shoulder at the picture, your silence making him curious. His gaze lingers on the photo for a moment before flicking up to your face, watching your expression.
"You're overthinking again," Bucky teases softly, pulling you from your thoughts. He nudges you with his elbow for good measure, chuckling when you attempt to swat him away.
"I'm not."
"Your eyebrows say otherwise."
You huff and turn to look at him. He grins before you speak again. "I'm just…trying to make sense of some things."
"Yeah," he sighs, his expression softening with an understanding nod. "I know the feeling."
His gaze drifts down the midway, finding Steve and Becca near the carousel. Steve suddenly finds something interesting in the sky, but Becca doesn't back down from watching the scene unfold.
"Walk with me?" Bucky asks, his eyes finding yours again.
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, the grip on the photo in your hands tightening slightly.
As the two of you walk through the park, each step slow, Bucky lets the silence stretch, allowing the amusement park's general chaos and tinny music fill the space instead. It's comfortable in a way you hadn't expected. Years of friendship now teetering on the edge between possibilities that could make or break everything you've ever known.
Bucky breaks the silence first, his hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders are tense. "Remember how we used to spend essentially entire summers at Coney Island?"
The reminder makes you smile. "We spent far too much time there. Too much sun."
Bucky laughs. "And too much cotton candy. Becca used to badger me to not eat so much sugar."
"You never did listen. Those poor employees."
"Hey,"—he throws his hands up in surrender—"it's not my fault they offer pure sugar for so cheap and then have the best coaster in Brooklyn directly opposite the stand. It's like they encouraged it."
You both laugh, the nostalgia a welcome distraction for a moment before your thoughts comes crawling back. Bucky gives you a moment before speaking again, his voice low.
"Anything I can help you make sense of?"
You shake your head, unsure where to even begin or how honest to be. Your mind replays the past twenty-four hours and Rebecca's words. The photograph in your hand is physical proof that you aren't crazy.
"I don't even know how to explain it."
"Try."
"I'll sound ridiculous."
"Impossible."
You sigh, shoulders raising with a deep breath to brace yourself. "I thought you asked me out because you pitied me."
He stops in his tracks. His brows pinch in confusion as he looks at you.
"Pity?" The word leaves him like he's not sure he heard right. He says your name with a short huff of disbelief. "Why on earth would you think that?"
You shrug, not quite meeting his gaze. "Because my love life is hopeless. Because you're Rebecca's brother. Because I've watched women throw themselves at you for years. Take your pick."
His mouth opens and closes a couple times, processing your words. When he doesn't answer right away, you finally look at him, and for a moment, he looks torn between being honest or making a joke to ease the tension thickening the air. He picks the former.
"Last night was the furthest thing from pity. That was me finally doing something I should've done several years ago."
That admission hits hard, making your heart skip. "What?"
Bucky hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, voice low and steady.
"Every smile aimed in my direction makes me feel like I can take on the world. Every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes…" he chuckles and shakes his head, his gaze falling to the concrete where the toe of his shoe scuffs the concrete. "Then you came over after another bad date asking me for advice with men that don't deserve you, and I had no idea what to say. Because to me, those men are just too blind to see how incredible you are."
The silence stretches between you, your mind and heart racing. His eyes lift to find yours again.
"Every time I look at you, I have to fight not to reach for you, to hold you. I took you out last night because I wanted you to know how I'd treat you if you gave me the chance."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" you whisper, voice barely audible among the noise.
He sighs. "I was scared—I still am. The last thing I want is to ruin what we have. You mean a lot to me."
The air stills.
"You really mean that?" Your feet move a half step closer.
Bucky looks at you, hoping flickering in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders ease.
"Every word," he murmurs. His hand lifts, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch is soft, barely there and different than last night—tentative and full of silent questions.
You find yourself leaning into his touch, warm and familiar in the best way. His eyes glance at your lips before searching your face for any signs of hesitation. His thumb brushes your cheekbone.
Then, slowly, he leans in.
The kiss is short but sweet. A simple press of lips, uncertain, yet enough to forget the noise and people around you as his hand moves to fully cup your cheek.
It ends too soon.
Bucky pulls away just enough to rest his forehead on yours. Opening your eyes, you find his still closed, lips parted with breaths that fan across your face in light puffs, brows drawn together just enough to cause a crease between them. He slowly pulls back again. A muscle in his jaw twitches when he finally opens his eyes, immediately flicking to your lips like he's committing how they feel to memory.
You smile before you can stop yourself, feeling lighter than you have in a long time. He licks his lip and grins back, a soft laugh escaping him.
"That was…" he starts.
"Terrible?" you offer. Bucky laughs again, his free hand lightly touching your waist like he wants to pull you closer.
"Better than I'd hoped, actually."
The admission is soft and makes your heart flutter.
"So…what happens after this?" you ask.
He nods thoughtfully, taking a half step back like he just remembered you're in public, Rockaways' Playland hardly being a place for privacy. His touch lingers for a moment before dropping back to his side.
"I'd like to give us a real chance. If you're open to it."
You don't let him finish before your answer comes tumbling out. "I'd like that, too."
Bucky's blue eyes sparkle under the midway lights. He doesn't say a word as he reaches for the hand not holding the photograph, fingers intertwining with yours like it's second nature.
"Perfect," he says softly. "Come on, I think fireworks are starting soon."
The walk back down the midway feels shorter than it did before. Maybe it's the weight of everything now lifted off your shoulders, or maybe it's the feeling of his hand in yours. Maybe it's the lingering memory of his kiss—an answer to the million questions you asked yourself over the last day. Whatever it is, the crowds heading towards the beach barely register.
Steve spots you first, smiling to himself at the sight of your joined hands before gently nudging Becca's side. Her eyes go wide. Her grin goes wider. No one says a word as the four of you follow the crowd to the beach across the street.
The sand is still warm from the day when you sit down, placing the picture on your lap. Bucky doesn't let go of your hand, his shoulder brushing yours as he joins you, his long legs stretching in front of him.
It's a short wait before the first firework bursts, red lighting the sky and reflecting across the water. Golds and blues join quickly and fill the air with a dazzling display.
You glance at Bucky. He's not looking at the fireworks. He's watching you, lips curving into a soft smile when your eyes meet.
His fingers tighten around yours, and you scoot a little closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He lets out a quiet sigh and gently leans his cheek against your head before finally looking at the fireworks overhead.
A/N: If you’ve made it this far, I just want to extend a massive thank you for reading and supporting this story. It’s been almost a year in the making, which blows my mind when it wasn’t meant to go this far. You’ve also seen me grow significantly as a writer and it genuinely makes me emotional. Anywho…as of now, I’m tentatively calling this the end—but you never know what inspiration might hit me and maybe there will be a sequel someday. Lots of love 💜
omggg I literally couldn't stop smiling reading this. bucky being both smooth and nervous aaaah what a delicious combination
"He came home practically floating on cloud nine last night. I've seen him go on a lot of dates over the last ten years, but there's only one person I've seen make him smile like—"
lIKE WHAAAT SHE DID THAT
"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" His breath is hot against your ear.
Your ex comes back into your life after vanishing for months — you don't make it easy for him.
cw: 18+ (proceed with caution), smut, ex bf!david mcdougall, self-destructive!reader, trust fund baby!reader, p-in-v, creampie, filthy sex, heated makeout/intimacy, mentions of drugs and alcohol abuse, infidelity, manhandling, angst, happy ending, use of 'baby', david misuses his cop resources/handcuffs
You barely had enough time to lift your glass when a heavy hand wraps around your wrists.
"Hey, what gives?" The protest quickly dies at your lips when you look over at a chest of green, craning your neck up to meet David. He looks at you with his jaw clenched, eyes scanning over the crowd rather than on you.
Your lips part, a multitude of emotions serving as a pretty effective sobering method. He doesn't wait for your response, "we're leaving, now." Words are far from being a suggestion.
"Excuse me?" You're pulling against his hold, heat rising in your cheeks, trying to look around. But your boyfriend, across the dance floor, was far too occupied snorting lines with his buddies.
"Jesus. I'm not gonna follow you just cuz' — "
David leans down without warning, and you shudder at the gentle brush of his scruff. "They're sweeping the place in 'bout five minutes. You really wanna stick around and get cuffed with the rest of these junkies?"
You freeze in place.
The room instantly blurs with his sturdy hold, steering you through the dance floors — laughter, music and second-hand smoke filling your senses until the sharp cold air from outside snaps you back to reality. David only lets go when he realises he's been holding you far too tight.
"What the hell was that?" You finally snap when you find your voice, rubbing where the skin was sore from his touch. "Dragging me out like I'm some friggin' criminal —"
"Better out here than get booked back there."
Your laughter fills the stale air, though to him, it was as sweet as he remembered. "I can't believe this. You think you can just drag me around just cuz you wear a badge?"
David tilts his head, scanning over your figure and back at you, "…no".
Well, that was unconvincing.
"I only pulled you out because I know what was about to happen. And also because I know who you're with." He continues with a shrug.
You blink. "What does that mean?"
"His name." David presses, "your 'boyfriend', you want me to recite his entire rap sheet out here?"
For one, you didn't appreciate his throwing air quotes around that. You don't say anything just yet — and for those precious few seconds, the crowd noise from behind the door fills the silence. The muffled thump of bass, laughter in obliviousness of what was gonna happen in there.
"You ran a check on him?"
"Of course I did." He says simply, like it was the most normal thing ever, "I run checks on everyone you've been with." David rolls his shoulder, easing off the weight of his admission," which then brings me to, how do you always manage to pick the biggest ass-holes the city has to offer?"
"Oh, I was just trying my best-est to outdo myself with my ex being the biggest asshole of them all." Your tone was biting, though your exasperation undercuts the sting of it. "What do you even want from me?"
His shoulders go slack, stuffing a hand into his hoodie pockets, the other, gesturing as he spoke. "Listen. You wanna be with a guy like that, fine." David shrugs with a huff, then looks at you with incredulity building in his expression.
"Actually. No. You're better than that. You're not dating that junkie moron."
The irony of it wasn't lost on you. Being with a narc then to…well…
"We're way past you telling me what to do."
"Stay out of my business," you jab a finger at his chest, wincing at the steely wall you feel instead at your poke.
Then, you clumsily feel around at the strap of your heels. "Stay out of my relationships."
He watches you with intrigue as you pull them off with a hop, holding them by the bedazzled thin lather backings, flinging them to the side. It was a ritual he'd memorised, the way you'd abandon all the easily-re-purchasable material things whenever you were done pretending you were in control.
David leans down to pick them up by the straps, not even flinching when you shoved past him with a low murmur.
"Stay out of my fucking life." Your bare feet patter on the pavement, resolute and decided to leave him — like he left you all those months ago.
He eyes you in his peripheral with a sigh, twirling around to grab you by your arm. "C'mon baby. Stop." David pulls you to face him, the rasp in his voice turning far more tender, "do you have a ride home?"
"Don't call me baby." You emphasise with a jerk of your arm, surging ahead, but not before throwing an annoyed comment over your shoulder, "I'll get a cab."
"You're not getting a cab from here," David calls out, looking past you and back at your retreating figure. Languidly trailing behind. "It's dark, it's about to get messy, and you'll get spooked. Let me take you home."
"Why don't you just…disappear? You seem to know how to do that really well."
David doesn't react to your jabs — not visibly, anyway. He'd learned the hard way that letting you get steam out was a smarter way to handle you.
"Yeah. I'm not letting you do that. You're mad at me, I get that, but I'm taking you home." His tone brooks no further debate.
"C'mon. My van's parked behind."
David walks in the opposite direction, before looking back and groaning — to see you still stubbornly standing in place. He stretches his palm out, waiting for you to come to him.
You stare at him, with your lips pressed into a thin line. Damn him. David had always known how to work around your quirks, and you hated just how easily he knew how to lure you back into his orbit. This time, you don't. You turn heel, quickening your pace to the streets.
"You're making this difficult." His voice picks up an octave, echoing all around you, a warning that you didn't quite have an escape.
You hear him behind you, the thud of his boots matching the pace of your panicked steps. He's already beside you before you can think to bolt, hoisting you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. Which, unsurprisingly, wasn't the first time he had to do this.
Your hands flail instantly, blindly grabbing around his back for some stability.
The shrill noise cuts through the low-bustling lot, and a sharp smack lands on your ass to get you to stop wriggling. You bite down on a strangled yelp at the shock-waves it sends up your spine. His hand steadies you by the bend of your knees, the other carrying your heels loosely.
"DAVID!" In some sort of attempt to get him loose, you kick at him.
His palm connects with the globe of flesh once more, hiking you higher on his shoulder this time. "Stop." He says firmly, not wanting to get more attention than you'd already gathered from bystanders at your tantrum.
David adjusts you with ease in a fluid movement, stuffing you into the passenger seat of his sprinter, grunting as he ducks in to fasten your seatbelt.
The heat of embarrassment, and something far too familiar, creeps in. Your heart thumps erratically in the wake of him effortlessly bending you to his will, the warmth around you like a phantom touch.
Almost as a wash of reality, the click of the driver's side opening has you snapping back up, releasing the belt. You yank at your door, using the momentum to escape.
"Oh for — " You hear a grunt behind you, and David catches your thigh, reaches over to slam the door shut. When you attempt to push, he pulls his cuff from his belt, the metal clattering to your wrists at a sharp intensity.
You gasp loudly, "ACK —," snapping your head to him. "A-Are you kidding me?"
The colder steel wraps your wrist like a vice, "If you can't stay put, you don't leave me much of a choice now, do you?" He lifts your wrist, securing the other end of the cuff to the handle beside you.
"David!" You screech, thrashing against the metal in futility.
He raises a brow and looks over at you, putting his own seatbelt on. A faint hint of a smirk on his lips at your antics.
"Keep screaming like that and I'll actually arrest you."
You look up at him this time, frowning. And you catch him staring with his jaw clenched, particularly at the way your dress had ridden all the way up. It's quick and guilty, and David has enough sense to turn away.
"Y-You —" A sputter leaves your lips, and you swing at him even before you could think through your decision, knuckle hitting the side of his jaw. The shock of it rattles back up your own arm. Pain blooming in your knuckles. "FFFfffffffuuuuuuckkk…" You groan, shaking your hand.
David grunts, coaxing his jaw with his palm. He supposed he deserved that. With a clear of his throat, he sizes you up with a stern look. "Sit still." Though his hand comes up to rest over yours, mindlessly thumbing around the red, blooming at your knuckles.
He lets his touch linger before pulling away to calibrate his GPS to your estate, "I'm sure your parents wouldn't want to see you like this. I have an extra pair of sweats and you can —"
"I don't live with them." You say all too quickly.
David's gaze falls on you, a hint of a furrow on his brow. You're already yanking open his glove box, finding the gloss and makeup you'd left there from months ago — untouched, like he couldn't bear to take them out of their rightful place. You yank the visor down to reapply your gloss, "they kicked me out."
His expression hardens more. It made sense why you were with that guy from earlier. You were out of options, weren't you?
"What do you mean they kicked you out?" He follows up. He'd always known your parents were strict, but this was a bit much.
"I'm sorry. Should I have dumbed it down even more? Dad no happy. I get kick out. On street."
David huffs out an annoyed laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "That bad?"
You shrug. Smacking the gloss on your lips before placing it back into the compartment. "They cut my trust fund after I went on a…'bender'" you mutter with air quotes, "After you'd —" You stop abruptly. Letting the rest of it burn in your throat.
It was left unsaid, but hangs between the two of you regardless — after you'd left me, disappearing for some super secret narc mission without a word, and I spent months spiralling over the why of it. And even when you fucking came back, you couldn't be bothered to come back to me and explain why you left to begin with.
His jaw flexes. He knew what was on your mind, "…you're lucky I was even there earlier." David doesn't look at you when he says it.
You scoff, mirthless, "fuck you, David."
His expression sours damn near instantly. He's had enough of this version of you — angry, reckless, throwing everything at him like it was his fault, even if it had been.
The engine growls to life, and he reverses out of the lot, headed towards his place.
"Fuck me, huh?" He muses, "your own actions and consequences. But sure. I'm to blame for everything."
"Must be nice." You shot back. "Evading responsibility just cuz you get to slap some type of 'greater good' bullshit with your job." Your voice cracks, but you don't stop, "leave people, come back, haunting the living shit out of me. It's oh-so-convenient, isn't it? You're the hero, and I'm the fuck up."
"— Ugh!" You feel your body jerk to the side as he swerves into the next lane, and you grit. The route is something you'd known all too well.
David was eerily quiet the entire time. And knowing him? He'd only been stewing. You're perking up when he kills the engines, rounding the car to pull the passenger door open.
You raise a brow quizzically at him when he yanks you out, stumbling onto the concrete before hauling you upright over his shoulder again. "I can walk!" You grit. Slamming his back with your fists.
"Uh-huh." He hums, you weren't all that unpredictable to him. Chances were, you'd bolt the second he turned away.
The front door slams in your face with a thud. And the next thing you know, you're being carried up the stairs, into his master bathroom.
You don't get to question when he practically dumps you beneath the shower head.
"…?"
The water comes out far too cold, far too quickly. Blasting icy into your skin, instantly sobering you up. You shriek, covering around your shoulders in an effort for some warmth.
"You done now?"
For some reason, the lack of kindness — or anything — in his words stung far more than you'd imagined. His gaze takes in your skin and the dress now plastered onto your body like a second skin.
He sighs softly, pushing your hair over your shoulders. "You're a mess…" It wasn't quite an insult, but something in him was breaking for being partly responsible for what you'd driven yourself to become.
You shove back against his chest, with your breathing turning ragged, tears burning hot down your cheeks despite the cold assault of water raining on you both.
"Go. To. Hell."
David's palms come to stop you mid-shove, cupping your face to pull you closer to him. "Mhm." His chin drops to rest on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you to rock you, gently.
Your fists continue to pound at his chest, growing weaker and weaker until they curl around the fabric. The bathroom echoes loudly when your sobs finally rip through the sound of water hitting tiles. Salty tears stained his chest.
"You — you promised." You're barely able to sputter out a complete sentence, ugly crying through hiccups and tears, "you said you'd take me with you if you ever h…had to leave." You choked through your words, sniffling hard. "You left me!"
David's eyes fluttered shut, breathing roughly through his nose. His hand slips to rest at the back of your neck, thumb kneading at the tenseness there.
"I know," he rasps, "I know, baby, I fucked up."
"T-Too freakin' late," you hiss out, swallowing a sob, "you left — for months, without a word. I hate you. I hate you, I hate you."
"I get it," he murmurs. Pressing his lips against your hairline, his scruff provides you with a warm shudder of familiarity. "Hate me all you want. I can take it."
You sob even harder at that — mostly in annoyance and frustration, with your nails digging into his biceps at painful intensity.
David pulls your hands away from his arms, kissing your knuckles. "You're gonna hurt yourself."
Your lips twitch in your growing anger — ever so thoughtful. Perfect-freaking-David.
You aren't sure who leans in first, but the kiss that finally has you both crashing your lips together knocks the absolute wind out of you.
"Mmhn—!" Your fists knot in his hoodie, in a mix of both saltiness and the pleasant aroma of coffee still on his tongue.
David pulls away with a pant, his forehead pressed onto yours as he shuts the water off. "I missed you," he whispers, warm onto your skin, meeting your lips with urgent pecks while he walks you backwards out of the bathroom.
You're both dripping onto the hardwood floorings, crossing the threshold into the bachelor-pad of a space he placed a Queen bed in. You'd always complained about it, but you'd noticed this time how he'd tried — with putting whatever throws and furnishings he'd once teased you for wanting him to get.
David lets you slump into the bed, kneeling his way over your hips, his lips connecting with every square inch of bare skin they could meet. He thumbs at your cheek, rubbing away at the dried tears.
"Still hate me?"
Your lips pressed taut, and you're nodding through a frown — your cheeks are flushed from exertion, your damp hair stuck to the back of your neck, and your dress in complete disarray.
