So, you may have noticed, or maybe you haven't, that's fine too, that I haven't been on here very much, especially when it comes to writing, for the last three or so years. And I want to provide a little bit of clarity on the reasons why and also to talk a bit about my intentions/hopes for the future of this blog. So, that's what this post is for. If you read it, thank you for taking the time to do so and thank you for supporting my writing at any point in the past and (hopefully) in the future.
I'm gonna put it beneath a read more because it got really long.
So, the last time I posted fics on here consistently was over the summer of 2023, into around October. And then I popped back in for a one off fic in March of last year. To be completely honest, my grandfather died in the early spring of 2023. I was in my second to last semester of college, it was unexpected, it kind of turned my world on its head. And then I kind of just shifted my focus to getting through the last two semesters of college, any of the fics that went up from March-August were already written before he died. Hence why they were able to be uploaded in a consistent fashion.
The last three years have been an interesting time of just feeling very stuck in my life, like I haven't been moving forward or growing or changing. Like I've just been stuck as one version of myself, even though I want to be able to be a different version. I graduated college, tried a career path that didn't work out, and have been trying to find enjoyment in the good moments my life has put in front of me.
Then, in an unexpected turn of events, three family members died in the last few months of 2025. One of those people was my grandmother.
So, all of this to say there's been a lot going on these past few years. And, as a result, I haven't been here. I haven't really been able to write at all. And it's not for a lack of time, or even a lack of ideas. I've got like 20 draft fic posts on here, but they don't actually have anything written in them. Because my brain just won't let me. Which has really sucked because writing helps me process my thoughts and feelings. And maybe I'd feel a bit less stuck if writing was something I could've managed to do in these last few years.
But I'm really hoping that's going to change soon. Because this year feels different. I've gotten into new interests, am starting to pursue new hobbies, I've had a lot of stuff to look forward to this year. And I'm really giving being optimistic, within my personal life, a try this year. Which is very unlike me. But I'm hoping it'll all be for the better, and that I'll be able to post on here a little bit this year. Because I really want to, I have a lot of ideas that I'm excited about. Some of them have been collecting dust for the entirety of the last three years. And I think they deserve better than that.
I've watched a lot of new shows and found a lot of new characters to obsess over since we last interacted with each other. And I'm really hoping to share them with you guys in the near future. I'm not making any promises, because then I'll just feel guilty. But I'm feeling very hopeful about it. And that's better than I've felt about my writing in the last few years.
So, if you read all of that, I commend you. Because I really need to learn how to shut up and keep it brief. But I don't see that happening any time soon. Also, this is the most personal I've probably ever gotten on this blog. And I am super nervous about it, because I'm not big on sharing about my personal life. But I wanted to be honest, and I didn't want you guys to think I just disappeared.
Anyways, here's to hopefully at least one fic from me in 2026 (i'd really love if there were more than one and i'm really gonna try this year). And, hopefully, you guys will be willing to stick around a little longer for me. I hope you're well, and I hope you have a really great year.
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Imagine Clark Kent planning to propose to reader, but he gets so flustered and nervous that when he kneels, all he can muster is a desperate, breathy, âPlease.â Saw this idea from a woman sharing her proposal story on twitter!! đ«Šđ«Šđ€€đ€€
The star that leads to you
Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader
⥠Main Index | ⥠Archive for Earth-181938
a/n: The plan was for this to be 5k words long TOPS but i'm a bottom so...
Classification: (Suggestive) Fluff | Moderate workplace PDA, suggestive comments and explicit/implied sex scenes w/superpowered intimacy (destruction of the bed), normal relationship anxiety and overthinking, sci-fi talk and kryptonite exposure, use of superpowers in daily life.
Word count: 10,3k
Divider by me ;)
The days leading up to any leave or holiday were always the most chaotic. In journalism, there was no such thing as getting ahead. No matter how many drafts you filed, how many interviews you wrapped up or how many loose ends you tied off, the work simply piled up somewhere else, waiting for your attention.
You made your way through the bullpen with Jimmy trailing closely behind. For the past few days, a persistent unease had settled beneath your skin. Everyone seemed to need something from you before you left, another question, task or last-minute request, and on top of that, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.Â
Eyes appeared to follow you wherever you went.
Right now, though, the only thing demanding your attention was Jimmy's steadily rising panic.
"IâŠI can't do that." He shook his head again, likely for the hundredth time that morning.
"Jimmy, it's just my email." You stopped at the coffee station, reaching for your mug and filling it. "All I'm asking is that you log in once a day, check if anything's worth investigating and follow up if necessary." You stirred your coffee before lifting your eyes to him. "You won't have much to doâŠLois will be helping too."
"What do I do if he contacts you?" Jimmy asked quietly, watching your hands move with nervous intensity.
"What if who contacts me?" you asked, only sparing him a brief glance.
"You know." He shrugged. "Superman."
A laugh escaped you as you picked up your mug and started back toward your desk, taking a sip as you walked. "You think Big Blue has an email address?"
"IâŠ" Jimmy frowned as he tried to explain himself. "Well, I believe he's a modern man."
You snorted into your coffee.
"Who knows," he continued. "Maybe he'll want to meet up. ToâŠtalk."
You stopped beside your desk and turned to face him fully, narrowing your eyes. "About what?"
"I don't know." Jimmy lifted both hands. "Whatever it is you two usually talk about."
"Sure, Jimmy. Maybe he'll need help setting up an email account." You nodded thoughtfully. "Let's just hope nothing too big happens while I'm gone so I can enjoy some uninterrupted rest."Â
As you spoke, your gaze drifted across the bullpen and landed on Clark.
Your eyes narrowed immediately at his staring but the moment your eyes met, he jerked into motion. His attention snapped downward as he began fumbling with the papers on his desk, shuffling folders that clearly didn't need sorting and reaching for things that weren't there.
You had only held his gaze for all of two seconds before he folded completely under it, which was suspicious. Your attention lingered on him even as Jimmy continued talking.
"Alright, but just in case, tell him I'm perfectly fine with meeting in dark alleys during pouring rain and all that." Jimmy nodded once, looking entirely too eager for the possibility.
"He's more of a rooftop kind of guy, but I'll pass the message along." The reply came automatically, your focus already elsewhere. âThanks Jimmy.â
Your gaze dropped to your own desk as Jimmy finally wandered off. Taking your seat, you looked over the organized chaos spread across the surface and got to work clearing away the last of it, though most of the clutter simply disappeared into drawers and folders. You wanted to return to a clean workspace, not a disaster waiting for you after a week away.
Your final drafts had already been submitted and every article due before your leave had been filed and approved. There were still two hours until lunch and for the first time in days, there was nothing immediately demanding your attention.
You intended for the following week to be dedicated entirely to rest. Well, rest and unpacking the mountain of moving boxes currently occupying Clark's apartment, which was now yours too.
The thought alone made you look up.
Clark now sat perfectly still at his desk, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the bullpen. His head was tilted slightly, his attention caught by something none of the rest of you could hear. If there was one thing you'd learned about him, it was that there usually was something, a distant cry for help, an emergency unfolding miles away or a hundred voices filtering through the world at once.
You watched him for a moment until he rose from his chair, the movement quick and purposeful. He reached for his messenger bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder as he stepped around his desk, his eyes finding yours immediately.
The look was familiar, it was the same one he always gave you right before disappearing. You pushed yourself to your feet and followed after him, weaving through the bullpen until the two of you reached one of the quieter hallways.
"How bad is it?" you asked worriedly.
The question and tone had nothing to do with your upcoming week off. You were never worried about canceled plans, you were worried about Metropolis. If Superman was needed in the middle of a workday, something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.
Clark suddenly turned and you barely had time to react.
The momentum of your hurried pace carried you directly into his chest and as always, the impact barely moved him. Before you could stumble back, his arms were already wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours.
It caught you completely off guard. You knew kissing with your eyes open wasn't particularly romantic but you couldn't help the way they widened in surprise. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him as you failed to kiss him back.
Only when he pulled away did you finally speak. "That bad?" you asked, eyes searching his face frantically.
Clark blinked as his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"You have to go to your other thing, right?" You gestured vaguely. "I know you heard something."
The confusion on his face matched your own. Still, his arms remained around you.
"I did." He forced himself to pause and collect his thoughts because keeping things from you had never gotten easier. "It isn't bad, sweetheart. I just need to go check it out."