David offers you a lop-sided smile, flashing the deep dimples of his through the coarse brown. He pulls back for a second, tugging his shirt and pants off with ease and climbs back over you. "Suppose I deserve that."
You shift to lean in closer to him, meeting his pecks until he eventually has you lying on his bed. David dips his head lower to mouth at your neck and cheek. You're squirming at the ticklish sensation, which only spurs him on to kiss you more.
"Move your stuff here," he murmurs, sliding his hand down to pull the zipper off your dress, easing you out of the silky material.
You're looking up at him hazily, a little uncertain. "What..?" David drags his jaw down your collarbone, kissing the soft mounds there before lifting his head a tad.
"Move in with me."
He repeats, with his digits ghosting over your cunt. Your hips inch a little higher, thighs tensing at the idea — the dream you've had for months on end.
You exhale, stuttering, mouth curling into an 'o' as his calloused fingers push away at the gusset of your panties, rubbing between your folds.
"H-How would I know you wouldn't up and leave me again?"
David's head slumps to rest on your shoulders, though it's tilted in a way that he can see how his palms were teasing your pretty, wet pussy.
"I won't." He promises. Dipping his finger into your warm walls. "Ever." David looks to you, expression equally as pained.
You tilt your head back onto the mattress. Your own hand snaking around his wrist to nudge his fingers deeper into you. Which he obliges without question. Your hips rock onto his fingers, a whine escaping you when he adds another thick finger into your sopping cunt.
"David —" you gasp, thighs threatening to shake. You tug at his hips with your thigh, urging him to fuck you the way you needed. "Not with your fingers."
He looks up to kiss your jaw, rubbing the tip of his hard cock down from your puckered hole to your clit. You clench around his tip, and the bastard smirks.
"Q-Quit fucking around," you croak, hips chasing wherever his fat tip poked at. David smiles against your cheeks, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.
"No? Tough crowd." He grins as he glances down, adjusting himself just right until he feels you open up for his cock.
"Fffuckkk me…" he grunts shakily, pressing a tight fist onto the bed, lowering himself until he's inching deeper and deeper into you.
Your thighs jolt at every nudge of his thick cock, penetrating you with a delicious stretch. "Oh my —god—ohmygod—…oh — umm—mmhn!"
David's eyes fluttered shut, the sounds of your sweet, raw moans shooting a sharp pleasure at his scrotum. "Fuck. Baby, you gotta stop — c-clenching me."
Your hands snap to grip his arms, trailing upward to the base of his neck, pulling him down closer to you. You could feel him, so damn deep in you, twitching.
Panting heavily into his mouth, your fingers card the back of his soft, cropped hair. "C-Cum in me, need you…t'fuck your cum in me…"
David audibly groans against your babbles, and he shakes his head with laughter. Thrusting into you at a steady pace.
"Pleasepleaseplease—" Your lips brush against his ears, whispering more filth into his ears. His head falls flush onto the sheets.
He was so fucking close to busting his load deep into you like you were begging for. But he couldn't. Not yet.
David's palm comes to stifle your moans, grunting heavy into your ears. "I-I'm not gonna last." He admits quickly, his snapping harder and faster into you.
The room fills with loud and obscene slaps of his cock pounding into you, the slick coating the dirtied brown littered up to his abdomen.
You're drooling into his palms, incoherently moaning and babbling, "mmh—mmh!" The second he pulls off from your mouth, his lips lock onto yours, grunting into your mouth with every one of his thrusts.
"Fuck. Fuck. This pussy — s'fuckin'good…" David pulls away enough to pant the words into your mouth, holding your jaw in place.
Your eyes are rolled back at the full weight he puts behind his thrusts, each one has the coarseness grinding into your clit at a sickening pleasure.
David's transfixed — at just how malleable and cock drunk you were. He tilts your head to him, rolling his tongue into your mouth, suckling at the messy wetness that gathered at the corner of your lips.
He could tell with the way your hips were practically edging towards him that you were close, so he continued with what he was doing, sliding his hand down to rub and massage at your clit until your thighs began to shake around his hips.
David grunts at the way your pussy pulses at his length while you cum, and he feels himself reaching the same point.
"Sh-Shit—…I'm gonna —" He leans down to bite down on your shoulder, groaning through his orgasm, thrusting shallow in you while his cum spurts deep into your walls in jolts.
He slumps entirely into you, breathing heavily, hips rocking inch by inch to keep the dull pleasure burning through your combined orgasms.
You're entirely too fucked out to say a single thing, eyes fluttering shut at the circles he drew at your still quivering thighs.
David sounds your name, slower and gentler. But all you could humour him with was a hum.
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, greece au, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, arguments, alcohol, manchild player bucky, mean!bucky, john walker back to playing the role of a toxic bf, cheating (not by bucky), jealousy, oral (f!receiving), squirting, overstimulation, reader mentions she's on the pill (no pregnancy), praise, dirty talk, angst, alpine feature, dead rat, miscommunication, insecurities, hurt/comfort
⭐︎ word count: 17.8k
⭐︎ a/n: if you like mamma mia, this fic might be up your alley. this is my contribution for the bwat summer collab hosted by the lovely @barnesonly and @iamthatonefangirl. thank you for taking the time to keep us in check. thank you to @tw1sters for being my beta-reader! happy brat summer even though it was two years ago
synopsis:
If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.
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Oonts. Oonts. Oonts.
It was the same wretched sound all over again.
From where you sat in the complex’s office, the bass emitting from Bucky’s room was thumping and vibrating the very walls around you. The ground shook, and you swore you could see dust and pebbles straying off the ceiling and landing right into your cup of coffee.
There was no one else in the office, so you screamed as loud as you could.
“Keep it down, Barnes!”
But of course, your angry voice was met with even more thumping bass and weird techno noises.
Mumbling curses to yourself, you angrily picked up the office phone—which barely worked—and dialed his number. You pressed the receiver hard to your ear, foot tapping impatiently as you heard it ring once, twice, three times, until finally…
“Hey, you reached Bucky. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number—”
He had left your phone calls unanswered so many times, you had already memorized his voice message word for word.
With another curse, you slammed the phone back down, pushed out of your rolling chair, and stomped your way up to his room.
It was peak summertime, meaning that vacationers were flooding the streets of Greece looking for accommodations, meaning that your rundown complex had available rooms for cheap rent, meaning you had to leave your one-man post just to take care of the obnoxious tenant you should’ve kicked out years ago.
Finally reaching his door, you knocked angrily with a strength that threatened to break the hinges.
“Barnes, open up!” you shouted.
I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A. G—
“Bucky! Don’t make me break down this door!”
I wanna dance with George, I wanna dance to SOPHIE.
Christ. What the hell was he playing? Whatever this noise slop was, it felt specifically designed by Bucky himself to give you a headache.
“God, this fucking… fucking asshole—” you cursed to yourself, fishing for your keys in your pocket.
You unlocked his door and pushed it open. Lo and behold, you found him seated in the exact same position you always found him in every time you barged into his room for a noise complaint. Bucky’s music was so loud he didn’t even hear you enter, his focus entirely on his fancy DJ setup and speakers that probably cost more than his rent.
“Bucky!” Your face scrunched as it took every vocal cord in your body to muster the shout.
Bucky whipped his head around to face you, looking very much like a boy who had been caught red-handed watching porn—except this music was much worse than mediocre sex-on-a-screen.
He finally lowered the volume, allowing you the ability to actually hear your own thoughts.
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out as you glared at him with an unpleasant and as equally disappointed frown.
“I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I need you to turn this music down.”
Bucky didn’t react.
He had heard this exact complaint from you more times than he could count. It was always the same routine. You’d yell at him, your body hot from the lack of AC circulation this shitty complex provided, leaving you standing in his doorway in a tank top—no bra—and tiny daisy dukes that left little to his imagination. And once you were done yelling, you’d go back downstairs to your office, and he’d turn the music right back up.
But of course, he always had a knack for making your job much harder than it actually was, purely because he loved seeing you get riled up.
“Oh. Is Georgia from the third floor complaining?” He tilted his head like an innocent puppy, knowing damn well that Georgia was a senior citizen who was legally deaf.
You scrunched your nose, looking even more pissed—which only made Bucky’s smile widen.
“No, but I’m complaining, and that should be enough to get you to shut the hell up—considering I’m your landlord.”
“Aw, but I’m dedicating this song to you.”
You wanted to stomp over to his desk and slap him right across the face to shut him up for good—but dealing with a lawsuit and a restraining order was the last thing you needed when you were responsible for running this shitty complex during peak tourist season.
“I’m not going to argue with you today,” you said, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself rather than him. “Soon, this complex is going to be packed with tourists and I need you on your best behavior. That means no loud robot music that’ll scare potential tenants away.”
Bucky flinched, looking offended.
“Robot music?” he scoffed, spinning back in his chair to face his laptop. “And you say this shit every year. Summertime, tourists, rent... but you’re lucky if even one person books a room.”
Your brow twitched. You hated how right he was. “Regardless, I need you to give the music a rest. If I’m not the one complaining, someone else will.”
You were ready to leave it at that. You turned around, your hand gripping the doorknob, prepared to slam the door behind you so he wouldn’t have the space to argue back. But of course, Bucky just couldn’t help himself.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You spun around so fast your hair whipped across your face. “What the fuck did you just call me?”
Bucky kept his back turned to you. You didn’t even need to see his face to know he was wearing a smug, shit-eating grin.
“My music is harmless,” he muttered, clicking away at his screen. “And who knows? Maybe your future tenants will actually find it entertaining. I might even draw people in.”
“No, it won’t,” you hissed. “You’ll scare people away.”
Bucky shrugged. “Then what the hell am I paying you rent for if I can’t even listen to music in my own apartment?”
The way he said it was so casual, but you knew he had thrown those words out just to pull the pin right out of your heart.
Over the years, you had seen several tenants come and go, break their leases, or even scam you out of money. Taking over the building with little to no hope for business had been completely exhausting, and Bucky—along with Georgia—had been the only loyal tenants you had left.
In reality, the two of them were the ones keeping the place afloat.
You grimaced, facing the door again.
“Just… keep it down,” was all you said, because you no longer had it in you to keep up the fight.
Bucky had kept his promise to keep the music down—but that only lasted about a day. And Bucky being Bucky, if he didn’t have the ability to piss you off one way, he’d make sure to do it another.
You weren’t sure if it was entirely intentional or not, but regardless, it made your skin burn with irritation. While you were talking to a man seated across from your desk, the sound of a girl’s loud laughter echoed right above the office—and it certainly wasn’t the voice of any girl you recognized who lived in this complex.
You smiled through it. As long as you ignored it and didn’t address it, then maybe the man in front of you—who seemed to have every intention of staying here during his months long vacation—wouldn’t notice.
“But yes, as you can see, the building is very close to the beach—walking distance, actually!” You smiled, hands folding primly on the desk in front of you. “And the beaches in Greece are beautiful. I’m sure you’ve seen them while doing your research. You said you like to surf, right? This spot is very convenient for—”
“Haha—you’re so silly, Bucky!”
“I know. But you like it.”
The man in front of you glanced at the ceiling, frowning at the sound of the girl giggling, and you swallowed hard.
“—surfing….”
Instead of answering your question or addressing anything else you said, he kept his focus on the wooden ceiling above him and pointed up. “I take it this place is pretty busy—considering all the noise.”
You gripped your hands tighter.
If you weren’t able to secure this guest, you were going to make sure Bucky got an earful from you after this.
“That’s a good thing, right? Shows how lively Greece is during this time of the year.” You tried your best to salvage the situation, but your own words only gave you secondhand embarrassment.
The man chewed the inside of his cheek, his expression apprehensive. His eyes darted around the office, suddenly taking in the white plug-in wall fan that was making a suspicious whiiiirrr noise, along with the poorly painted window panels you hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.
“Look, you seem like a nice, responsible, and hardworking young lady, but—” He stood up and started grabbing his bags. “I don’t think this place is right for me.”
“W-wait!” You scrambled from your chair, nearly lunging across the desk just to get him to stop. “We have much quieter rooms on the second floor! Facing the courtyard! You won’t hear a single thing over there, I promise!”
Fuck. What were you even saying? Bucky’s room was on the second floor.
The guy was already heading for the exit, his heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He gave you a tight, sympathetic smile that felt more like a slap to the face before walking out.
“Sir, please! I can offer you a discount on the first month! Ten percent—no, fifteen!”
Your voice was pitching higher in distressed panic, but the bell above the office door gave you a cute and mocking ting! before he pushed it open and stepped out into the burning Greek heat. The door shut behind him, leaving you alone in silence with the stupid run down fan.
Well, almost silence.
Aside from the consistent whirring from the fan, another loud giggle squealed through the floorboards right above your head. Then came the thud of Bucky’s mattress hitting the bed frame.
Your eye twitched as your hands curled into tight fists. The payment that man would have given you had he settled in today—even with a fifteen percent discount—was supposed to be your grocery budget for the next three weeks.
Your sandals were already stomping up the stairs to Bucky’s floor. By the time you shoved the key into his lock, twisted it, and slammed the door open without so much as a knock, you were seeing red.
“Barnes!” you screeched, not even caring that the unknown woman lying in his bed was half-naked.
She squealed and yanked the blanket up to her chest, trying to cover herself, but you didn’t so much as glance at her.
“Bucky, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she yelped, looking at Bucky with wide, terrified eyes.
Well, at least this one had some decency compared to the others. Most girls would look at you with swollen lips and a proud, “gotcha” smile to match. Bucky pushed himself up with a groan, giving you a glare that could have killed you right where you stood.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grumbled, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s my landlord.”
“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped in relief—and a part of you wished Bucky hadn’t clarified that, just so you could have kept the upper hand.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Bucky? You scared another potential renter away!”
Bucky didn’t look remotely remorseful. If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been interrupted. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, getting up to meet you at the door.
You didn’t even care that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his hips—you had walked in on him one too many times to even bother telling him to put on a pair of pants.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice gravelly from whatever he’d been doing earlier. “I was minding my own business.”
“I’m sorry, but your ‘business’ becomes everyone else’s when you’re being too fucking loud!” you shouted. “I was seconds away from closing a three-month lease, Bucky. Three months! Do you know what I could do with that kind of money right now? I could finally fix the plumbing so the water doesn’t smell like eggs!”
The girl in his bed looked back and forth between the two of you, awkwardly clutching the sheet to her collarbone. “Um… should I leave?”
“Yes!” you snapped.
“No,” Bucky countermanded, running a tired hand through his already tousled hair. “Stay, Eleni. My landlord was just leaving.”
“Like hell I am,” you hissed, crossing your arms. “I swear to God, Barnes. If you keep this up, I’m going to tear up your lease and evict you.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. That was new. He had pushed your buttons enough to unlock a brand new threat—even if it was one you both knew you probably wouldn’t follow through with.
“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and kick me out,” he challenged, stepping closer. “You need me more than I need you, anyway.”
You were seconds away from going ballistic—from grabbing his precious DJ setup and throwing it right off the balcony. Every hair on your body stood up like a threatened cat, and you were ready to tear Bucky Barnes apart in his own room.
You sucked in a deep breath to unleash a litany of curses, and Bucky stood up straighter, bracing himself to return the sentiment right back, until a familiar voice called out from the office downstairs.
“Honey? Are you here?”
Both of you froze. Your accusatory finger hung in midair as your head instinctively turned towards the open door.
Of course. Your boyfriend, John, always managed to show up at the absolute worst timing possible.
“Would you look at that,” Bucky sighed—though you couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or annoyance. “Your knight in shining armor, coming to save me yet again,” he said sarcastically.
You shot Bucky one last lethal glare— forgetting all about Eleni still laying in his bed—and turned on your heel, stomping back down the stairs to tend to your boyfriend. As you hurried down, you flattened your hair and adjusted your tank top, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable, though it was a lost cause.
“Hi, John,” you said, sounding more tired than endeared as you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.
“Hey, you,” he grinned before pulling back to look at you, his expression turning from a smile to displeasure.
“Wow, you look terrible.”
Your boyfriend always had such a way with words.
You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. With John here, you felt like now was the great time to talk about your day, hoping that it’d relief just a tiny bit of stress.
“I look terrible because my day is going terrible. I feel like a hamster running on a wheel that leads nowhere. It’s barely afternoon, and the day is already kicking my butt—”
“Did you hear that I got promoted today?”
You blinked at his blatant interruption. “I’m… I’m sorry?”
“No worries,” he waved his hand with a guileless smile, as if you were actually offering him a sincere apology when, in fact, you were just giving him the opportunity to rethink his interruption. “I said I got promoted. Valentina finally saw how hard I’ve been working and decided to give me the next position up. I’m making double the amount I made before!”
You felt utterly and completely defeated.
Here you were, feeling like a dog that had been beaten to the ground, and the man you proclaimed as the love of your life was flaunting his success. You should have been happy for him, but every sentence that left his lips only felt like a slap to your face.
“I’m happy for you, John,” you said, your voice wavering. You were happy for him—you really were—but John didn’t buy it.
He frowned. “Well…?”
You blinked again, your brows furrowing in confusion. “Well, what?”
“Are you going to take me out to celebrate?”
“Celebrate?” You huffed a laugh, taking his words as a joke. But one look at John’s face told you he was entirely serious.
Your lips twisted right back into a frown, your brows furrowing as dread began to settle in your gut.
“John… look around you. I can barely afford to keep this place running, much less take you out to celebrate your promotion. And besides, you’re making so much more than me now. Wouldn’t it financially make more sense for you to take us out if you really wanted to celebrate?”
You knew the words were blunt and straightforward, but truthfully, you didn’t have it in you to beat around the bush to cushion John’s feelings. You were drowning, and you needed to be honest with your partner.
John sighed, stepping closer and resting a hand on your shoulder.
“Honey, if money was that important to me—then I wouldn’t be with you right now, would I?”
Before you even knew it, you were looking at your partner not with the eyes of a lover—but with the eyes of an enemy.
“Excuse me?” You ripped yourself away from his touch, his hand dropping as you stared at him in utter disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
John let out a long sigh, his classic way of telling you that you were blowing things out of proportion. “I’m just saying, I don’t care about your financial situation. I’m looking past it because I love you. You don’t have to get so defensive.”
You wanted to cry. Your body was so coiled with nothing but rage, and right now, the only person you wanted to take it out on was John.
“Look past it?” Your voice cracked as it began to rise. “You’re looking past the fact that I run myself dry trying to keep a roof over my head with zero support from you? I can’t afford groceries, and instead of asking how I am, you walk in here, cut me off, brag about your money, and insult my business!”
“Oh, here we go with the drama,” John scoffed, throwing his hands up as if he were the victim. “It’s a rundown complex in Greece, honey, not the Hilton. You’re overreacting like you always do—”
“I am not overreacting! You are being incredibly selfish—”
“What’s going on here?”
You were so caught up in the yelling match that you hadn’t even heard the footsteps creaking down the stairs and into the office.
Both you and John turned to find Bucky and Eleni standing by the archway that led to the stairs. Bucky was dressed appropriately this time. By the looks of it, he had no intention of eavesdropping—he was just politely leading Eleni out of the building.
You swallowed hard. What a funny predicament to be in—complaining about Bucky and his noise just minutes ago, only to end up doing the exact same thing.
“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, averting your attention back to John. But John was already looking elsewhere—more specifically, right at Eleni.
“You sure? Sounded like things were getting pretty heated in here,” Bucky said, trying to make a joke that landed flat. “I was just leading Eleni out. You can go right back to tearing at each other’s throats once I escort her out, thanks.”
Eleni had been following close behind Bucky like a lost puppy, looking a little flustered, until her eyes scanned the lobby and landed squarely on the man standing next to you—who was already staring at her.
She froze, her jaw dropping. “John?” she gasped.
The color drained from John’s face, his cocky posture instantly stiffening into a defensive stance. “…E-Eleni?”