At the same moment, footsteps echoed from farther down the hallway, so he reluctantly released you. Neither of you was particularly interested in becoming a more serious conversation for Human Resources yet.Â
You cleared your throat as Clark adjusted the strap of his bag and the silence stretched until the employee rounded the corner and disappeared again.
"Will you be long?"Â
"I'm not sure." He shook his head softly.
You nodded. "Be safeâŠI'll cover for you."Â
Your hand came up to pat his chest before you stepped back. Already turning toward the bullpen, you glanced down at your watch, mentally calculating how many hours "checking something out" usually translated into but a few steps later, another thought occurred to you.Â
"Oh⊠anything special I should make for diâ" You turned to face him just as a rush of wind swept through the hallway. Your words died instantly and the corridor stood empty, Clark now gone. You sighed. "Takeout it is."Â
Muttering to yourself, you turned and headed back toward the bullpen.
Lately, Clark had been acting strange, not in the usual "I'm the last son of a dead planet" kind of way. This was different, he was distracted, restless and keeping himself busier than usual. At first, you'd assumed it had something to do with the upcoming week off. Maybe he felt guilty about stepping away from work for that long and the idea of slowing down made him uneasy, but you'd made it clear more than once that the vacation wasn't meant to be a break from who he really was.
You would never ask that of him. Clark Kent could take a week off but Superman never truly could, which only made his recent behavior feel all the more unusual.
You supposed your concern must have been written all over your face.
"Where is he?" Lois stopped in front of Clark's desk, a thick folder tucked beneath her arm.
The question snapped your attention away from his absence. Straightening your shoulders, you forced your expression into something more neutral before walking over.
"His parents needed him at the farm." You motioned vaguely toward the elevators.
Lois looked unconvinced. "He was supposed to send Perry a final draft for tomorrow's print edition."
"Is that it?" You pointed toward the folder she held. She barely lifted it before you plucked it from her grasp and pivoted back toward your desk. "I'll do it."
You dropped into your chair and opened the file immediately.
"It isn't exactly impartial." Lois crossed her arms.
"It never will be, Lois." You flipped through the first few pages of his notes. "We're about to move in together and I doubt he'd react particularly well to me firing him when I become Editor-in-Chief."
Your grin finally earned a small laugh from her.
"Besides," you continued, glancing back down at the paperwork, "I need something to do, otherwise today is going to feel even longer than it already does."
The humor faded from her face. "Is something wrong?" Her voice lowered enough that the question felt genuine rather than curious.
You opened your mouth, then stopped. For a moment, you simply stared down at the pages in front of you. "I don't know. I'm usually really good at reading him." Your fingers paused against the pages. "But I just can't do it."
"You can't?" The surprise in her voice was immediate as she settled herself on the corner of your desk. "You think it's about the two of you moving in together?" she asked. "If it is, don't. You've been together for so longâŠmost people would've expected you to move in together the second you both got to Metropolis."
A soft laugh escaped you. "No. No, that's not itâŠI mean, I hope not." You leaned back in your chair. "It's all going well." The words came easily because they were true. "As much as I love him, moving in with my first ever boyfriend straight out of college would've been a terrible idea."
Your smile softened. "We learned how to live separately firstâŠhow to have our own lives. I think that was the right decision and I know he does too."
Lois nodded. "So what's the problem?"
You hesitated, then cleared your throat and rolled your chair a little closer, lowering your voice despite the noise of the bullpen around you. "Have you ever wanted something so badly that you're afraid to call it what it is?"
Her brows knitted together. "Is that supposed to be a riddle?"
You laughed despite yourself. "No." Your gaze drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the bullpen. "There's something I want this whole situation to be..." The words felt strangely fragile once spoken aloud, like giving them a voice somehow made them more real. "What if I start asking the questions I want to ask and find out it isn't?" Your fingers toyed absently with the edge of the folder. "Then I'd be mad at him for not wanting to move at the pace I want to move at."
Lois watched you carefully and for once, she didn't rush to answer. "This isn't a race."
A small smile tugged at your mouth before quickly fading. "If it were, he'd winâŠI just wish I knew what we're running toward now." Your voice dropped quieter. "And if he still wants to get there with meâŠprecisely."
You let out a long breath, hoping it would carry away some of the anxiety that had been nesting in your chest for weeks. The truth was, you had never once believed Clark would leave you, that fear had never existed.
You knew how he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, you knew the certainty behind every promise he made, every plan he included you in and every future conversation that naturally assumed you'd be standing beside him.
The fear wasn't losing him, it was timing and getting it wrong.
Had moving in together been too soon? Was he having second thoughts now that it was actually happening? Maybe he simply wasn't ready to leave behind living alone, he needed more time before taking another step forward and the answer was that simpleâŠOr maybe you were working yourself into knots over something that had never crossed his mind at all.
"You're one hell of a reporter, Y/n." A smile tugged at the corner of Lois's mouth. "I've never known you to hesitate when it comes to asking questions."
She pushed herself off the desk and headed back toward her own.Â
The conversation ended there but her words lingered as your eyes wandered across the bullpen again and they landed, inevitably, on Clark's empty desk.Â
His abandoned coffee cup still sat beside his keyboard and a stack of notes remained exactly where he'd left them. Everything still looked normal, so why didn't it feel that way?
You couldn't keep living with the uncertainty and maybe it was time to stop dancing around the questions that had been circling your mind for months, but as much as you wanted answers, you'd never been someone who forced them out of Clark, never someone who cornered him into confessions he wasn't ready to make.
Your gaze lingered on the empty desk for another moment before moving to the clock. Only five more hours and you'd finally be out of this place.
Clark flew to the Fortress of Solitude at a speed he'd never thought he could reach, responding to a signal from the Superman robots. He absolutely hated hiding things from you, no matter how good the reason but this was taking longer than planned. It didn't just involve the usual planning and sourcing, this was as close to science as he'd ever get.
The cold arctic air caressed his skin as he sped up, the crystalline structure growing in the distance as it revealed itself to him.
His feet eventually sank into the snow as the doors parted before him. The Fortress received him the way it always did, silently, the crystals catching his footsteps and scattering them into nothing. Four was already standing at the central console, two of the other robots positioned at the secondary array flanking what Clark recognized as the solar concentrator, reconfigured into something smaller and more precise than he'd last seen it.
"Sir, you're here." Gary, the fourth Superman robot, turned before Clark had fully cleared the entrance.
"I got your signal," Clark told him as he moved to the center of the main room.
"I calculated twenty minutes before your arrival." Four's optical sensors held on him a moment.
Clark didn't answer. He crossed closer to the console, eyes already moving over the readings. "Tell me."
Gary turned back to the array. "The theory is sound. Whether the application holds is a separate question." He indicated the containment chamber at the center of the concentrator, it was small, built for a single stone. "The isotope that produces the radiation is not inert by nature, it requires destabilization. Conventional neutralization attempts have failed historically because they addressed the emission rather than the source."
Clarkâs brows furrowed. "You went after the isotope directly."
"We modeled different broad approaches over the last year. Sixteen produced either incomplete neutralization or structural destruction of the sample." Gary paused. "The seventeenth is this. Concentrated solar saturation at a specific frequency, not broad spectrum, which scatters. The isotope absorbs until it cannot sustain the radioactive chain. It burns out rather than being suppressed."
He looked at the chamber. "And the stone?"
"Structurally intact in our simulations. The color will change, the green is a function of the active radiation. Once the isotope is spent, the stone retains its crystalline structure but loses the glow. It will read as paleâŠresidual hue only."
Clark was quiet for a moment. "You said it would only work on a very small piece."
"Correct. The solar saturation has to penetrate the sample completely and evenly. A larger stone creates differential exposure, the exterior burns out and the interior remains active. At the scale you requireâ" Gary moved to the secondary console and brought up the dimensional rendering, a stone large enough to yield a single, flawless diamond. ââfull penetration is achievable. We have run the model four hundred and twelve times over the last hour."
"And it holds?"
"In simulation. Yes." Another beat. "We will not know with certainty until we attempt it on an actual sample."
Clark exhaled slowly, he'd known that was coming.
"You cannot be present for the extraction phase," Gary continued, without inflection, as if this were simply logistical. "Or the initial handling. Your proximity to an active sample at that size would still produce symptomatic response. We will handle and chamber the stone. You will monitor from the secondary console at a distance of approximately fifteen feet. Once it is inside the concentrator and sealed, the chamber will contain the emission. You can approach then."
"And the concentratorâ" Clark glanced at the machine. "Same as the healing protocol?"