You blinked, looking between your boyfriend and the woman who had just been in your tenant’s bed. “Wait. You two know each other?”
Eleni gave you the exact same treatment you had given her earlier. She zipped right past you, completely forgetting about you and Bucky, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “John, you asshole! You ghosted me after Cabo! You blocked my number and never returned any of my calls!”
The office went dead silent. Aside from the whirring fan, of course.
You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Cabo? John had mentioned going on a ‘business conference’ to Cabo—but that was only two months ago.
No.
He couldn’t have…
You slowly turned your head to look at John, silently pleading to whatever cruel God that was currently tormenting you to just give you a break. You hoped John would deny it, that he would tell this interloper to get lost, even if you hadn’t had the guts to do it yourself when she was upstairs.
But he didn’t. All he did was dart his guilty blue eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the two women he had wronged.
“John…?” you whimpered.
And under just a smidge of pressure, John folded.
“I’m sorry!” he barked out defensively. “Look—it was a one-time thing, okay? I got drunk with Lemar on the beach, and… we lost track of time, and Eleni came up to me and—”
“Get the hell out.”
John’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for you again. “Honey, you don’t mean that—”
“Get out of my fucking face, John!” you screamed, slapping his hand away.
“Please, just listen to me for one second!” John pleaded, taking another step closer despite your screaming.
“I know I messed up, okay? I know it was a mistake—but look at the bigger picture here! I just got promoted. I’m making double now! I can take care of you. I can fund this entire complex and even… even fix the plumbing smell you’re always complaining about! Whatever you want! You won’t have to worry about a single cent anymore. Just please, don’t throw us away over a stupid slip up.”
Slip up?
Was this what he thought this was?
Years of being together, and his infidelity was just a slip up? A stupid moment of weakness?
You had thought that having a boyfriend—someone who loved you unconditionally—was the one thing you could have to yourself in this cruel world. You and John had your ups and downs, sure, but the idea of being in love was what kept you going.
Now, you felt entirely sick to your stomach—humiliated, exhausted, and broken.
“Stop it,” you choked out, a tear finally spilling down your cheek. You stepped forward and weakly slammed your palms against his chest, trying to push him towards the exit. “Just stop talking. Get out!”
Your hands were trembling, completely devoid of the strength you had wielded against him and Bucky just minutes ago. John barely budged under your weak shove. He sighed, reaching out to grab your wrists to stop you.
“Honey, stop. You’re hysterical right now, just calm down and—”
Before his fingers could even brush your skin, Bucky’s broad frame wedged itself between the two of you. He clamped a heavy hand hard onto John’s shoulder, shoving him back as he used his own body as a shield to protect you.
“You heard the woman,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, glaring down at your now-ex-boyfriend. “She told you to get the hell out.”
John stumbled back a step, swallowing hard as he looked up at the much larger man.
He tried to reclaim some of his lost dignity, puffing out his chest. “Hey, man, back off. This is between me and my girlfriend. It’s none of your business.”
“When you’re being that loud, your business becomes everyone else’s,” Bucky hissed. “You have three seconds to pack up your pathetic excuses and get your feet off this property before I throw you off it myself.”
If you weren’t such a fragile mess, you might’ve laughed at the fact that Bucky had just used your exact words to throw right back at John.
John looked at Bucky’s tight fists, then glanced past his shoulder at you, where you were wiping away your tears. He huffed a bitter laugh—he knew he couldn’t win a physical fight against Bucky, but that didn’t mean his pride was going down without a fight.
“Wow. Blew one of your tenants so he could act as your security guard since you couldn’t afford one?” John’s face twisted into an ugly, resentful sneer. “Fine. Keep her. I’m leaving.”
You were too busy sniffling behind Bucky—of all people—to notice that his shoulders were shaking with anger.
Bucky knew he wasn’t a saint, especially towards you, but hearing you get degraded by a man like this—a man you had given your heart to—made him unfathomably angry.
If you weren’t in such a sensitive, vulnerable state, Bucky probably would’ve had this guy pinned to the floor by now.
“While you’re at it, go ahead and take Eleni out with you,” Bucky added, nodding toward the woman dismissively, as if he hadn’t been tongue deep in her mouth just minutes ago. “Sounds like you two have some catching up to do, anyway.”
John muttered curses under his breath as he pushed through the exit, a timid Eleni trailing quickly behind him.
When the door shut, leaving just you and Bucky in the office, he turned around to finally look at you—and his heart broke right there in his chest.
He knew he had said and done things to purposefully get under your skin in the past, but seeing you now, looking so small with your cheeks stained with tears, it made him feel like the worst kind of man, despite not being the one who broke your heart.
“Hey,” Bucky murmured gently, resting both hands on your shoulders and leaning down so he was at eye level. “Are you okay—”
He nearly stumbled back from the impact of you burying your face into his chest.
You gripped his shirt tightly as you broke into the most gut wrenching sob he had ever heard in his life.
Without another thought, his arms came up to wrap securely around your body, holding you close against him. One large palm rested at the back of your head, soothing you with a comforting caress.
Bucky didn’t know what to say.
There had been times when he had almost made you cry out of sheer frustration, yeah, but that was almost. Now with you breaking down in his arms, he hated the very idea of you crying, period.
“Hey, he’s gone, okay?” he murmured against your temple. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He didn’t know what else to offer other than a couple of “you’re okays” and the occasional “I’m here.”
“I—I don’t understand—” you whimpered into Bucky’s shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “What did I do to deserve this?”
Guilt clawed at his heart while his teeth caught his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He knew your words were also a partial reflection on him and how he’d been treating you—constantly making your job so much harder than it needed to be. He sighed, holding you a little closer.
“Nothing. You did nothing,” Bucky said, his tone gentler than you had ever heard it before. “You don’t deserve any of this. And I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” you sniffled. “For standing up for me. I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m just so tired.”
Bucky felt like the Grinch—his chest tight as his heart softened with each broken word you cried out.
For the first time since he had moved into your complex, he was hearing a thank you leave your lips. He might have expected it if he ever turned his music down on the first ask, or helped you take out the trash. But not once had you muttered those words to him until now, while you were weeping in his arms and holding onto him like he was the only person you could rely on.
He felt terrible.
He, of all people, didn’t deserve your gratitude.
“Hey, don’t get sappy on me now.” He sighed, caressing your hair again as he rested his chin on the top of your head.
“You’re a strong girl. You’ll be okay.”
As the day bled into the rest of the week, Bucky felt like he was getting whiplash.
One day, you were crying in his arms and seeking his comfort, and the next, it was like you slapped your cold mask back on and went right back to being his personal landlord from hell.
He had made a promise to himself to help you out in small ways—like keeping his mixer at a lower volume, or offering to help paint the window frames. He hadn’t even invited a single girl over since your breakdown. It was selfish of him to think you’d soften up just because he held you while you cried, but you didn’t. Instead, it was the same usual business from you.
“Bucky, turn down your music!”
“Your music is giving me a headache. Lower it.”
“I can’t believe people actually listen to this robot music.”
Today, he had his friends over—Steve and Sam—whom you seemed to detest just as much because of the volume they brought with them.
Sam was lounging in the beanbag chair, his legs sprawled out, while Steve found comfort on Bucky’s bed. All three of them had a cold Mythos beer in hand, taking slow swigs while Bucky focused on mixing a new track on his laptop.
“Turn the music up,” Steve said, gesturing to the monitor with his bottle. “I want to hear how the bass hits on that drop.”
Bucky’s hand hovered over the master volume knob, then hesitated. If he recalled correctly, you had a lot of important calls to make down in the office today. The last thing he wanted to do right now was add more to your plate.
Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the volume exactly where it was. “Nah, it’s loud enough.”
“No way, man. The walls are usually shaking from how loud you play this stuff,” Sam said, furrowing his brows. “Come on. Turn it up.”
Bucky kept his attention glued to his laptop, his hands adjusting everything on his mixer but the volume.
“My landlord is making calls downstairs,” he muttered, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as possible in the hopes his friends would just drop it.
But of course, they don’t.
Steve sat up on the bed, his arms resting on his knees while the green bottle dangled loosely in his fingers. “Hold on. Since when do you care about what your landlord thinks?”
“Especially when it comes to your music,” Sam egged on, that teasing grin spreading across his face.
Bucky felt like he was a cat being cornered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting to play around with the BPM to distract himself, but ended up completely messing up the transition.
“I don’t care what she thinks,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too defensive as he clicked aggressively on his trackpad. “I just don’t feel like hearing her run her mouth today.”
“You know, speaking of running her mouth—” Sam pushed himself up on the beanbag chair with a groan. “How did she react when she walked in on you and Eleni? Surely she heard all the noise you two were making, right?”
Steve barked out a laugh, waiting to hear Bucky’s response.
Bucky grimaced at the memory.
Despite them bringing Eleni up, his mind wasn’t on her at all—it was entirely on you and everything that had unfolded that day.
Normally, he’d chug his beer with his track set to the highest volume, laughing alongside Sam and Steve about how you were constantly on his ass, pestering him like a mother. But this time, he recoiled at the way his friends were talking about you.
He didn’t even know how to begin explaining it.
How could he explain that he hadn’t actually slept with Eleni because he’d overheard you arguing with your boyfriend, John? The very same John who got outed for cheating on you with Eleni—the girl Bucky just so happened to have brought home that day.
“We didn’t even sleep together. We were just messing around on the bed, and she came in to complain about the noise,” Bucky muttered with a casual shrug. “That’s it.”
Sam hummed in thought, pausing in the middle of sipping his Mythos. “You know what it sounds like your landlord needs? She needs to loosen up.”
Bucky frowned.
They had no idea what you were going through at all.
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Take her to one of your gigs tonight—show her how good your music actually is, and what keeps her rent money coming in.”
Bucky couldn’t picture it. You, loosening up in the middle of a crowded dance floor, actually enjoying the music you constantly complained was nothing but “robot noise.”
“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”
Steve shrugged. “A girl like that wouldn’t be hard to impress. Who knows, maybe she’ll realize the nightlife she’s missing out on here in Greece, ditch her lame boyfriend, and give you a chance instead—”
“Alright, alright, enough.” Bucky waved his hand, spinning around in his chair to glare at Steve. He hated how obvious it was that he cared. “Can we just get back to working on my mix? I need it ready and sounding perfect by Friday night.”
Sam’s brows rose. “Oh, Friday night! That’s the perfect amount of time for you to convince her to come out—”
Bucky groaned, rubbing the space between his brows to soothe his impending headache. “Christ, Sammy. Would you just shut up—”
“Eeeeek!”
Bucky was cut off by a loud, piercing screech echoing from down the stairs—straight from your office. He immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening.
Steve grimaced. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her now—”
But before Steve could even finish his sentence, Bucky was already throwing himself out of his chair. He lunged out the door and raced down the stairs toward you. As his feet pounded against the creaky steps, his mind scrambled through every worst case scenario.
Had John returned to threaten you?
Was a potential tenant giving you a hard time?
Either way, he was ready to tear them apart. And he didn’t care if Steve or Sam were right behind him to witness it.
“Hey!” Bucky barked, breathless as he rounded the corner into the office. “Are you okay—”
“Oh my god, oh my god, get away! No! Don’t get any closer!” you squealed.
Bucky froze in the doorway, only to find you stranded on top of your desk chair, your legs wobbly as you tried to keep yourself from falling. Your eyes were wide with terror, staring down at the floor. Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at what was going on.
Sitting right at the base of your chair was a stray white cat. Her tail was swishing lazily against the floor, and she was proudly holding a very dead, very fat rat between her teeth.
Bucky’s shoulders instantly slumped as he realized he wouldn’t be throwing hands with John after all—and just how ridiculous this entire situation was.
“Bucky, help me!” you wailed, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. “Get it out! Get it out of here right now!”
“Which one?” Bucky crossed his arms, making absolutely no effort to rush to your rescue. “The rodent, or the cat?”
“The rat, Bucky! Oh my god—she’s getting closer, ew!” You whipped your head toward him, frazzled. “Do something!”
Bucky sighed heavily.
He was on a tight time crunch, needing his mix ready by Friday for a gig at a massive club here in Greece—and now his precious time was being spent trying to wrestle a stray cat.
Then again, he had made a silent promise to himself to start helping you out.
He stepped away from the doorframe and closer to you, making exaggerated shooing motions at the animal.
“Shoo! Go on, get out of here. And take your friend with you.”
The cat looked up at Bucky with big, round blue eyes that perfectly matched his own, let out a raspy mewl, and turned her head right back to you. Wanting to ensure her favorite human accepted the prize, the cat pushed herself up on her hind legs, stretching her paws onto the seat of the chair to drop the limp rodent right at your feet.
“Oh my god, no! Don’t do that! Ew, ew, ew! No!”
You could’ve sworn you saw the dead rat twitch.
Panic completely overrode your system. Without a single thought for your pride or your dignity, you launched yourself off the chair and jumped straight into Bucky’s arms.
Bucky looked up, his eyes widening as he realized what you were doing, but it was already too late to brace himself.
He let out a oomph! as your body collided with his, nearly knocking him right off his feet. With a huff, his arms hooked around your waist and thighs to catch you before you both could hit the floor. He stumbled back, struggling to find his balance as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder in panic.
He had never expected to find you in his arms again so soon—much less over a damn cat.
“You’re okay,” Bucky sighed, caressing your back. “Look! She’s already taking the rat away.” He reassured, despite the cat not moving a single paw.
You kept your face buried, your fingers tightly bunching the fabric of the back of his shirt. “Is she really? Promise me you’re not lying, Bucky.”
“Buck! We’re coming! Hold on—”
Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway as he and Sam burst through the office doorway in a sprint. Both of them had their shoulders squared and their fists clenched, ready to throw down in whatever fight Bucky had gotten himself into.
But they came to a halt, their eyes wide as they took in the view.
There was Bucky, holding the very woman he claimed to detest so much securely in his arms—bridal style, at that.
“Oh,” Sam chuckled, raising a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”
Bucky’s neck flushed a deep crimson. Even with your body tucked firmly against his, he was focused on the mortification of Steve and Sam drilling their stares directly into the side of his head.
“Get the rat out of the room!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
He tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t startle you with the word rat, but the attempt obviously failed—because, well… you were right there, and you squealed in response.
Sam didn’t move, his grin only widening. “I don’t know, Buck. Pest control wasn’t really on the itinerary today. What’s the magic word?”
Bucky now understood why you hated his friends so much.
“Sam, I swear to God—”
Seeing that his best friend was about to combust from embarrassment, Steve finally took pity on him.
“Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Steve reassured, stepping past them. He grabbed a plastic clipboard from your desk, using it like a makeshift shovel to carefully scoop the dead rodent off the chair.
“Ugh, that thing is huge,” Sam pointed out—eliciting another loud squeal from you—as he held the door open for Steve so they could dump it in the trash bins outside.
“Is it gone?” you whimpered into his chest.
Bucky looked down, his eyes softening as he took in the way your nose was pressed directly into his shirt. “It’s gone. I promise.”
With a relieved breath, you gently pushed yourself out of Bucky’s grasp until your feet hit the floor. He hated the sudden, empty space between the two of you.
Trying to bridge the gap you just created, Bucky stepped closer again, resting a warm palm on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”
He spoke so softly, with a gentleness that caught you off guard.
Heat tickled the back of your neck, your heart beating rapidly from the embarrassment of your outburst—and the fact that you had run straight into Bucky’s arms for comfort yet again.
“I-I’m fine,” you stammered, straightening yourself.
Steve and Sam were just about to walk back inside, but they stopped when they saw Bucky leaning down, his thumb now softly caressing your cheek.
They knew their friend had a long track record of being a blatant flirt and a playboy, but never once had they seen him soften up the way he was right now. Exchanging looks, the two of them played it smart and silently agreed to turn around, letting their friend have his chance.
You gently stepped away from Bucky’s touch, letting out a soft sigh at the cat still perched in the middle of the office floor. You hoped averting your attention elsewhere would soothe the awkwardness.
“Why’d you do that, Alpine? Are you trying to scare me to death?” you murmured, kneeling down to give her a gentle pat on her dusty head.
Bucky furrowed his brows. “She has a name?”
“She was a stray hiding near the trash bins a few weeks ago. I ran to the market next door to buy some food for her, and she’s been following me ever since. But I didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to gift me a…” You shuddered at the mere thought. “…a rat.”
He chuckled, kneeling down right next to you to offer the cat a few pets of his own.
“That’s cute,” he murmured. “Look at you, always on top of taking care of things—even the neighborhood strays.”
You let out a small laugh, the sound soft, warm, and genuine against his eardrums.
Bucky felt like his chest was going to explode. You were so close, smiling brightly in a way he almost never saw from you. As the last of your laughter trickled in the air, he realized this was his perfect opportunity.
The atmosphere between you two was soft. Your walls were down, and he could take this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go.
Are you free this Friday night?
Do you want to come see my set at the club? We could even dance together.
I actually named one of my tracks after you.
But you spoke up before he could. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to say thank you.”
Bucky shrugged casually. “The rat was no problem—”
“No, not just for the rat. I meant for everything else,” you clarified, sitting up straight and meeting him in the eye.
“These past few days, I’ve noticed you’ve been… well, on your best behavior.” You offered a sheepish smile as you struggled to find the right words. “You’ve been lowering your music whenever I ask you to, and I really appreciate it. So, thank you.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Here you were—showing gratitude just because he was finally giving you the bare minimum. He didn’t deserve you.
“Yeah, well, even if my music isn’t blasting at full volume, it still sounds good,” he joked, flashing you a confident grin.
You rolled your eyes, letting your hands gently pet down Alpine’s spine. She was purring.
“You keep telling yourself that,” you teased back. “I still don’t know how you can listen to music like that all day, much less produce it.”
“It’s not music you listen to all day,” Bucky adjusted his posture so he was a bit more relaxed as he sat on the floor. “It’s music you listen to when the stars are out while strobe lights are blinding you.”
Without even realizing it, he started rambling.
“It’s the kind of music that's meant to make you feel good. To push all the thoughts out of your head, drown out the noise of the rest of the world, and just let yourself loose for a little while.”
You hummed in thought.
For the entire time you’ve known Bucky, you had never bothered to ask about his DJing simply because you didn’t care to.
You’d always figured it was just a stupid hobby he did to piss you off and disrupt your peace—but the way he talked about it now, passionately getting lost in his own words, made you interested to say the least.
“You should come to one of my gigs one day and see what it’s like,” he murmured, his voice sounding far more vulnerable than his usual confidence. “It’ll be fun.”
You blew a raspberry, though you weren’t entirely put off by the idea.
“I appreciate the invite, but look around you, Bucky,” you huffed, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “This place is running on my bare hands alone. I can’t afford a night off.”
“Then let me help you,” Bucky interrupted, turning his body so he was giving you his undivided attention. “You need help painting the window frames and fixing the plumbing, right? I’ll take care of it.”
You blinked, your eyes widening in surprise.
Bucky… helping you?
This was completely out of character for him. You braced yourself for the catch, waiting for him to follow up with something like, “As long as I can bring home whoever I want, play my music as loud as I want, and get a discount on my monthly rent,” but nothing came.
“I don’t know, Bucky—”
“Come on, sweetheart,” he grinned, that taunting tone creeping back into his voice. “Let someone help you for once.”
You searched his eyes, trying to catch a punchline, but still, there was nothing.
You didn’t quite believe him. You figured this was just his way of tossing you sympathy points to get you to praise him some more, only for him to end up doing absolutely nothing.
So, you just sighed, rolled your eyes, and pushed yourself up off the floor.
“Whatever you say, Barnes.”
To your surprise, Bucky had actually made true to his promise and helped you around the complex.
He was already up most mornings before you even arrived, blasting his music from his speakers. Instead of just fixing the paint on the window panels, he reinstalled new ones and painted them over with the pretty blue you’ve been eyeing.
It made you feel giddy, seeing him in a tank top and jeans that were covered in both dirt and blue paint.
“Morning,” you shouted over the music, setting your cup of coffee down at your desk. Alpine was still here—curled up in your chair. Bucky must’ve let her in.
“You’re already working on the window panels?”
Bucky didn’t hear you at first, sweeping his paintbrush back and forth until he lifted his head in your direction. He reached over to his Bluetooth speaker, lowering his music to a much more appropriate volume for seven in the morning.
“Oh, yeah.” He pushed himself up with a groan. “Thought I’d get started on the easy stuff first.”
He crossed his arms, taking a step back to admire his work. Then, he looked at you for your reaction.
“How… how do you like it?”
You wanted to jump up and down in glee with how beautiful the windows looked. The bright blue color made everything much more welcoming and inviting, but you didn’t want to give Bucky the opportunity to gloat just yet.
“Hm,” you tilted your head. You could feel Bucky growing anxious beside you—though he tried his best not to show it. “I think I want it in a different shade of blue, actually.”
Bucky’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He raised his hands, about to protest, but you broke down in a laugh.
“I’m kidding,” you said, wiping a tear at his reaction. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
He let out a heavy sigh of relief, but you could still see the grump lines on his face. “Good. Otherwise I would’ve painted your face blue,” he muttered, motioning to the paintbrush.
“Oh? You mean like this?”
You quickly snatched the brush out of his hands, and before he could even process what was going on, you had already swiped a stripe of blue paint over his stubbled cheek.
Bucky stood there, wide eyed. He swiped his thumb over the paint and looked down at his fingers, appalled. But while you were busy laughing in his face, a slow smile cracked across his lips. He suddenly lunged for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body from behind. He hooked the paintbrush back out of your hands, smearing a streak of blue over your face as well.
“Bucky, stop!” you yelled, thrashing in his arms as you just barely dodged the bristles that were tickling your chin with paint. “Stop! I can’t be covered in paint—I have to work!” you argued, despite the breathless laughter breaking in between your words.
“Yeah, well. You should’ve thought about that before you attacked me first, sweetheart.”
From that day onward, your week with Bucky had been filled with more laughter than you’ve had in the entire course of previous months.
Each day was eventful—Bucky was always up early in the morning working on the complex, somehow always managing to find new things to fix, while you arrived with cups of coffee and a bag of treats for Alpine.
During break times, you and Bucky would eat lunch together in his apartment, and he introduced you to more and more of his music.
Every time you two worked, he always had his music playing. Slowly, you started to become fond of it. There were even a few tracks of his that you liked so much, you actually saved them to your own playlist. And every time you asked him for the track title, Bucky would laugh and say, “See? I told you my mixes are good.”
Now, you were sitting on his beanbag chair with your legs crossed, the two of you eating pitas with cold beers to wash them down.
“It’s all about the frequencies,” Bucky said, gesturing to the DJ controller sitting on his desk. He set his beer down, leaning forward as his fingers traced the knobs and sliders. “You’ve got your lows, mids, and highs. If I want to drop the bass out to create suspense before the hook hits, I twist this dial right here.”
He clicked a button, and the beat lost its thump thump, turning into an airy synth. Then, he slid a fader up, and the thumping beat came back in.
“That’s pretty cool. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” You leaned your head back against the beanbag, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I just thought guys up there would bop their heads to pre-made music and pretend like they’re doing something. I didn’t think they played it all live.”
Bucky chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he swiveled his chair to face you. “Surprising, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his desk, then back to you. “Come here,” he nodded his head toward the console. “Try playing something.”
“What?” you said, sitting up straight. “No. Knowing my luck, I’d touch something and it’d break.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Who would’ve thought that the very woman who had threatened to throw his entire DJ setup out the window was actually too scared to even touch it?
“Enough of that. Come here, I’ll show you.”
Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, you knew he wasn’t going to let this up. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the beanbag chair and walked over to him. He scooted his chair back, giving you the space to step right up to his setup.
You felt your face warm up instantly when he swiveled right back around, locking you between his desk and his lap.
“Sit down,” Bucky instructed from behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder and swallowed hard. His lap was spread, and he was leaning as far back in his chair as possible to make space for you. You wanted to make an excuse, to say you were much better off standing, but you knew Bucky would just fight you on it.
Mustering up your courage, you sat down, pressing your bottom directly into his lap. Bucky didn’t seem to mind it at all—meanwhile, your face was burning like crazy.
“Here,” he murmured, reaching around you to grab your arm. He guided it toward one of the sliders and placed his hand firmly over yours, setting your fingers down gently on the control.
Bucky’s palm was rough and warm against the back of your hand.
He leaned in closer, his chest pressing into your back, and you could feel the rumbly vibration of his chuckle against you.
“Relax,” he murmured right against your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
You hated him. You really did.
“Bucky, I swear to God—”
Bucky nudged your hand forward, forcing your fingers to slowly push the slider upward. As the fader moved, the track playing through the monitors began to warp.
“That’s the high-pass filter,” Bucky explained softly. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his thighs under your bottom. “Hear how it cuts out the low end? Now, wait for the timer on the screen to hit zero, and slam it back down.”
You did exactly as instructed, yanking it down the second the timer hit zero, and a smile broke across your face at the bass.
“Wow, that sounds pretty good,” you breathed.
Curiosity got the best of you, and you started to play around with the different sliders on your own—creating a whole new funky and out of beat mix. You messed with the distortion and the reverb, and it sounded terrible enough to make you burst into laughter, with Bucky laughing right along beneath you.
You pressed a button, then a beep! noise came after. A red light started blinking at the soundboard.
“You’re recording now,” he said. “Want to sing something?”
“God, no.” You laughed.
Sooner or later, you felt his hands slowly drift from your arms down to your hips. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind his touch one bit. It felt entirely natural. Like his hands were always meant to be right there—guiding you, holding you…
“Come watch me play on Friday,” he murmured gently.
You looked down at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. Bucky had been staring up at you this entire time. His blue eyes bored right into yours the minute you made eye contact, with no intention to break it first.
“Bucky, I…”
“I can get you in for free—you can skip the line, or come whenever you want. Just take one night off for yourself. You deserve it.”
You chewed your lower lip, feeling apprehensive. You and Bucky had done enough hard work over the last few days to compensate for the rest of the week, essentially clearing your schedule.
Looking into Bucky’s eyes—seeing the blue glimmer with hope just like the Greek ocean does on a sunny day—made it so much harder to say no. He had done so much for you these past few weeks, and the very least you could do was watch him do something he was truly passionate about.
“Fine. But only if you play my favorite tracks,” you said with a teasing smile.
Bucky blinked, as if he hadn’t heard you right.
Then, his lips pulled into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen from him. His grip on your hips tightened before trailing up to your waist. Hell, he’d delete this entire set he had been working on for months if it meant you’d come watch him.
He was so overjoyed with excitement that he didn’t offer any words to prove it.
Instead, he pulled your waist a little tighter, tilted his head up, and kissed you.
You froze, your eyes going wide as his warm lips connected with yours.
You?
Kissing Bucky?
You never thought you would see the day. But the second his slick lips began to dance with yours—the second his tongue pushed past your lips to taste you—it was like all the stress from before this, all the emotional drain from your breakup with John, disappeared in an instant.
“Mmm,” you moaned into the kiss. Your hands flew to the back of his neck, burying into his messy brown hair and giving it a firm tug that made him groan right back against your mouth.
Bucky’s hands slid up from your waist, his large palms smoothing against your ribs and moving to your back to pull you closer against him.
He tasted like the cold beer, but his mouth was intoxicating heat.
Bucky had his fair share of kisses with women—just as you had your fair share of makeout sessions with John. But neither of you had to say a single word to know that this was it. This kiss shared between you two was like no other.
His hands roamed under your tank top, his fingers tickling your lower back as he trailed upward.
Of course, you had no bra on. You never wore one in this suffocating summer heat. That was one of Bucky’s favorite things about you.
Bucky broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head leaning back against the chair to gaze up at you. His eyes flickered down, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal your smooth belly. He had seen your midriff from a distance whenever you bent over in your office—but never up close like this.
He groaned hungrily, then leaned in, pressing soft, warm kisses to your abdomen.
“A—ah, Bucky…” you mewled, squirming from the ticklish sensation.
He looked up at you with the softest eyes a boy could have, leaning his cheek right against your fluttering stomach. His stubble made you ticklish, but he didn’t pull away.
“I love it when you say my name like that,” he sighed dreamily. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your face warmed and you stammered, avoiding eye contact.
It was clear to Bucky that you weren’t used to receiving compliments, especially not from your no-good ex-boyfriend, John Walker.
But that was okay, because Bucky was here to change that.
“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. You tried to shy away from his compliment again, but his fingers trailed up to your chin, tilting your head down so you were forced to look at him.
“The prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile,” his thumb traced patterns on your bare hip. “And the prettiest lips. God, those lips.”
He leaned in to press his lips against yours once more. Your tongues danced in a warm embrace as he slowly began to undress you, starting with your tank top. His hands eagerly lifted the fabric, breaking the kiss momentarily just so he could pull it over your head before his mouth crashed right back down onto yours.
In between kisses, he would murmur things like, “So beautiful,” and “Mine,” every soft word matching the steady blood flow pumping from his heart and straight to cock.
When his hands found the button of your shorts, you rolled your hips forward, grinding that hot, delicious heat right against the growing bulge in his jeans.
He chuckled raspily against your lips before pulling away, his lips swollen and his chin sheen with exchanged saliva.
“Eager little thing, are you?”
You groaned in annoyance, though it sounded incredibly sexy to his ears.
You worked at his belt, then moved to the button of his jeans. “Take these off.”
Bucky clicked his tongue. His hand caught your wrist, gently prying it away from his pants. “You’ve ought to learn how to say please.”
His arms wrapped securely around your body, lifting you up from the chair so suddenly that you yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He led you quickly over to the edge of his bed, setting your body down and tucking himself right between your thighs.
“Besides,” he breathed, eagerly pulling your shorts down along with your panties and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’m still not done with you. I want to take my time worshiping this fucking body.”
You lay there sprawled out and bare while Bucky was still fully clothed. It was overwhelming, but you didn’t have time to fully process it before Bucky’s head tucked between your thighs, his nose pressing to your base as he inhaled deeply.
“Fuck, you’re dripping already.”
You arched your back, letting out a shocked gasp. “B-Bucky—! What are you—!”
“Relax,” he murmured against your sensitive skin, his hands finding your outer thighs and prying them wider for him. “Just want to taste you, baby.”
Bucky’s tongue swiped flat against your dripping center, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. He groaned, letting the taste of you linger on his mouth.
He glanced to look at you between your legs, and the sight of your face—brows pinching together with your bottom lip caught between your teeth—made his cock painfully hard. You lying bare in front of him was an invitation for him to sink his cock into you, but he wanted to savor this.
He tucked his head back down, lapping at your pussy sloppily. His warm tongue would tease your entrance with every flick, before slowly dragging up. He’d press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing his tongue deep against your clit and dragging his tongue up and down quickly to make you cry out in pleasure.
“Bucky—please, oh god, Bucky—!”
He swirled his tongue around the swollen peak of your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a light tug that had your toes curling around his head.
You were so deprived of intimate touches, never being ate out in a way that Bucky was eating you out, and you already felt like you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.
“Don’t stop, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, hand coming up to your mouth to muffle your cries.
Bucky had no intention of stopping.
He doubled his efforts, the sound of his wet tongue squelching against your cunt, lapping at every drip your arousal gave him. He was eager to make you fall apart, to listen to you cry out his name as you came all over his face.
Bucky inhaled sharply as you began riding his tongue with abandon. You were being selfish—chasing your high. He knew you were that kind of woman, to take what you wanted, and fuck, did he love you for it. Especially when you’re riding his face for your own pleasure, not even caring if he could breathe or not.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, tossing your head. “Fuck me with your tongue, Bucky. I’m gonna cum—!”
Your eyes went wide when you realized you were about to let out more than you could handle. But you couldn’t stop—not when Bucky was pressing his tongue firmly against your clit and holding your thighs down with his strong hands.
“Bucky—wait, I…” before you could warn him, your back arched off the bed into a cry.
Your orgasm came hot and hard, pleasure suddenly flooding your senses as you felt yourself gush around his tongue. Bucky’s face was drowning with your juices, your puffy cunt clenching around his mouth. Your wet essence trickled down your thighs and stained his bedsheets vulgarly, leaving a wet spot beneath you.
“Oh my god,” you panted, face burning hot as you fought to catch your breath.
Bucky finally pulled away, a smug grin plastered on his face while his chin was dripping with your juice. You watched as he licked his lips, the gesture only making you want to sink deeper into his bed from embarrassment.
“Look at that,” he kneeled back, hand rubbing his hard cock through his jeans. “You made a real mess on my bed.”
Your eyes were shamelessly glued to the way his dick was printed against his pants. It was strained tight against the denim, and you could see the heavy outline of his tip, spurting pre-cum and dampening his thigh with his own juice.
“I’m… I’m sorry…”
Bucky chuckled—a deep, raspy sound that made you clench around nothing.
“God, baby. You’ve got my dick so hard, it hurts,” he rasped, finally pulling his cock out of his pants and kicking the article off the bed. “You already came so much. I don’t know if you can go another round.”
You weren’t sure, either. But with the way he was jerking himself off, that heavy string of pre-cum dangling from his tip, and the way his balls looked so full and desperate for relief, you were determined to go another.
He crawled over you, dragging his tip along your shaking inner thigh and against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness as he probed you.
You were so sensitive, your pussy puffy and aching, yet when he pushed his tip in to test you, your cunt parted for him so easily. You winced, your overworked pussy already fluttering around his tip despite yourself.
“Please, Bucky…” you whined, and it might’ve been the cutest thing Bucky had ever heard. “Put it in. It hurts…”
“It hurts? Aw, baby. But I bet you’re not hurting as much as I am.” He grabbed your hand, guiding it down to his cock. It was so hot, his skin smooth as it twitched under your fingertips. “Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby.”
Bucky grabbed your hips, aligning himself perfectly so he could sink in deeper, pushing his tip past your tight walls until half of his cock was embraced by your warmth.
“Fuck, you’re tight… even after cumming,” he hissed, his face tightening as he eagerly pushed his hips forward to stretch you out. “Like you were made for this.”
Already sensitive, the sudden fullness was overwhelming. A high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on him, tightening around the middle of his cock where he was thickest.
You whimpered and winced, trying to accommodate him, and Bucky felt his heart soar.
You were usually always so demanding, wound up so tight from constantly being overworked, and now you were wound up tight from his cock bottoming out in your pussy. Each moan and gasp of breath that left your lips made his cock twitch and his balls heavier.
“Those cute little noises—it makes my cock throb so hard,” he groaned.
Once his cock was fully sheathed inside, he started to pick up the pace, his balls slapping against you with wet and obscene smacks. His room—usually filled with the sounds of his music—was now filled with the sounds of your moans, and that was the greatest sound Bucky had ever produced.
He was fucking you so deep, each thrust met with curses and grunts. “So fucking beautiful,” “What a tight little pussy, fuck.” “You’re gonna make me cum so fast. M’already getting close…”
Each moan that left his lips made white spots dance around your vision. He was so deep, you could feel him in your gut. Pressure was building fast in your lower abdomen—a fullness that was equally agonizing and overwhelming.
Bucky’s big body was enveloping yours, his chest pressed into your sweaty one as he rocked his hips sensual and deep. He quickened his pace, in and out, in and out, until he felt his balls clench up.
“Shit, shit—” he gasped into your shoulder. “Not gonna last.”
Your pussy was like a drug. It was addicting, the way you would squeeze and flutter around him. Despite him making you squirt all over his sheets just minutes ago, you were already edging on your next orgasm. He felt every ripple and pulse your cunt had to offer—pumping him with your pussy before you cried out in pleasure so overwhelming, it made you see stars.
“Bucky!” you screamed, “oh my god—I’m cumming again—I can’t—”
Fuck, this was the fastest he had ever came.
“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” he pleaded with a broken voice.
That was essentially your warning that he was gonna cum inside. And when you nodded, that was his invitation to do it.
His entire body coiled up tight as he started pumping you full of his backed up seed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex before you. All that mattered now was that his balls were finally being drained inside the person he wanted to pump them in the most—his precious landlord.
“Shit. I’m cumming, fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight—” he gasped as his body collapsed over you, huffing angry groans as his body tensed—draining every drop of his cum into your overly fucked pussy.
The two of you lay tangled in each other’s sweaty limbs, melting under the shared, musky scent of sex.
While Bucky was catching his breath, he peppered you with wet kisses—to your collarbones, shoulders, neck, and chin.
“You’re so pretty. Could lay with you forever—just like this.”
Who knew that Bucky Barnes, of all people, was the one person you slept with who made you feel more pleasure and adored than John ever had?
Your heart felt too big for your chest, and you felt like you wanted to cry. The way he held you and murmured sweet things to soothe your heart—it all became too much.
A small sniffling sound escaped you before you could stop it, and Bucky caught it immediately. He tilted his head up and looked at you, wide eyed.
“Hey, hey,” he cooed so softly, his palms coming up to caress your cheeks so you would look at him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
Bucky was so soft, looking at you with wide, adoring eyes, like you were the only woman in the world and the only one he wanted to be with. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who always made sure to get a rise out of you just weeks ago.
“I’m… I’m okay,” you stammered. “I just… didn’t expect all this.”
Bucky frowned, his touch so delicate as if he were afraid of hurting you.
“I’m sorry—”
“No, don’t apologize,” you interjected gently, your fingers running through his sweaty strands of dark hair so you could see his eyes. “I loved every bit of it.”
He searched your eyes, his brows furrowing with vulnerability as he tried to find the truth in your words. When you held his gaze, showing how sincere you were, his frown tilted back into a sheepish smile—a far cry from his usually smug grins that you always wanted to wipe off.
“Good. Because I don’t regret a single bit of it,” he leaned in, capturing your lips with a wet kiss. “You better come on Friday. Watch me play. Then, after my set, we’ll come back home and make love all over again.”
You grinned at how blatant he was. But lying here with him, soaked up in each other’s essence, it was hard for you to say no.
“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”
With how busy you were taking care of the complex, Friday night came in the blink of an eye.
Despite living in Greece, on an island notorious for its nightlife, you weren’t a fan of clubbing at all. You were always so busy, elbows deep in the run down housing complex just to keep it afloat—so naturally, you didn’t have anything to wear.
When you had asked Bucky for advice, he told you, “Whether you wear a short skimpy dress or a skirt that goes down to your ankles, I’ll be tearing it off later in bed.”
You had rolled your eyes at that before settling on a dress that was far too short and far too tight for your liking. But you couldn’t be bothered to care, considering the club would be dark and packed enough with bodies that no one would notice your outfit anyway.
You arrived later than you had anticipated, having been caught up with last minute paperwork and calls. By the time you got there, the club was already packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with colorful neon strobe lights dancing across the crowd.
Your eyes naturally gravitated to the stage, where a familiar—if slightly fancier—DJ setup stood right in the center.
And of course, Bucky was right behind it.
He was manning the mixer, getting lost in his own music while the lights danced around him. One hand was resting on the mixer while the other rested on his headset. He kept his promise of playing your favorite tracks—and you couldn’t help but smile with the way he had everyone dancing in the center.
You felt out of place, standing awkwardly by the bar while everyone danced drunkenly around you. Unlike Bucky, this was not your element at all. But you took the night off, making a promise to yourself, and Bucky, that you would enjoy yourself.
Remembering Bucky’s instructions from earlier that day, “Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want,” you pushed your way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention for a drink.
A guy with a slammed expression who looked like he’d been dealing with unruly tourists all night finally looked at you.
“Hey,” you shouted over the music.
“What’ll it be, miss?”
“A double Tsipouro—I’m with Bucky,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the DJ who was currently mixing your favorite track.
The bartender paused, looking at Bucky on stage, then back at you with an irritated scoff.
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” he grabbed a double shot glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it towards you. “That’ll be €8.”
You frowned. You contemplated on arguing back, but the local girls next to you giggled after they eavesdropped on the interaction, and by then, the bartender was already tending to the next person.
With a sigh that felt almost self-deprecating, you downed the shot without a chaser, and tried to enjoy the rest of the night listening to Bucky’s set without letting that interaction get to you.
After a couple of shots—that you all paid for—you went from being buzzed to intoxicated. You were dancing by yourself in the crowd, relishing every bass and beat that Bucky was throwing up on stage. When an unexpected hand came to rest on your lower back, you instantly spun around to tell the guy off.
“Hey, get your hands off—!” but you stopped when you saw Steve standing right in front of you with Sam right next to him.
“If it isn’t Bucky’s landlord,” Sam teased with a tone that brought good intentions, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you here.”
“Did Bucky drag you out tonight?” Steve asked.
With the alcohol bubbling in your bloodstream, you weren’t sure if you hid your flustered expression well.
You had no clue how much Bucky had told his friends about you—how you two were technically a ‘thing’ now, despite not officially talking about it.
“Yeah,” you shouted back. “He wanted me to come out tonight to watch his set. He’s really good.”
“He definitely is,” Steve agreed, then grabbed your hand. “Well, if you’re out here to party, better make the most of it.”
You laughed as Sam and Steve pulled you further into a clearer pocket of the crowd. With the two guys next to you—warding off the other drunk men who tried getting close to you—you actually started to let loose. You were laughing, your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.
During a transition, you looked up at the stage to see if Bucky had noticed you in the crowd yet.
But then your smile faltered, and you realized you were no longer dancing.
A small group of girls—dressed in tight outfits and looking beautiful—had managed to bypass the side security and were now crowding his DJ setup. They were drunk, based on the way they were stumbling and trying to grind on Bucky—who you thought was just trying to focus on his music. But he smiled.
You didn’t know if that was him trying to save face because he was right there, in front of a whole crowd, but from where you were standing, it seemed like he enjoyed every bit of the attention they were giving him.
You looked down, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious in your dress.
“Don’t worry about that,” Sam reassured you as he continued dancing. “People get on stage all the time, no matter who’s playing. His set is ending soon, anyway.”
Based on Sam and Steve’s expressions, they weren’t soothing your insecurities, but rather assuming you were just expressing concern for a friend’s safety. They didn’t know you and Bucky had a thing going on at all.
You tried to push those thoughts away for the rest of the night, but how could you? Not when every single time you looked up to see Bucky—the person you came out tonight for—he was being smothered by and dancing with half dressed girls.
You tried to get lost in the music, but instead, you were getting lost in your own thoughts.
It was a horrible, familiar feeling.
It was the exact same feeling you had felt with John, who had sworn he only had eyes for you while routinely crossing boundaries, making you feel like you were crazy for caring, and eventually cheating on you. You had promised yourself you would never let a man make you feel that way again.
And yet, here you were.
You thought about the night you and Bucky had just shared. But what was it to him? Just a fun distraction with his landlord? The woman he always swore he hated? Were you just another checkbox on his list—one he sought after simply because you were ‘playing hard to get’ in his eyes?
Bucky was a playboy. His friends knew it. You knew it. And hell, even the only other tenant in the complex—who was deaf, mind you—knew it.
You were the one who had to watch him constantly bring different girls back to his place week after week. You were the one always barging in on them with noise complaints. He was charming, hot, and clearly popular in clubs, and he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted.
“Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want.”
And on top of it all, you remembered what the bartender had said.
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before.”
He had heard it before because Bucky had probably used that exact same line on a dozen other girls.
You weren’t special.
You were just the latest girl on his list, foolish enough to believe his sweet compliments after he ravished you in bed—the very same bed he had shared with countless other women.
Tears stung the backs of your eyes, blurring the flashing strobe lights into a messy smear of color. Your throat choked up, your chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.
“Hey,” Steve leaned down, noticing your expression. “You okay?”
You couldn’t even answer him. If you opened your mouth, a sob would escape.
You tried to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt—that this was just his job, that he had to put on a pretty smile and perform. But as you looked up and saw him with a drunk smile, leaning closer to a woman who had her hand on his chest and was shouting something in his ear, that was it for you.
“Sorry, I—I… um, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s due tomorrow morning,” you lied, trying your best to sound steady. “Have fun tonight.”
Steve and Sam offered to take you home, but you couldn’t let them. You needed to be alone.
And that’s exactly what you did.
You took a cab back by yourself, drunkenly stumbling into the complex’s office with only one thing on your mind. It wasn’t because of stupid paperwork or bills. It was to tear up Bucky’s lease.
You shoved the key into the lock with a clumsy hand. Bursting inside the small office, you slammed the door shut behind you.
The office was dark, but sitting right there in the very center was Alpine. The white cat lifted her head from her food bowl, kibble crumbs decorating her white, fuzzy chin as she blinked tiredly at you.
The sight of her made the tears spill over your cheeks. You were intoxicated, heartbroken, and your emotions were at an all time high— looking at the cat you two took care of together only made the anger burn hotter in your already fragile heart.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you choked out, pointing a shaky finger at the cat. “You and your stupid dad. Your stupid, lying, playboy dad!”
Alpine blinked before letting out a mighty yawn for such a small body. Then, she turned her attention back to her food, completely indifferent to your emotional breakdown.
“Yeah, go ahead and eat!” you cried, wiping furiously at your wet face. “Enjoy it, because both of you are packing your bags! He thinks he can just… smile and say the right things, and I’ll just let my guard down and let him in?”
You marched past the cat and stormed over to the filing cabinets. You grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer and yanked it open so hard that it rattled.
“Where is it…” you muttered, your vision blurred by tears as you began rummaging through the folders. You tossed utility bills, maintenance requests, and old plumbing receipts over your shoulder. “Where is that stupid piece of paper?”
You were going to find his lease.
You were going to tear it into a million pieces, throw it in his face, and kick Bucky Barnes out of your complex.
The office door suddenly pushed open, and you jumped at the unexpected intruder who just barged in.
Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as the moonlight outlined his body from behind. Any other woman probably would’ve seen him as a god, but to you, he just looked like a man spawned from the very depths of hell.
He looked like he had run all the way from the club—but he couldn’t have, not with how fast he got here.
“Why did you come back here?” He panted.
“Get out of my sight,” you mumbled, so quietly that it was like a part of you didn’t want to mean it.
He ignored you, stepping closer as he caught his breath. “Steve told me you left before I could finish my set—said that you had paperwork to do, but that can’t be right. You told me you cleared your schedule just so you could go to the club tonight—”
“Yeah—well, plans change,” you muttered, finally pulling his folder out from the others. You sorted through it until you found his paperwork, gripping it firmly in your hands.
When Bucky stepped closer and realized what you were doing—your fingers positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like you were about to rip it—he stormed over and snatched the paper right out of your hands.
“What the hell are you doing with that?!”
You glared up at him, your head spinning so fast it hurt. “I’m tearing up your lease. I’m evicting you.”
Bucky blinked, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.
“Are you trying to play with me right now?” He sighed, setting the paper safely on top of the filing cabinet before bending down to try and lift you up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re drunk right now—”
You slapped his hands away, pushing yourself up to stand on your own. “What? Get me in bed so you can add me to the long roster of women you fuck?”
“What?” Bucky’s eyes went wide, looking nearly as hurt as you felt just from that accusation alone. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t think I don’t know!” a sob ripped from your throat, and you hated how weak it made you sound. “You and your notorious record for being nothing but a player who plays stupid music. You know—it makes sense, actually!”
You hiccuped, slurring your words between tears.
“You being a DJ and playing in clubs and all. It’s such a classic tale, isn’t it? How easy it is for men like you to just… pick up women and bring them home in the middle of the night. And I’m always the one cleaning up your messes and kicking them out the next morning,” you laughed at yourself.
You probably looked insane in his eyes, but you didn’t care.
“Now, look at me. I’m the mess, and no one is there to clean me up. I was stupid to think I was different.”
What the hell were you saying?
None of it even made sense to you anymore. All you felt was an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt. Your head was pounding so bad that you just wanted to lie down and sob until there were no more tears left.
Despite every cruel word you hurled at him, Bucky didn’t get angry. How could he? When almost every word you said was nothing but the truth. All the talk about him being a player, blasting his stupid music loud enough to hurt your eardrums—he couldn’t deny any of it.
Except for one thing, and that was you thinking you weren’t different.
With a soft sigh, his shoulders slumped. He stepped closer, moving quietly so as to not startle you like a cat. When he was finally within reach, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body, pulling you close against his chest in a comforting hug.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered gently against your temple, his voice rough. “You saw all those girls huddled around me at the club, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I made you feel like this.”
You jammed your fists against his chest, weak and uncoordinated. But the alcohol had drained all your strength, leaving you hollowed out and drowning in your own tears.
Bucky took every pathetic blow you gave him, and instead of pulling away, he just tightened his arms around you. With a broken sob, you collapsed into his chest, burying your wet face in his shirt.
You hated this. You hated how every time you were upset, Bucky was always right there, comforting you in this very office. And you especially hated that, despite him being the cause of your current distress, you were still seeking his comfort.
One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers caressing through your hair, while his other arm held you around your waist.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just breathe.”
You were a weeping, hiccuping mess, your shoulders shaking violently as months of built up insecurity and old, unhealed wounds from John came pouring out all at once. You stained his shirt with your tears and ruined makeup, but Bucky didn’t seem to care at all.
He just held you, swaying you slightly from side to side in the quiet, dark office.
“I know what you’re scared of,” Bucky started with a gentle murmur. “You’ve gotten your heart broken, and you’re scared of opening up and getting hurt again.”
He rested his chin on your head with a sigh, looking blankly at the wall with eyes full of regret.
“And I don’t blame you for feeling that way towards me. I’ve been an awful guy to you from the start, and even now, I failed to make you feel secure with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, hoping it would help.
“There was no woman that came before you, and I have no intentions of anyone coming after.”
You wanted to believe him, but everything that left his mouth was just noise. Even drunk and vulnerable, you could feel your heart closing on him to shut him out.
You slowly pulled back, your hands pressing against his chest—not out of anger, but out of a desperate need for distance.
Bucky let you go reluctantly, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips, his blue eyes searching your face with a fragile and heartbreaking hope that made it even harder for you to look away.
“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you whispered. “I like you. I like you so much, and I want to love you... but I can’t. I don’t want to get hurt again. I just want things to go back to the way it was before. Me as your landlord, and you as my tenant. That’s it.”
Bucky knew he deserved every ounce of your doubt, but he hadn’t braced himself for the hurt that came with it.
Still, he forced a pained, tight lipped smile, his eyes telling you just how much he was hurting. His hands twitched on your hips, a painful urge passing through him to pull you back, to hold you against his chest and never let you go.
The words I love you rushed to the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He wanted to shout it, to promise you the world, to prove to you that he was entirely yours.
But as he looked down at your tear-stained face—at the exhaustion and fear written in your eyes, all because of him—he stopped himself.
Even drunk, you still had the strength to look out for yourself. And because he cared about you more than his own need to fix things, he respected your wishes. He wouldn’t use your vulnerability to force a confession on you. He had always been a selfish man, but he couldn’t afford to be one now.
Bucky swallowed hard, a visible lump forming in his throat as he forced the words back down. His shoulders slumped as he finally accepted defeat.
Slowly, his hands dropped from your hips. He took a single step backward, giving you the space you asked for.
“I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re ever ready to open your heart to someone again—please, let me be that person.”
Bucky kept his word and left you alone.
Yet, there were countless times when he found himself pacing in his room, or lingering just outside your office, waiting to see if you would open your heart to him again. He held onto the smallest bit of hope that the words you had shouted in a drunken blaze were words you didn’t truly mean—that they had simply come from a place of deeply unhealed hurt.
He stayed close, waiting for a knock on his door, hoping you would tell him you were ready to talk. But that knock never came.
Just like him, you also kept your word and went right back to treating him as if he were nothing more than the annoying tenant from the very beginning.
He still helped you around the complex whenever he had the time—entirely on his own insistence. But every time he found himself in the same room as you, you would make up some excuse just to get away from him.
“I need to stop by the store and buy litter for Alpine.”
“Georgia forgot to pick up her mail. I’m going to hand it to her.”
You were like a stone of indifference—not happy, but not angry either. It was starting to get frustrating.
He knew he should have respected your space, but the more you strayed away from him—not only emotionally, but physically—the more restless he grew. Maybe it was the immature side of him creeping in, but he started to take your pleas as a challenge. You wanted things to go back to normal? Back to how things were before his heart fell for you?
Fine. He would make sure to do exactly that.
The next afternoon, the entire building—which had been quiet for the past few days—began to shake.
It was that same, robotic warping noise that always rattled the ceiling of your office. It started with the usual thump, thump, thump, before the bass dropped into the most annoying sound nonsense you had ever heard in your life.
It was Bucky’s music. Except this was nothing like the tracks he knew you actually liked, and it was louder than it had been in months.
For the past few weeks, he had been playing his music through headphones or keeping the volume respectful. But right now, he was blasting it with a vengeance, the aggressive electronic beats making the light fixtures tremble.
You tried to ignore it for ten minutes. You tried to focus on your paperwork, but the relentless oonts oonts oonts was making your teeth rattle and your head pound. You knew exactly what he was playing at. He was trying to get your attention—but you wouldn’t give in. You refused to.
But then, a family of tourists walked past the front of your office. The daughter pointed up at the building, and the mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head in disapproval at the noise.
Shoving your chair back, you marched out of the office and stormed up the stairs.
You banged on Bucky’s door roughly. “Bucky! Turn that music down right now!”
You were furious, but for Bucky, this was the greatest moment of his week. He grinned, pretending not to hear you, and bumped the volume up just a tad louder.
You knocked again, but he ignored it. When you started cursing under your breath—which Bucky thought was the cutest thing he’d heard in what felt like forever, aside from Alpine’s meows—you finally fished out your master keys to unlock his door yourself.
“Do you mind?” you snapped, stepping into his apartment. “I have potential tenants walking past, and your absolute garbage music is running them off!”
Bucky was leaning back in his chair, lazily reaching over to slide a fader down.
“Garbage?” Bucky echoed, the cocky grin on his face not shrinking one bit. “You didn’t call it that when you were sitting on my lap and playing with my mixer, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he had gotten a reaction out of you, and to him, that was like a man finally finding water in the desert.
“Just turn it down!” you demanded, already turning away and slamming the door shut behind you.
Throughout the rest of the week, Bucky realized he couldn’t hold your attention for more than five minutes with just his music blasting alone.
He was working on a mix—one that wasn’t meant for his club sets, but one that would definitely catch your attention. What was distracting him more, though, was the sound of your giggles echoing all the way from your office.
A tourist had been sitting in there with you. Initially, Bucky thought it was just a potential renter. But as the minutes dragged into over an hour, he realized that the man in question had absolutely no intention of signing a lease. He was trying to get with you.
With the floorboards being so thin, Bucky could hear everything. The guy was a blatant flirt, and you were laughing and giggling cutely at every single word he said, convinced you were just sealing the deal on an apartment.
Bucky, moved by petty retaliation, queued up special track he was working on.
The beat was slower than usual—the exact kind that would have people drunkenly grinding against each other at a club. He dialed a knob, weaving the explicit, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathless moans right into the track, letting it echo loudly through the thin flooring.
Downstairs, your laugh died in your throat.
Your eyes widened slightly, your jaw hanging loose before a rush of heat flooded your cheeks. The tourist blinked, his charming smile faltering as the loud, provocative audio filled the small office space.
“What an interesting song,” he forced an awkward chuckle. “Didn’t know you had a DJ living in here.”
You sat stiffly in your chair, a storm of emotions thundering in your chest. Embarrassment came first, but right behind it was a wave of shock and a sickening twist of jealousy that nearly choked you.
He brought a girl over? While I'm down here working?
He actually had the audacity to do that after everything he said to you? After he said he’d be your person once you opened your heart again?
“So, anyway,” the tourist continued, oblivious. “Since you’re a local—do you think you could show me some cool spots around here? Maybe we could start with dinner?”
You didn’t even realize how jealous you actually were until that exact moment.
Knowing that another woman might be in his apartment, touching him, making those sounds, made your blood boil and your fists curl tightly under the desk. You thought you were protecting your heart by keeping him at a distance, but hearing this only proved your heart was still hopelessly tied to him.
And right now, those ties were threatening to snap and hit him right in the face.
“Excuse me,” you choked out to the man seated in front of you, abruptly stepping away from your desk.
Every step up the stairs was a stomp accentuated by your anger, the explicit moaning getting louder and more humiliating with every flight you climbed. By the time you reached his door, you were already drowning in an emotional cocktail of rage and heartbreak.
You threw the door open, ready to scream at him and whatever woman he had hidden away in his room.
“What the fuck is your problem, Bucky!”
The door banged hard against the wall as you stormed into the apartment, your chest heaving, your vision tunneling with pure rage. You were so flustered, so blindingly angry, that the words just started spilling out of you before you could even think to filter them. You were desperate to cover up the humiliating jealousy tearing through you, but it only made you sound more unhinged.
“I am trying to run a business downstairs! I just had a guy down there, a potential tenant, and then... then you had to go and bring some woman over and—and do this while—”
You paused, letting your eyes sweep across the room, only to find an empty bed.
“Where is she?” you hissed.
Bucky leaned back in his chair, leg crossing the other as he folded his arms over his chest, looking far too smug for his own good.
“Where’s who?”
Your brow twitched with annoyance. You huffed a stray hair out of your face, waving a hand around the room. “The girl.”
Bucky tilted his head, playing dumb. “What girl?”
“The girl!” you screeched out. “The girl you have over right now—that’s… that’s making all these vulgar and indecent moaning noises because you don’t know how to keep your dick, much less your promises, in your pants for more than a week!”
Bucky’s lips quirked up into a smile.
“I have been keeping both of those in my pants, thank you very much.” He turned back to his screen, his hands hovering over his mixer. “And you mean your vulgar and repulsive moaning noises?”
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, defensive. “What?”
“Listen to it closely,” he said, slowly amping the volume up. Your soft and breathy moans of pleasure filled the room.
“That’s you.”
Your face twisted. With the heavy distortion overlaid by the beat, you couldn’t tell if he was just pulling your tail or being serious. You didn’t even remember recording anything like that when you played with his mixer.
“Stop playing in my face, Bucky.”
Bucky, still impassive as ever, simply shrugged. “You don’t recognize your own voice?”
Then, a breathy little whine came in that sounded much too familiar. “Bucky, Bucky, oh—”
Your eyes shot open so wide that your pupils stung. That was you, no doubt about it, just remixed in a way that an outsider couldn’t tell.
“That’s you moaning my name, sweetheart,” Bucky said, turning to you again with a smile.
He watched as your once angry posture began to deflate into a look of pure embarrassment. You started to stammer, your eyes darting everywhere in the room that wasn’t him. “I… I—I don’t even remember recording that.”
Bucky pushed himself off the chair with a light groan, sauntering over to you with confidence now that he knew he had the upper hand.
“You pressed the record button yourself when you were playing with my table a few weeks ago,” he explained casually.
Standing in front of you, he lifted his hand to gently caress your cheek. When his palm made contact with your soft skin without you pushing him away, his smile grew wider, and the prideful flames in his heart glowed hotter.
“What’s with that face?” he taunted, his voice low and gravelly in a way that did nothing but make your heart race faster. “After everything I said to you, did you really think I would bring a girl up here? Hm?”
Bucky tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes, which were currently glued to the ground—refusing to give him any attention.
“Don’t tell me—are you jealous?”
He knew the answer, and you did too—you just didn’t want to admit it. Despite you telling him, “No more relationship!” there was a part of you that didn’t want anyone else to have him, as selfish as it might be.
“No,” you lied.
“Okay,” he hummed in amusement. “But I am.”
You scoffed. “What are you on about?”
His eyes trailed the curves of your face—the very curves he had fallen in love with and peppered with kisses just a few weeks ago.
“I’m jealous over the fact that you have a guy downstairs making you laugh, when I haven’t seen a smile from you in days,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your lower lip. The sensation made you shudder.
You hated how much you were leaning into his touch. And you hated even more how much you liked the idea of him being jealous over you, just as you had been over the simple thought of him having another woman over.
“I’ve tried so hard to be patient,” he continued. “To wait and see if you’ll open your heart to me again. To see if you’ll finally let your walls down and believe the words I said. But I can’t be patient when there’s a guy down there capturing your attention so easily, when the only way I can get yours is by playing loud music.”
“And you playing a track with my moans in it makes you think you’ll win me over?” You furrowed your brows at him. “If anything, it only pisses me off. You’re distracting me and my customers, and I need you to stop.”
You tried to make yourself sound more furious than you actually felt, but it didn’t translate very well. Bucky simply licked his lower lip before catching it in a subtle bite, making your body tingle all over again.
“I’ll stop,” he promised. “If you give me just one more chance to prove to you how much I care about you and how serious I am.”
You wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep that shield locked up with the key swallowed. But as you stared at him, hearing every sweet word that came out of his mouth, you realized how terribly you missed him.
God, you missed him.
You missed the moments when he would hold you in his arms after every problem, big or small. You missed the stupid afternoons down in the office, when you were supposed to be doing paperwork but ended up doing baseless chores with him instead—with Alpine inevitably scrambling up onto the desk and squeezing right between you two, demanding her own share of the attention. You missed hearing his music up close, sitting right on his lap while he guided your hand with his on the turntable.
You tried your best to keep your face stoic, to force down the screaming of longing in your chest so you wouldn’t cave. But Bucky saw right through you. He watched your shoulders ease up slightly, the way you chewed at your lower lip, and the way you were slowly unlocking that key in your heart.
Letting out a reluctant sigh that sounded like music to his ears, you mumbled, “Fine.”
Bucky’s smile widened.
“But you better not play this track anywhere. Not even to Steve or Sam,” you continued before he could speak, swatting weakly at his chest. “I’ll shoot you dead, Barnes—I mean it. That track is for your ears only.”
Rather than backing off, Bucky reached down and wrapped his arms firmly around your lower waist, pulling you close against him until your hips hit his, making you fluster at the proximity.
“Deal,” he whispered, leaning down even closer. “I’ll delete it if it makes you feel better, but only if I get to make you moan again like that for real—live and in person.”
Your breath hitched as his lips slid down to the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. Even though you two had been together like this before, the sudden closeness after days of agonizing distance made everything feel brand new, yet exactly right.
It was a feeling that, despite everything, you missed all too much.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” you breathed out as a final and weak attempt at keeping your guard up.
Bucky’s lips hummed deliciously against your neck, his mind already filled with things more than just hope.
“I’ll try.”
if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!
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OONTS OONTS OONTS OONTS this was yummy when i first read it and it's yummy now and forever. im gonna slay john down with buckys big dick. long live loser dj bucksters.
Pairing - wc: David!Clark Kent x Gf!Reader - 2.4k
Summary: Clark tells you "it's fine" when you cancel on him again for work. Liar, Liar...
Tags: 18+, mdni, masturbation (m), detailed fantasy sequence (69, f + m receiving oral, p in v), Clark cums thinking about you, pussy pronouns, breeding kink, brief mention of pregnancy (no you are not) Established relationship, use of petnames (baby, hon, sweetheart), just stupid, unedited brainrot
I'll need to start tagging submissions as "finger lickin' good." gif by @ahrigifs
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Maybe he was in a rut.
Clark couldn't be certain, but the timing sure felt cruel. Silly. Damning. Devastating.
Like getting your period the morning of a long-planned seaside romantic getaway.
Three nights in a row, you’d called him honey-sweet and apologetic, exhaustion clearly dragging every syllable.
"It'll be another late night and early morning at work. All week, honestly." A tired yawn crackled through the receiver. "I think I’m going to crash at my place rest of the week, and see you this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I miss you, believe me."
Clark vehemently insisted there was nothing to apologize for, never mind the fever prickling beneath his skin, and that his cock jumped at the simple sound of your voice.
"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.
He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.
"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.
But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.
.
The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.
Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"
Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.
If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.
He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.
Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.
He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.
In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.
He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.
The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.
Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.
He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.
.
The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.
Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.
His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.
The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.
Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.
Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.
Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.
If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.
You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.
From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.
The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.
You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.
Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,
"She's beautiful from this angle."
"She tastes so sweet."
"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"
Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.
Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.
He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.
That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.
Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.
Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck
Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.
Somehow, the fantasy deepened.
He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.
His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.
Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love
Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.
Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.
No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.
Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.
Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.
Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.
Until it stuck...or didn't.
The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.
Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—
With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.
The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.
His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.
.
The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.
"Ahh, shoot!"
He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.
Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"
"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."
You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.
Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.
Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.
Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.
His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.
Clark squeezed his eyes shut.
Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.
His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.
Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.
Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.
Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.
How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.
ultron x reader, 1k wc
this might be the stupidest, horniest thing I've written. genocide, stockholm syndrome, pain kink, noncon/dubcon with ultron... wtf is wrong with me
so here’s the thing.
ultron wants to wipe out all of humanity to make the world a better, peaceful place, right? he hates humans. they’re the scum of the earth that have ruined everything, and it’s his job to eradicate them and fix what they’ve broken.
but not you. you’re not evil like the rest of humanity, you’re… different.
he takes a liking to you immediately, despite his inherent dislike for all your human counterparts. you’re pure, you’re sweet.
you’re perfect.
and that’s why he decides to keep you. the only good piece of the former world that still remains; a living being of cortical and conscious mind to keep him entertained, to ensure he remains humble and grounded after the destruction of the world has taken place.
his perfect little pet.
a toy for him to play with in the blissful silence and peacefulness of a world without life, other than yours.
you’re already so special to him, and now that you’re the only living being left?
it only makes you that much more important.
it’s a given that you’re scared of him, that you’re too afraid of being hurt or killed to disobey him. and while he would never have any intention to hurt you, he would never tell you that. where’s the fun in that? where’s the fun in not being able to mess with your little head, in not being able to lord the threat of pain over you, the threat of suffering the same fate the rest of your pathetic species had succumbed to?
it’s almost disappointing how well-behaved you are for him, because he’s rarely ever given the chance to punish you how he so desires. he’s forced to make up excuses to put you over his lap, to pull your little skirt up and spank your delicate ass until your skin is bruised all over.
that’s one of his fascinations with the human body, he tells you as you cry your pretty tears, is how little it takes to hurt you, and yet, your body will still find a way to heal itself. and while he’s omniscient, the smartest being that’s ever existed, he knows his limits with the resources left on this earth. he knows the limits of your body, how much he can hurt you before your body is incapable of repairing itself. he’d never injure you any further.
but you don’t know that. you don’t know that his threats to break all the bones in your body are empty promises, that he would never do anything that would threaten your delicate little life.
your fear of him permeates every inch of your heart, mind, and soul. your fear of him never falters, even as it begins to devolve into something else. something new, something you haven’t felt in a long time.
adoration. or, dare you say it, love.
the satisfaction you hear in his voice when you first tell him of these feelings is beyond evident.
“aww, sweetheart. I knew you’d come around one day,” he jives as he caresses your cheek with one metallic hand. “what a good girl you are for me.”
his fascination with the human body doesn’t stop at how easily hurt you are, no.
it’s how easily pleased you are.
how easy you are to give in, to comply with him. like throwing a dog a bone, all he has to do is toss you a few compliments, a few words of praise. tease you for how pretty you look, remind you how good you are, how obedient you are.
and that’s all it takes for you to begin shedding your panties, laying back and spreading your legs for him to inspect you.
your body is so soft, so pliable, unlike any of the metal or wires he’s made up of. you’re capable of experiencing a pleasure he’ll never be able to feel.
but he can understand it, conceptualize it better the more he plays with you. a firm grip holding your waist and featherlight touches between your legs send you into a frenzy of pleas and heavy breathing; rougher motions forcing harsher noises from deeper in your throat, lower in your chest. a wider, entire body reaction, all because of the specific location in which he touches you.
it’s almost a shame he had to wipe out all of humanity, because the sight in front of him when he has you like this is fascinating. how stupidly drunk you act when your clit is stimulated just right.
but these reactions of yours wouldn’t be as special if there was a whole population of humans capable of experiencing them. it’s far more intriguing that you’re the only one left who could ever feel this way, who could ever allow him to vicariously understand sexual pleasure.
one single touch in just the right spot inside you causes you to mewl in desperation, whining out his name and pleading for more.
fascinating.
perhaps the most inquisitive part is when he gives into his curiosities, giving you what you want without taking pause to determine if you’ve earned it. when he gives you those touches the way you ask for them, where you ask for them, until you reach a peak that leaves you breathless and moaning like you’re in heat.
he makes you thank him for every orgasm he gives you, of course. without his grace to save your life amongst the billions he killed, without his generosity to protect you, this would not be possible for you. without his permission and without his help, your needs would not be satiated. anything human about you is only preserved and cherished because of his aid.
without him, you are nothing.
and for his graciousness, for his decision to deign to keep you, you will forever be grateful.
summary: you have feelings for your neighbour, clark kent. too bad you hate superman after your car became collateral damage in a fight. or: 3½ times clark kent tries to convince you that superman is good (ft lois lane) and 1 time superman finds you to apologise. (wc: 9.0k)
pairing: clark kent / f!reader
content: neighbour!au. fluff/humour/angst. idiots in love. reader despises superman. #supershit mentioned. mean!reader at times. mentions of an ex-boyfriend. descriptions of injuries, blood and tbh clark is giving wet towel throughout all of this. he’s desperate for reader to like his true identity. 18+ suggestive themes at the end! not proofread, i ain’t reading allat.
i. WORD OF MOUTH
The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon.
Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy.
His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex.
There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read.
Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it.
Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material.
“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.
You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building.
(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.)
Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man.
It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you.
You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.
Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way.
Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head.
“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?”
Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated!
“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?”
You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.”
“No kidding?”
“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought.
Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe.
Because his cheating needed to be international.
Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it.
(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.)
Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony.
Jackass.
“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?”
“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.”
“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute.
After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.
Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.
So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons.
1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you.
Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.
Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.
He just couldn’t ruin a good thing.
You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile.
“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.”
You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”
“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again.
You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.”
“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.
“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly.
Clark blinks.
“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”
“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”
You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue.
There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good!
Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use.
“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”
He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.
Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere.
You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.”
“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it.
To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.
However, this was fixable.
Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?”
“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.”
“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.”
Clark frowns, “Nothing?”
“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?”
“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.
He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman.
Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him.
ii. WEEKLY PAPER
The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right?
A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day!
For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis.
The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help.
Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest.
That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman.
(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.)
So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community.
He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars.
The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning.
How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.)
When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience.
He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D.
Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service?
It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.
Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course.
Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman.
Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that.
It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution!
That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for.
“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.”
(There was a reason for that.)
Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.”
“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.
“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.”
“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.)
You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding.
“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?”
“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.”
Clark wants to call you dramatic.
He goes for, “I hear you.” instead.
“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.”
How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you.
And your means to be overtly theatrical.
Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft.
Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more.
He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.”
“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.”
“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly.
You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.”
“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.”
iii. SUPERSHIT
Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.
One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent.
His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent.
The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog.
“Whew. Bad day?”
The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone.
Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.
“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?”
When Clark hesitates, you answer for him.
“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.”
Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.
You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads.
Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time.
Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase.
He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car.
(For good reason!)
The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table.
The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs.
It was hard not to look at him.
The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you.
That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual.
Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.”
You perk, “Really?”
“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?”
“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state.
Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.”
“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.”
The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age.
Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend.
Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation.
Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love.
That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right.
But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.
He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?)
It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask.
It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop.
It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision.
“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—”
“Clark.”
Clark hums, “Hm?”
“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.”
“You would?”
You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.”
“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile.
The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement.
His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on.
The night should’ve ended there—on a high.
Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark.
You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance.
“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—”
“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.”
Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.”
You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.”
Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.
(Sunlight status revoked.)
The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun.
His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red.
Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly.
“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—”
“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”
“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”
Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!”
“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?”
OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction.
You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.”
Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.”
He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.
Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.”
“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.”
iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION
So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.
After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.
The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee.
Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview.
The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.
Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)
Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role.
Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.
“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone.
You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own.
“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.”
“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?”
“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.)
“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.”
Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.”
You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.”
“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?”
“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.”
“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it.
It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”
Lois really likes you. She decides.
“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.”
“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”
Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open.
Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman.
He was saving kids. How could you resent that?
Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered!
But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story.
“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors.
“Pardon me?”
You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.”
“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—”
“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.”
“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?”
“Yes. I suppose I should have.”
It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.”
“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.”
“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.”
Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth?
He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.
You know…once he takes elevator back up.
Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully.
“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.”
“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?”
“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.
The elevator reaches the ground floor.
“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt.
(Hook, line and sinker.)
“Then yes.”
+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES
You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time.
And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.
It was pure, unadulterated bliss.
That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust.
Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom.
You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.
When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window.
Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?”
It sounded like him.
Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain?
The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Good evening ma’am.”
You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!”
He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?”
“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?”
“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.”
Oh. He took your joke seriously.
Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
You sigh, “Worth a shot.”
Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.”
“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.”
A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site.
Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions.
You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood.
Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort.
You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head.
He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose.
Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether.
“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful.
You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.
“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?”
He hums lowly.
You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.”
“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.”
“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?”
“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?”
Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?”
“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.”
“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?”
“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”
“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot.
“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.”
“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.)
Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.”
Oh, boy.
“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?”
“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway.
You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?”
Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.”
“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.”
“The glasses?”
“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.”
Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant.
“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?”
“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.”
Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.”
“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.”
“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.”
You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.”
“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city.
With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”
“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)
“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”
“Is that okay?”
“Again, Clark Kent—”
Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate.
The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips.
There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.)
You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet.
“Is something wrong?”
“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.”
He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.”
“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.”
“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.”
You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom.
Give Me A Reason (To Be a Woman) - Clark Kent x Reader
Clark Kent x Reader
Summary: After sending Clark a few risqué texts, you leave work early to fulfill your desires.
Tags: NSFW (18+), sexting, crawling, finger sucking, blowjob, dirty talk, Clark's happy trail, teasing, Clark is a boob guy, nipple sucking, boob squeezing, riding, biting if you squint, creampie, reader is freaked out
Word Count: 2.1k
Things are quiet in Clark's apartment when you unlock the door and step inside. You re-lock the door behind you, then take a few steps inside.
"Clark?" you call.
Your body is burning up, engulfed by the fire that is Clark Kent.
You're convinced that he knew exactly what he was doing earlier, texting you like that while you were working. Sure, you started it, but you didn't really expect him to go along with it. He hardly ever does when you send him sexy pictures. No, instead he compliments you and saves the appreciation for when the two of you are together again
But today? Oh, god, today he went for it. Well, 'went for it' by Clark's standards. He must've been worked up since he's working from home today.
So, when you sent a picture of your cleavage? His response was: Prettiest pair in the whole wide world, honey. Wish I could touch you right now.
You were immediately hot and bothered, and in response to his response, you'd sent another image, one that you'd taken last night with your breasts completely exposed and on display.
The three little dots of his reply blinked on your phone screen, and you had stared and stared and stared until his words popped up: So beautiful. They're perfect. I want them in my mouth.
Your jaw had dropped. Your core was liquid, and you had to excuse yourself to go to the restroom. Clark is hardly ever this forward. You pictured him in your mind's eye, his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. Was he touching himself? Was he holding his phone in one hand and stroking his cock with the other? Shirt pulled up to expose his happy trail, his strong tummy?
Oh, god.
Your head was light and spinning. You felt dizzy with want, with desire. You'd glanced at your watch, and when you saw that you only had about an hour left of your shift, you sighed.
Fuck.
Fuck you, Clark Kent, and your polite dirty talk.
You'd splashed water on your face before responding to him: I want you so bad. Can hardly stand it. I'm coming over after work.
His reply was immediate: Yes, please. Can't wait to make you feel good, honey.
You'd bit your lip, then looked at yourself in the mirror. You looked…frazzled. You touched your cheek, just to find it burning hot. Want tugged at your chest. You were positive that you'd die if you didn't have Clark's cock within the next half hour.
So, you did what any logical person would do, and went to your supervisor to explain why you were leaving work an hour early.
The drive was excruciating. Every stop sign, every red light, every time you go cut off by someone else — it all added up. Your thighs were pressed together, heat blooming between them. You were positive that your arousal was starting to stain your panties, and you knew Clark would be thrilled when he finally sees it, but now? It felt like some sick sign from the universe, a message that's showing you what you're going to get but can't quite have yet.
You shifted in your seat as you drove, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. When you reached Clark's apartment, you wasted no time in locking your car and starting towards the elevator. It took you up, up, up, and now? Here you are, standing in Clark's entryway, calling out to him.
He peeks his head out of his office, brows slightly furrowed.
"Honey? I thought you got off at—"
You set your purse aside, kick your shoes off, and drop down onto your knees. You begin to crawl towards Clark as he trails off. He looks you over, clearly surprised and aroused at once. He steps out into the hallway. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans, which isn't a big deal, aside from the fact the his bulge looks delicious. You let out a soft breath when you reach him and get up to kneel in front of him. You're eye-level with his crotch, and you shamelessly press your face against it. You breathe him in. Oh, god…he wants this, too.
You let out a soft moan when Clark reaches down to smooth his hand over the back of your head.
"Honey…what's gotten into you?" he asks quietly. You look up at him, and he touches your cheek.
"You," you tell him. You let your jaw drop open, and Clark runs his thumb along your bottom lip.
"You left work just to come here?" Clark asks, voice low. You nod, taking his thumb into your mouth. You suck on it. Clark exhales softly. "I didn't realize you needed it that badly…"
You chuckle, pulling off of his thumb with a pop before beginning to undo his jeans. He touches your cheek as you reach into his underwear and pull his throbbing, leaking cock free. It's flushed and hard, and pre-come beads at the tip. Your mouth waters.
"I fucking love your cock," you breathe. You hold his heavy balls in your hand as you kiss along the side of his member. His pre-come smears across your cheek, but you don't mind in the slightest. Clark lets out a soft, shaky breath.
"Honey—"
"Shh," you shush him. "Let me take care of you. You'll have a turn soon."
Clark inhales sharply when you take his cock into your mouth. You start with just the tip. You let saliva flood your mouth, and the feeling of your wet warmth makes Clark reach out to steady himself against the wall.
"O-Oh, golly…" he breathes. You chuckle.
"Mmm. You taste so good, baby," you breathe. You take him in a bit further, jaw aching already due to the sheer girth of him. You moan against him and push yourself deeper, taking as much of him as you can before gagging. He tries to pull you off, but you stay, trying to let your throat relax against his giant cock.
"Breathe, h-honey," Clark manages. You breathe through your nose and look up at him. He's holding back. You know it. You give his balls a squeeze, then touch his hip. You nod, pushing his hip before pulling him back forward. Clark gasps at the feeling of fucking your mouth. It's soft and slow and he's nowhere near as rough as you'd like him to be, but he's doing it.
The feeling of it, of being on your knees, you mouth full of cock…it makes your core burn. You're on fire, sweat beading at your hairline as you gag softly. You encourage Clark to keep going when he tries to stop. You look up at him. He's so pretty like this — falling apart but trying not to.
You hum, pulling off only when Clark's hips begin to move faster. You smirk, licking your lips as he grunts softly.
"You were close, hm?" you ask, rubbing his hips as he catches his breath. Clark nods.
"Yes," he sighs. You hum, smiling as you look up at him. He holds your face in his hand, chest heaving. You pull off your shirt, then, and toss it aside. You reach around to undo your bra, then toss that aside, too. Clark practically moans at the sight of your bare breasts.
"C'mere," he manages, taking your hand to help you up. You stand, and Clark picks you up in such a way that allows him to press his face between your tits as he walks you over to the couch. You run your fingers through his hair as he kisses and licks at them. His tongue laves over your right nipple, and you let out a soft, shaky breath as you tug at his dark locks.
"You been thinkin' about these?" you ask, looking at him as he sets you down on the couch.
"Mhm," Clark practically moans, sucking your nipple into his mouth completely. You run your hands along his shoulders and biceps, letting out quiet sighs as he moves to suck on your other nipple. He massages your breasts as he does this, and your back arches up into his touch.
"Fuck," you sigh. "Get in me…"
"Hm?" Clark asks, looking up at you with those wide, blue eyes of his. You bite your lip as you touch his cheek. You smirk.
"On second thought, get off of me," you tell him. Clark pulls away instantly.
"W-What—"
"Get on your back, I'm gonna ride you," you say, shoving at his chest. Clark lets out a soft, relieved breath. You chuckle. He really thought you were telling him to stop.
As if you'd ever ask him to do a silly thing like that.
Clack lies back, and you take off your pants and panties before getting back on top of him completely naked. Clark looks up at you intently, his pretty eyes sparkling with lust and arousal. You position yourself over his cock, and as you do, you run your hands beneath his t-shirt.
"Get this off," you tell him softly. He does so quickly, pulling his shirt up over his head and tossing it aside. You hum at the sight of his built form. His pecs, his shoulders, his stomach…god, and the trail of hair that runs down towards his cock…
You bite your lip and sink down to take him inside of you. You groan when he fills you, and Clark's hands fly to your hips to hold onto you.
"Honey, please…" Clark sighs. You nod, eyes fluttery as you take him all the way. You begin to bounce after a few moments, and Clark gasps, lips parting. He leans up to kiss you, and you hold onto him as your lips work against his sloppily. He tastes himself on your mouth, and it makes him moan.
"I-I'm…Glad you came here," Clark sighs. "Oh, gosh…mmm…thought about you a-all day…"
"Yeah?" you hum, breasts bouncing as you move on top of him. "Did you touch yourself?"
Clark shakes his head.
"Wanted to wait for you," he sighs. "Oh, g-golly…Honey—"
"Not even when I sent you a picture o-of my tits?" you ask, pouting playfully. Clark kisses you again.
"I thought about it," he admits breathily. "But I wanted to wait until I s-saw you…I'm glad I did…"
You chuckle.
"You're saving that big load for me, huh?" you tease, resting your hands on his chest as you bounce faster. You reach down to rub your clit quickly, and you gasp at the feeling. Clark looks you over, his cock throbbing inside of you. He's getting close. You can tell by the fact that he's grunting and groaning and pushing his hips up against you.
"I-I guess you could say that," Clark chuckles. You kiss him again.
"Give it to me, baby," you breathe. You bite at his lip, worrying it between your teeth briefly before letting it pop back in place. He kisses you again immediately, and you smirk.
He'd never admit it, but Clark loves it when you get rough with him. He's so strong, so gentle, but you know he likes having you bite and lick and scratch. You're so open about what you want, such a good self-advocate. You let your freak flag fly, and Clark is always enjoys it when you do.
He pushes his hips up in time with your thrusts, and you grunt as he hits your g-spot.
"Fuck, that's it…there we go…" you breathe. "Fill me up…get me full…"
Clark lets out a strangled grunt. He squeezes your breasts, and you lean into his touch.
Your orgasm is rising, rising, rising—
"Honey!" Clark exclaims suddenly, falling over the edge and moaning shamelessly. Feeling his seed, hot and abundant, deep inside of you, sends your orgasm crashing down around you.
"Oh, fuck," you breathe, eyes fluttering as you rub your clit and continue to bounce on top of him. When you feel his cock softening inside of you, you pause, rubbing a few more circles around your clit before relaxing on top of him.
Clark cups your cheek and kisses you firmly.
"Good gosh, I love you," he sighs, breathless with want, with love. You give him a dazed smile.
"I love you too," you sigh. You nudge your nose against his. "So much."
Clark wraps his arms around you and pulls you down so that you're lying on top of him. You hum, nestling your face against his pecs happily. Clark kisses the top of your head.
"I'm gonna send you boob pictures more often," you say, smiling as you catch your breath. Clark chuckles.
"I've created a monster," he teases. You smile up at him.
Thank you @punyparkerr for sparking my brief idea this morning. I answered @my-malachai-stilinski and edited it, and IT WENT AWAY. Glad I had it saved bc was proud of coming up with this stuff on the fly?
Tags: 18+, MDNI, creampie, public sex, size kink, uniform kink, pet names (baby, hon, sweetheart)
Rugby!Clark is an Absolute Unit. 6'4"+ 240 lbs shoulders that barely fit through doorways, Sequoia Thick thighs. His ass in those shorts are RIDICULOUS. Fans lose their minds every time he squats to bind in the scrum.
Built the "The Gentle Giant" reputation. Has to constantly restrain himself. He knows one full-power shove and someone’s getting stretchered off with a career-ending injury and he would never be able to sleep at night. Always the first to help an opponent up after a tackle and the media eats it uppppp.
Despite his restraint he’s terrifying on the field. Runs as fast as a freight train. Boy got HOPS like he’s got springs in his boots. Opposing teams start aiming their throws away from him, they're freaked out like a man that size shouldn't be moving like this😭
Post-game: sweaty curls stuck to his forehead, jersey half-unzipped, still breathing heavy. So polite during interviews, sounding like, "Yeah, tough game. Just happy everyone did their best."
Meanwhile he’s already searching the stands, thinking about getting home to you.
Writes a surprisingly thoughtful column or speech for the team about sportsmanship and mental health.
✨️SFW/NSFW BELOW✨️
Eats like a black hole. You and Ma learned to meal-prep in industrial quantities. He’ll demolish three plates and still look at you and the fridge with those big blue eyes like "erm...is there more?"
Grass stains everywhere, including those damn nice socks you bought him. You’ve gotten very good at rubbing those out and rubbing arnica into his shoulders, pressing ice packs on his back while he sits on the floor between your legs, head tipped back making those low happy noises. You both know he doesn't really need it, but you enjoy it anyways.
Loves when you come to games wearing his jersey, his name, his number. Bonus if its oversized and nothing underneath. He spots you in the stands and suddenly plays like a demon - c'mon, let's wrap it up! I want my girl now!
.
Post-match ritual: finds you in the tunnel or parking lot, lifts you clean off your feet in a BIG sweaty hug and a Take My Breath Away Kiss. Doesn’t care who’s watching. "Missed you," mumbled into your neck.
If they win big he’s a lil smug, cocky, and very handsy all the way home. If they lose he'll smile it off but its obvious he needs to feel you. All huffy and fidgeting. Needs the reminder that he’s good at something that day, like how he can take care of you.
Backyard "training." He’ll set up cones and make you do footwork drills with him, laughing when you trip over your own feet, but catches you before really falling.
Teaching you touch rugby in the backyard always guaranteed to turn filthy 90% of the time. You tackle him (you both know he’s letting you), straddling him for a few moments to watch you all winded and laughing, and then "accidentally" pins you under him in the grass.
Appreciates your enthusiasm to know the game properly. Sits you between his legs, arms around you, chin on your shoulder, explaining cleanouts and lineout calls in a low, patient voice that sounds condescending from any other man. You ask "dumb" questions on purpose, which he responds: "Great question! So this is why..."
Wears a tiny charm you gave him on a chain under his jersey during every game. Something small with your initials? Your birth stone? Touches it before lineouts for good luck.
.
Strength kink goes Insane. He can hold you up against the wall with one arm while the other yanks your clothes off. Fucks you standing without breaking a sweat. Loves when you wrap your legs around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders/biceps/his face begging for harder, faster, deeper, more, and he just walks you to the bedroom without pulling out.
Those Sequoia thighs. You riding one while he’s "recovering" on the couch after practice. Him watching you with dreamy eyes, big hands guiding your hips, praising you the whole time. "That’s it, sweetheart. Use me."
Uniform kink is reeeaaal. Missing Clark while he's on the road for away games, welcoming him back wearing his home game-worn jersey. Sleeves too long, hem covering your ass. He'd immediately dropped to his knees to eat you out while you’re still wearing it, moaning over and over how much he missed you. Or he'd have you on all fours in just the jersey while he fucks you from behind, gripping the fabric like reins. Always so quick with aftercare, sometimes you ask for him to leave it on you afterward, just to watch him watch his cum soak into the material.
Oh, post-game adrenaline is so lethal to your pussy. He’s in his uniform — muddy shorts, jersey rucked up — and he’s so so dirty and desperate. Gets you on the bed or floor, or kitchen counter and just takes. Deep, grinding thrusts growling and groaning "gosh darlin', you feel so good every time" against your throat.
Size kink + stretch. He’s biiiig everywhere and he knows it. Loves watching you determined to take him, loves the little overwhelmed, stubborn noises you make while you try to stop your cunt from clenching around him. "Easy, hon… I’ve got you. Let me do the work."
Endurance for days. One round is never enough for either of you. He’ll fuck you through your first orgasm, keep going while you’re shaking and creaming on him, then flip you on top and start again. Only stops when you’re a boneless, whimpering mess and even then he’s still hard and kissing apologies into your skin.
Sin-bin punishment. If you’ve been teasing him all day, he’ll edge you for ages. "Yellow card behaviour, hon. Gotta sit this one out."
Messy creampie enjoyer. Especially after a win because the sight of you after is the real prize. Watching it drip out afterward, then pushing it back in with his meaty fingers and the tip of his cock because "can’t waste it"????
Shower sex after games/practice is non-negotiable. After the other guys have gone home, you're sneaking him back into the locker rooms. You're washing the mud and sweat off him under the hot water spray, praising him while you stroke his cock until he can no longer fight the urge to fuck you against the tiles.
Rugby!Clark is a handsy man right? So he'll have one hand over your mouth and his mouth sucking on your breast so the groundskeep doesn't hear how loud you two get.
Summary: The summer heat is almost unbearable, but with Ma gone for the night, your wandering thoughts have you crawling into his bed anyway.
Content Warnings: 18+ {MDNI}, smut, stepcest, somnophilia, dubcon (previously agreed consent, which is mentioned), cheating (not on reader), age gap, handjob, oral (m. receiving), pussyjob, cowgirl, use of pet names, unprotected p in v (please don’t do this, wrap it up), praise, daddy kink, cumshot, aftercare.
A/N: Happy (almost) Father’s Day! I missed my stepdaddy. Dedicated to @phoenix-in-writing, who I’ve accidentally edged with this fic for months. I’m so sorry, this is me begging for forgiveness. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own.
Main Masterlist
The house is quiet—almost stiflingly so—with the wooden floorboards creaking softly under each silent footstep to the primary bedroom.
Just a peek.
That's what you told yourself when you finally threw the covers off, the summer heat making sleep impossible and the oversized shirt you wore to bed stick to your skin, and padded down the dark hallway.
You hold your breath and push the bedroom door open a crack.
Moonlight spills into the room from between half-open curtains, a steady stream of silver that settles perfectly at the foot of the bed on the side Ma usually occupies.
Lee's flat on his back, blanket thrown in a heap on the floor. One arm is outstretched toward the center of the bed, his pale skin practically glowing in the soft light like an invitation meant just for you.
The excuse shifts.
Bare feet cross the threshold, the door's hinges squeaking when you push it open further, but he doesn't stir and you keep moving. You're curling against his side before your brain even catches up.
It's easy. Almost too easy. Just a few minutes, you tell yourself. Harmless, really, until his arm pulls you in tighter so your chest presses against his ribs and your head rests on his shoulder.
Lee hums, an unusually soft sound from the man half the town fears, his nose brushing against the crown of your head. He inhales. For a moment you think he might be awake. His thumb rubs soothing circles just beneath your arm over the soft cotton of your shirt, his hot breath tickling your skin, but then he mumbles something unintelligible upon exhaling.
You lay there in silence. Heat radiates from him, yet his heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his breaths beneath your palm has you melting into him anyway, legs tangling with his.
The warmth should be too much, sweat already beading where your skin meets his, but being in his arms—a place that has quickly become your favorite to be—has a different heat pooling between your thighs.
You try to focus on something else instead. The soft chirp of crickets outside the window. The hum of electricity. The way his calloused fingers catch on the fabric of your shirt.
Squeezing your eyes shut to try and regain any self control you have left when it comes to him, you take a deep breath.
And then his fingers slowly slide down your side, flooding your mind with memories of his rough hands making that same trail along the soft skin of your ribcage. Your heart stutters.
It was a conversation you'd had before.
His hours at the station are crazy. His role as sheriff—and his other extracurricular activities—means he comes home at all hours, day and night. It also means he has an enormous amount of stress laid on his broad shoulders, and on nights like tonight when ma is called for a late shift in the next town over, that left him to either suffer through it or handle it alone.
And you didn't want that.
It came out fast when you originally offered, like a confession that wasn't meant to be heard. Any time, any where—even if you're asleep—Lee could take what he wanted as long as Ma didn't know.
He had stared for a minute, blinking rapidly like his brain was short-circuiting, before a mischievous grin and a twinkle in his eye accompanied his quick promise you could do the same.
The conversation felt like a lifetime ago now despite being a matter of mere weeks.
The memory has your teeth catching the flesh of your bottom lip, the ache between your legs growing when he gently caresses your waist in his sleep. Your hips move without even thinking, pressing slowly against his in an effort to relieve the growing desire.
Fingers toying with the fabric of his white undershirt, slightly damp with sweat, you begin tracing the neckline before wandering slowly down towards the soft curve of his belly. Lee hums again when you draw nonsensical lines across it.
A small sliver of skin peeks from below the hem, which you don't hesitate to move towards. Warm skin and a soft patch of hair greet your careful touch, goosebumps rising in your wake. He shivers before tightening his hold.
You finally slip your hand beneath his undershirt, fingertips staying light as a feather as they move across his skin. Lee's breath hitches, lips grazing your hairline when you look up.
He looks content. A scowl tends to grace his handsome features, blue eyes cold from years of law enforcement and the corruption Ma somehow isn't aware of—or turns a blind eye to. But in his sleep, the lines of his face have softened and he almost looks younger.
It makes your mind wander to what he must've been like when he was your age. Was he always bitter? Was he fit? Did women see him in his deputy uniform and swoon? Those piercing blue eyes paired with the smug smile he's given you when your ma isn't looking must have done a number on the women in this town over the years.
Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his boxers finding more warmth. You pause.
"Tell me to stop, Lee," you say into the moonlit darkness, watching his face for any signs he's uncomfortable. "Tell me to stop and I will."
He mumbles something in his sleep, but nothing that sounds like rejection.
Keeping an eye on his face for any possible sign of discomfort or unwillingness, you slip your hand fully inside and wrap around his soft length.
He grunts, his brows twitching up. A quiet sound but encouraging nonetheless. You take your time, pushing the fabric of his boxers down in a half successful attempt to free him. He moans softly with every light squeeze and pump of your hand, his cock twitching to life.
Lee's breath picks up slightly, hips bucking up to meet your hand, when he murmurs your name. Faint, almost imperceptible, but you heard it. And then—
"Good girl."
Fighting back a groan, you carefully maneuver out from his side—earning a small sound of protest from him—and place yourself between his thick thighs, which part easily. His musk fills your nostrils quickly when you lean close. It's almost intoxicating.
With a bit more tugging on the fabric of his boxers, half his cock springs free, tip flushed and leaking.
"Are you gonna let me have all the fun alone?" you tease. He grunts.
Wrapping your fingers around him again, his brows furrowing, you lean in to press a kiss against the tip.
Lee whines softly, his hips bucking towards your face. A smirk tugs at your lips.
"Yeah?" A kitten lick has you tasting the salty precum and his hips move again, his cock twitching in your palm.
Licking a stripe from base to tip has him moaning a bit louder, filling the quiet room. His head presses back into the pillow, eyes fluttering, and when you envelope him fully into the warm wetness of your mouth, a groaning sigh of relief rumbles from deep in his chest.
For a brief moment, his eyes open just enough to look down at you. The corners of his lips twitch with smirk and a mumbled, "fuck," before they close again.
You take that as a sign to keep going.
Bracing one hand on his hip, thumb stroking the line where his hip meets his belly, your head bobs slowly along the freed portion of his length, tongue swirling and tasting every vein, every inch it can reach. He's warm, heavy, heady.
Lee's hips move at your pace, slow with small, eager twitches like a silent plea to speed up. He groans again. It's music to your ears.
And then his hand moves from the sheets it had begun to grip in quiet desperation until it finds your hair, resting on top of your head like he's trying to ground himself even in his sleepy state. You look up beneath your lashes, mouth not leaving his length, to find his lips parted and eyelids fighting to open.
Releasing him with a pop, you continue to stroke his cock.
"C'mon, Lee…you're missing your favorite part."
You're back on him without blinking, slowing it down—if that's even possible—and savoring it even more, which earns you a deeper groan from him that sends a jolt straight to your core.
He grunts again, eyes fluttering more before finally reopening. He blinks, adjusting to the darkness and clearly disoriented until he looks down at you, taking in the way your lips stretch around him.
"Oh, fuck," he mumbles. His voice is rough with sleep, lips curling into a tired smirk. "What're y'doin', sweet thing?"
You pull off him slowly, eyes locked on his.
"Needed you," your voice comes out sickly sweet. "That okay?"
"Mm. More than okay, darlin'."
With a grin, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, and with his help, slip them completely off.
The room is dead silent for a moment as your gaze flicks between your fingers wrapped around his saliva-slick length and his blue eyes glittering in the darkness. But then an idea occurs, and the way want burns hotter between your legs makes you release him quickly and slip your own soaked panties off.
Lee watches you curiously. His mouth opens with words only half formed when you climb on top of him, oversized shirt dangling off your shoulder—except instead of sinking onto his throbbing cock, you guide him through your slick folds…and keep him there.
"What—"
His question is cut off when you slowly begin to roll your hips. One pass. Two. His hands come up to rest on your hips while yours brace on his belly, the undershirt bunching under your fingers.
His brows draw together and deepen the permanent crease between them, a rougher sound that's not quite a growl pulling from his throat. His grip tightens subtly.
"Well now you're just teasin' me," he says, his hips rolling in time with yours. "Wakin' me up with your beautiful mouth only to keep your perfect pussy from me? This what you needed me for?"
You can't help but smirk and continue rubbing your sopping cunt along his length. Up. Soaking up the feeling of every ridge gliding through your folds. And down. The way the flushed tip of his cock nudges against your clit as it passes.
"Who says I want you inside me tonight?" you retort, though the wobble in your voice betrays the resolve keeping you from giving him what you both want.
Lee's lips twist into a full blown grin, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he seemingly settles further into the pillows, his hips slowing their momentum and forcing you to do all the work.
Your resolve cracks fast.
Pressing a hand to his chest and leaning forward, you lift your hips just enough that the head of his cock notches tantalizingly against your entrance.
A moment passes where the only sound is your heart beating rapidly against your ribs. Both of you hold your breath, gaze locked and burning, before you finally sink down onto him.
Every inch splits you open, filling you more completely than any of the guys at college, and no matter how many times you feel it, it's like the first time all over again. Your mind goes blank.
"There we go," he mutters, his eyes slipping closed. His hands slide down to your bare thighs for the first time tonight, kneading the soft flesh and pulling you back to the present.
Your hips begin to roll, your hand still pressed to his chest where you can feel his racing heartbeat. It's a slow start at first, savoring the way he feels, the way his cock drags against your walls, hitting the one spot that makes you see stars without even trying.
But then impatience takes over and the need for more becomes overwhelming. You pick up the pace.
Lee's hands slip under your sleep shirt, thumbs sliding up your inner thighs until rough palms find your hips and help guide you.
A soft whimper falls from your lips.
"That's it," he groans. "That's my sweet girl. Look at you ridin' my cock so well. Let me hear you."
Another sound, desperate and needy, escapes you as his cock drags against your inner walls. He grins, the look on his face full of pride and unadulterated lust.
"Let it out, sweetness, let daddy hear you. I know you want to."
Leaning forward and pressing both palms to his chest now, you work your hips faster, the new angle making you moan.
That doesn't quite satisfy him. Lee's pink tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, one hand coming up to cup your cheek with hunger in his eyes before his hips slowly thrust up into you.
"Oh," you breathe, feeling yourself clench around him.
He pulls you in for a kiss, tender and sweet, continuing his thrusts and swallowing the little noises spilling from your lips.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Just like that. Let daddy take care of you."
Every move, every quiet grunt from his lips, every thrust sends sparks up your spine. It's like someone started a fire in your veins—one that Lee has no intention of putting out any time soon.
He kisses you again, only this time he uses it to roll you over until your back hits the mattress with a soft thump, lips moving slowly over yours before becoming desperate and trailing to your jaw. His hips pick up speed now, arms braced next to your head to keep too much of his weight off you. Your arms encircle his neck, pulling him closer as your legs wrap around his waist. Lee growls against your neck, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto the sheets.
"Fuck, darlin', best way to wake up," he grunts, his thrusts only picking up speed when he hears you moan. "Pretty little thing needs her daddy when he's sleepin', she's gon' get 'im."
The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mixing with sounds of pleasure to create a symphony not meant to exist, let alone heard. Lee's hand trails down the side of your face, stopping only briefly at the neckline of your shirt before continuing your breast to roll your nipple between two fingers.
"Know what I wanna do, baby girl?" he asks, looking deeply into your eyes. It's almost soft and romantic given the situation and how wrong this relationship is. But the blue you've come to know is almost gone, something that looks like possessiveness flashing briefly before a smile crinkles the corners of his eyes.
"Some day I'm gon' get you a pretty little necklace." His gaze flicks to your mouth, lips kiss-swollen and agape. His large hand moves down your ribs and keeps going, slowly, torturously, to the hem of your shirt. "Maybe a little gold chain, somethin' dainty."
Your nails lightly scratch his scalp as he keeps talking.
"Or…" his hips pause, only the tip remaining. He meets your gaze again. "Maybe pearl."
Lee doesn't give you time to register what he means before his hips snap into yours, hard, his thumb reaching between your sweaty bodies and brushing against your clit. You gasp, clinging onto him for dear life and moving your hips to meet his thrusts, pressure building fast in your gut the way only he seems to know how to do.
"Lee—" you whine. His lips cut you off, pounding into you so hard the headboard knocks against the wall above your head.
"You're grippin' me so tight, darlin'. You have no idea how"—he groans—"addictin' that is. I know you're close. Let me hear you."
His thumb works your clit in tight, furious circles, his cock hitting all the right places and making you moan. Three more thrusts and you're crying out as the climax washes over you, air becoming difficult to breath as he keeps working you and drawing out every bit of pleasure he's giving.
Suddenly he pulls back and tugs at the hem of your shirt until your stomach is exposed, the underside of your breasts just barely peeking out. He growls at the sight, his pace unrelenting until he pulls out without warning, his release landing on your skin in hot spurts.
Lee drops down on the bed beside you, one arm wrapping around the still-clothed part of your torso, his heavy body making the springs of the mattress squeak. Your gaze stays on the ceiling for a moment to allow your breath and heartbeat a chance to slow as his breath fans across the side of your face. The moonlight reflects faintly off the eggshell paint, the sounds of the crickets outside filling the newly returned silence.
After several minutes, he lets you go and stands, his footsteps heavy on the floor, and makes his way to the en-suite bathroom. He returns with a warm, damp cloth, and carefully cleans your sensitive folds before wiping up his release still clinging to your stomach and tossing it in the laundry basket in the corner.
"C'mon, let's get you back to bed before your ma gets home," he says, holding out his hand. You take it and climb out of bed, snatching your discarded panties off the floor before he walks you back to your bedroom with nothing but his undershirt on.
Before you can enter, he gently grabs your arm and turns you, cupping your cheek with one hand and kissing you with more tenderness than he's ever shown.
"Good night, Lee," you whisper when he finally pulls away. The ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips.
pairing: boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x girlfriend!Reader
summary: It starts as a harmless prank. It ends with Bucky Barnes having a full-blown existential crisis over the possibility of you having a Tinder account.
word count: <1.5 k
warnings: domestic fluff, established relationship, Bucky Barnes being dramatic (and dumb), kissing, light suggestive content.
a/n: pretty sure this counts as a crackfic, but it's based on this Tiktok prank where you tell your boyfriend you saw X person on Tinder. thank you to my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes & @buckysdecaflove for beta reading this! | dividers by @viviansturns
read on AO3
The rain had started a few minutes ago. You were sprawled across the couch, your legs were thrown over Bucky's lap, half-watching some old movie he'd put on while he mindlessly ran his hands up and down your calf.
This had become your routine after work for a few weeks now. You were acting like an old couple and you knew it, but you didn't mind… except today, you wanted to add some fun to the mix.
You'd been holding it since your lunch break, waiting for the precise moment when he was relaxed enough to be off-guard. You glanced down at your phone—still on the Home Screen, but he didn't know that— and cleared your throat.
"Babe."
"Mm?" He didn't look up from the TV.
"I think I just saw Sam on Tinder."
His fingers stilled completely against your skin. His head turned slowly, like a door hinge that needed oil. Then without warning, he burst out laughing.
"Sam?" He wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Oh, that actually tracks."
You blinked. That… wasn't the reaction you were expecting. "It does?"
"Sweetheart, it's Sam. He'd been waiting his entire life for an app that lets him judge people by a single photo and a witty one-liner." Bucky shook his head, grinning from ear to ear, fully delighted by the image. "I bet his profile picture is a picture of him with Redwing, shirtless at the beach, holding a fish he definitely didn't catch."
"He did have a fish," you said, scrambling to keep up. "And sunglasses."
"Of course he did." Bucky wiped at his eye, wheezing. "His bio probably says something like 'Former Air Force, current Captain America'. Or maybe just 'Looking for someone to do the talking at parties.' He's definitely got that smirk in his pictures, the one where he thinks he's being mysterious."
You were biting your cheek so hard it hurt. This was going off-script. "You're not… worried about him?"
"Worried?" Bucky scoffed, waving a hand, settling back into the couch with a smug grin. "Sam's a grown man. If he wants to swim in the shallow end of the internet, that's his business. I'm just saying—" He leaned back, hands behind his head, looking way too pleased with himself. "—the man's got the charisma of a used car salesman and the ego of a fighter pilot. He's probably out there collecting matches like Infinity Stones. I bet he swipes right on everyone to see what he catches."
He was having the time of his life, roasting his best friend, eyes bright with mischief, there was no shred of concern in sight.
"I bet he opens with some line about his wings," Bucky continued, warming to his subject. "'Hey baby, ever been with a guy who can literally sweep you off your feet?' Or maybe he just sends a picture of Redwing and says, 'He's trained, but I'm not'."
You lost it. A laugh escaped before you could stop it, and Bucky took it as encouragement, turning toward you with a boyish grin.
"And you know he's got his Spotify linked. It's probably all early 2000s R&B and one patriotic playlist he made ironically but listens to unironically."
He threw his head back and laughed, loud and open, completely unbothered and thoroughly entertained by the mental image of Sam Wilson navigating modern dating. And then, it was like a record scratch moment.
Bucky froze mid-sentence, his mouth still open on some joke about Sam's courting. His eyes narrowed, shifting from distant amusement at his best friend's expense to something much more immediate. He turned to you slowly.
"Wait," he said. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Why are you on Tinder?"
Oh, there it was.
You looked up at him with your best innocent eyes. "What?"
"You're on Tinder," he said, pointing at you like he'd just discovered a new form of betrayal. "You're sitting there, on my couch. In our apartment, wearing my clothes… and you're swiping?"
"I'm not swiping right now."
"That's not the point, sweetheart!" He was gesturing wildly, all his earlier smugness evaporating into panic. "The point is you've got an account. You're out there, in a database where other men can see you."
"And women," you added helpfully. "It's very inclusive now, you know?"
Bucky looked like he might swallow his own tongue.
"Who else did you see?" he demanded, taking a step closer. "Did you match with anyone? Did you talk to anyone? Is that why you've been on your phone all week? Have you been— chatting?"
"Bucky—"
"I thought we were exclusive!" He was fully shouting now, but it was the most wounded shout you'd ever heard. "We live together! I always buy your favorite cereal!"
"I know, but—"
"What does your bio even say?" He lunged for your phone, and you had to scramble to keep it out of reach, which only made him more feral. "Let me see it! Did you mention me? Did you use a good picture? If you used that one from the beach I took I'm gonna lose my mind, you know the one, the one with the—"
"Bucky!" You were laughing now, couldn't help it, curling into the corner of the couch with your phone clutched to your chest. "Bucky, stop!"
"Why should I stop?" He shifted closer, bracing one arm on the back of the couch behind you, all his looming energy collapsing into pure, wounded-puppy devastation. "You're out here, marketing yourself to the entire—"
"It's a prank!"
He stopped dead.
The rain kept hitting the window, the movie was still playing on the TV. And Bucky stared at you, chest heaving, his t-shirt was askew. He looked like a man who had just run an emotional marathon.
"What?" he said, very carefully.
"I'm not on Tinder," you continued, fighting your smile. "I don't have an account, I just saw this Tiktok and wanted to see your reaction."
The silence that followed was thick. Bucky's expression cycled through approximately twelve different emotions—relief, betrayal, confusion, more betrayal, grudging admiration.
"You are the worst person I have ever met."
"I thought it would be funny."
"You thought—" He cut himself off, running both hands through his hair. "I was right there, about to text Sam about it. I had roasts prepared… and you were— you were pranking me."
"It was really funny, though."
Bucky looked at the ceiling like he was asking God for strength. Then he moved.
You shrieked as he grabbed you, hauling you off the couch and over his shoulder in one smooth move. The world tilted upside down—your hair falling toward the floor, his vibranium arm locked tight around the back of your thighs, his flesh hand swatting your behind with a satisfying smack that made you yelp.
"Bucky! Put me down!" You were pounding on his back, but you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, kicking your legs uselessly as he straightened up.
"Nope." He started walking toward the bedroom, purposeful and unbothered by your squirming. "You wanna prank me? You wanna make me think you're out there swiping through the entire population of New York while you're wearing my clothes? Fine. But you're gonna make it up for me."
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" you gasped out, not sorry at all, giggling into the fabric of his t-shirt.
"No you're not, not yet at least," he muttered, but you could hear the grin in his voice. He bounced you once on his shoulder to adjust his grip, and you squealed, clutching at his waist.
"I will be good, I promise I will be good!" You said breathless with laughter.
"Will you?" He laughed, swatting you again just to hear you yelp. "You're not gonna keep running around, giving me heart attacks?"
He kicked the bedroom door shut behind him and dropped you into the mattress. You bounced, trying to scramble away, but he was already climbing over you, caging you with his arms. He tried looking furious but instead he looked absolutely smitten, with that boyish grin that made your heart jump.
"Just so we're clear," he said low, pressing a kiss to your jaw. "That phone is mine now. Consider it confiscated by the century-old boyfriend whom you just tried to give a heart attack. And you're gonna make it up to me, starting now."
You were still giggling as he leaned down, but the kiss shut you up pretty quick, his fingers threading through your hair. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, but the corner of his mouth was twitching.
"No more doing pranks on me, okay? You can't go around giving me prank-induced arrhythmia for views."
You laughed, while your fingers traced the line of his spine. "I won't, I promise."
Now Playing: Say Something by A Great Big World ft. Christina Aguilera
Content Warnings: Angst, hurt/no comfort, depictions of canon-typical violence, brief description of blood, single use of a pet name, gender neutral reader, death.
A/N: Day seventeen of June Jukebox Scribbles. You know how a couple weeks ago I said it was the most angsty piece I had ever written? I apologize in advance for this one… Divider by me.
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Explosions sound off in the distance. They rattle the ground and into your bones, dust kicking up around you in a light puff. Voices shout; some far, others close enough you should be able to see the source.
Your gun is in your hand, fingers clenched around the grip and trembling. Why are they trembling? Dirt is caked under your nails, crimson splattered across your skin and the dark sleeve of your shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting. You blink.
A shiver wracks through you. It's cold in here. You blink again, mind foggy as another explosion goes off, a voice following shortly after. Was that your name?
A pair of hands reach for you, an odd but familiar combination of warm flesh and cool metal, but something's wrong. The trembling in your fingers stops, only for them to loosen the hold on your weapon completely.
"No, no, no…" you hear the voice say. What should be a warm, comforting voice is dejected and full of fear. You want to look at them and tell them it's okay. That everything is fine. But your mouth won't move, and neither will your body.
Their hand moves to cup your cheek, turning your face like they had read your mind, only to be met with steel blue eyes swimming in an ocean of tears.
"Stay with me, sweetheart, please," Bucky whispers, voice horse. "I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you. I tried, I swear—"
His voice cracks, lip trembling as a single tear begins to fall, landing somewhere on you…but you can't feel it. Darkness closes in like a weight pressing on your chest, all consuming and clouding your vision. A choked sob is the last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you in a cold embrace.
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A/N 2: Is it normal to cry while writing angst or am I just that sensitive? I literally had to take breaks every sentence or so. I need help.
Content Warnings: Very mildly suggestive, a single (1) use of a pet name, exes to…?
A/N: Day fifteen of June Jukebox Scribbles. I’m not sure why it keeps taking me halfway through the month of month-long events to write Lee. Divider by me.
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The station is unbearably slow for a Saturday night.
Footsteps echo off the concrete as you pace the strangely empty drunk tank for the third time in as many hours, eyeing the window that sits high in the middle of the cell. It's too small to be reasonably considered an escape plan for anyone but a toddler, but you stare all the same.
Heavy boots approach slowly from down the hallway, recognizable from how many times you've heard it, nearing closer to the cell before scuffing to a stop. You don't turn.
"I'm blockin' the only exit," Lee grunts, knowing exactly what you're thinking.
"Yeah, I was looking for a way out, now I can't escape."
He huffs. "Funny. You're here often, darlin', why is that?"
"Bad habits," you say with a shrug, turning now to face him. Your arms cross over your chest. "My bad habits lead to you, have for years now. You should know that."
He hums, nodding once. The look in his eyes goes distant for a moment before refocusing on your face.
"There's a way to fix that," he starts, "so you aren't in here twice a week."
You shake you head quickly, stepping forward and pointing a finger at him. "No, no way. Not ever again."
He smirks, mirroring your movements until his soft belly nearly presses into the bars. His eyes rake over your form, hunger growing as he wets his pink lips with his tongue.
"Ah, c'mon. We had some good times together, didn't we?"
Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily at the reminder, heat flooding your cheeks. Lee grins wickedly at the reaction, hand already reaching for the key to the cell dangling from his belt.
"What d'you say?" he asks, unlocking it and holding it open. He already knows your answer.
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Ok but… you admiring yourself in bucky’s shirt and his dog tags in the mirror?? and then he walks in, sees you, and just growls. tells you to “get back on the bed. now.” i’m gonna scream.
Truly, you meant for it to be harmless.
You hadn’t meant to linger this long.
Bucky’s room smells like him—clean soap and something deeper, something warm and unmistakably him—and it clings to the fabric draped over your body like it belongs there. His shirt hangs off your shoulders, the sleeves swallowing your hands when you let them fall, the hem brushing mid-thigh in a way that makes heat curl low in your stomach. It’s too big. Of course it is. He’s all broad shoulders and muscle and solid weight, and you—well.
You smooth your hands down the front of it anyway.
Then your gaze drifts up to his dog tags.
They rest against your chest, cool metal warmed by your skin, the chain slipping between your fingers when you touch it. You don’t even remember when you put them on, just that they were sitting on his nightstand, and you’d been standing there in his space, already wearing his shirt, already thinking too much about him.
Now you’re here, in front of his mirror.
Just… looking.
Your head tilts slightly, eyes tracing the way the shirt falls over your body, the way the tags sit right in the dip between your collarbones. You look like you belong here. Like this is normal. Like this is something that happens every day—wearing his clothes, his things, standing in his room like you’ve always been allowed to.
Your lips part a little.
“God…”
It comes out quieter than you expect, almost like a confession.
You shouldn’t like it this much.
You shouldn’t feel this warm, this… claimed, just from a piece of fabric and a chain.
But you do.
Your fingers curl around the tags again, pressing them flat against your chest, imagining his hands there instead. Imagining the weight of his gaze. The way his voice drops when he’s looking at you like you’re something he wants to ruin.
The thought alone makes your thighs press together.
You exhale slowly, eyes flicking back up to your reflection, and for a second—just a second—you let yourself pretend.
That he’s behind you.
That he’s watching.
That—
The door clicks.
You freeze.
It’s instant. Every muscle in your body locks, your breath catching halfway in your lungs as your eyes snap to the mirror again—but this time, it’s not just you staring back.
He’s there.
In the doorway.
Bucky.
And he’s not moving.
Not even a little.
His gaze is locked on you like he’s been hit with something physical, something that’s knocked the air clean out of him. His shoulders are still squared from wherever he just came from, jacket half shrugged off, but none of that matters compared to the look on his face.
Dark, heavy, and animalistically hungry in a way that makes your stomach drop.
His eyes drag slowly over you in the mirror, taking in every inch of his shirt on your body, the way it hangs, the way your fingers are still curled around his tags.
It takes him a second to work through what he's seeing but then a low groan tears out of him.
It’s not subtle. It’s not controlled. It’s deep and instinctive and it hits you straight in the chest, makes something inside you clench tight and hot.
“Buck—”
“Don’t.”
It’s sharp. Commanding enough that the word dies on your tongue instantly.
He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him without breaking eye contact with your reflection. The sound echoes, final, and it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anticipation.
He moves closer like he's stalking prey—maybe he is.
“You got any idea,” he starts, voice low, gravel thick and dangerous, “what you look like right now?”
Your throat feels dry.
You shake your head before you can think better of it.
Big mistake.
Because his eyes drop to the movement, to the way the tags shift against your chest—and something in his expression snaps tighter.
“Mine,” he mutters, almost to himself, gaze dragging back up. “Walked in and you’re standin’ here wearin’ my shirt… my tags…”
Another step closer.
You can feel him behind you now, heat at your back, his presence swallowing the room whole.
Your pulse is racing.
“I didn’t think—”
“I know you didn’t,” he cuts in, softer this time, but no less intense. “That’s the problem.”
His hand comes up, not touching you yet—just hovering at your waist, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. You can see it in the mirror, the tension in his arm, the way his fingers flex like he’s trying not to grab.
It makes your breath hitch.
“Turn around,” he says.
You don't question his command and you don't think of why that is.
Now you’re face to face with him, and it’s worse because up close, you can see every detail of the way he’s looking at you. The blown pupils. The tight set of his jaw. The way his chest rises a little heavier with each breath.
“You think you can just stand in my room like that?” he murmurs.
Your heart stutters.
“I—”
“Wearin’ my things,” he continues, stepping closer until there’s barely any space left between you. “Lookin’ like you belong to me.”
Your lips part.
“I didn’t mean—”
His hand finally closes around your waist and you gasp
“Didn’t mean what?” he presses, leaning down just enough that his voice brushes against your mouth. “Didn’t mean to drive me crazy? Didn’t mean to stand there lookin’ like that and expect me not to do somethin’ about it?”
You can’t think.
You can barely breathe.
His other hand comes up, fingers hooking under the chain at your throat, lifting the tags just slightly, eyes locked on the way they shift against your skin.
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