"Modified from it. The frequency is different as healing requires broad cellular stimulation. This requires narrow isotopic targeting but the core mechanism is the same." Gary looked at him directly. "It should not harm you. The chamber is sealed, the emission goes inward, not out...but again, itâs a hypothetical."
Clark nodded once. He stood there a moment, looking at the small containment chamber and the re-rigged concentrator, itâd been a year of work sitting quiet and precise on a console in the Arctic.
"You've been thorough," he said finally.
"You were specific about what it needed to mean, sir." Gary nodded, as Clark turned to look at him. "When you told me what the ring was for," He continued. "I did not think imprecision was appropriate."
"And the piece I chose?" Clark asked, looking around for it.
One of the other Superman robots pushed a closed lead box onto the console. "Still untouched, sir." Twelve nodded. "As are the other uncut stones, as you requested."
"The band?" Clark asked as One approached, opening a chamber on his own structure and revealing it.
Clark reached for it and held it up to the light between his fingers. He still remembered waiting for you to fall asleep so he could measure your ring finger, holding his breath the entire time, terrified you might wake and catch him in the act. The memory made warmth settle in his chest.
"It's perfect," he said quietly.
"It must be, sir. You've been working on it for almost a year," Gary spoke.
"And it's finally done."
Gary lifted a cautionary finger. "Remember there are still hypotheticals, sir. We must test the machine."
Clark shook his head. "It's going to work and when it does, I want her here for it." He turned to look around the Fortress, taking in the crystalline walls, the hum of advanced technology and the sanctity of the space. "You know the plan." His gaze swept across the main chamber. "I want this place spotless and the sunglasses ready." He drew a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle over him. "The day has comeâŠI canât wait any longer." He turned back to the robots. "Thank you, all of you."
"No need to thank us, sir, as we will not appreciate it. We have no consciousness, we are merely automatons here to serve," Gary reminded him.
Clark simply pressed his mouth into a thin line, long accustomed to their peculiar bluntness while some of the Superman robots scurried away, already beginning to clean. Gary, however, lingered.
"Shall we prepare for the baby?"
Clark's head snapped toward him, eyes slightly widened. "What baby?"
"My knowledge indicates it is a natural succession of events, sir."
He smiled despite himself, shaking his head. "Let's prepare for a ceremony firstâŠThat's if she says yes."
"She will," Twelve said brightly in passing, already carrying a stack of crystalline components toward the secondary console.
"Shall we rehearse the speech?" Gary pressed. "We have yet to hear it."
"No can do, Gary." Clark's voice was gentle but final. "And you won't...Itâll be for her ears only."
He stuck around long after, helping clean and organize with no real need other than the comfort of keeping his hands busy. He had thought about the day plenty, in the small hours of the morning when sleep wouldn't come, during long flights over empty ocean and in the moments just after saving the world when everything went quiet again. He had imagined it a hundred different ways, in a hundred different places and it had to be perfect.
You got home late, stopped at the door as you still couldn't quite figure out how the new lock worked. After a moment of fumbling that felt much longer than it should have, you finally managed to push inside, carrying takeout bags and immediately running into scattered moving boxes in the dark.
"Fuck," you muttered under your breath as you reached for a light switch and turned it on. "Clark?" You called into the silence of the apartment, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter.Â
You then walked toward the bedroom, weaving around moving boxes you'd take care of soon, phone already in your hand as you dialed his number.
You pressed call, setting the phone on the bed as you began to undress.
Back at the FortressâŠ
"Superman, we have intercepted a call from your human lover."
Clark chuckled, shaking his head as he moved gear out of the main room. "There's no other kind, Gary. It's just 'lover.' Please, patch it through."
There was a soft crackle and then, "Clark?â Your voice slipped through the sound systems, warm and familiar and Clark felt the anxiety in his chest ease at the sound of it.
"Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?"Â
"Uh, yeah. Where are you? I'm at yourâ" A pause, then a quiet correction. "Our place...Any idea when you'll be back? It's starting to get late."
Clark realized then that he'd lost track of time completely. He began heading toward the exit, your voice trailing after him as you launched into what was clearly the beginning of a longer rant. The sound of you faded from the Fortress's speakers and transferred directly into his ears as he lifted off, flying fast in the direction of your voice.
He heard you kicking off your shoes and the soft thump of your pants hitting the floor.
"I'm not saying I'm worried and I don't expect you to always be back at a certain timeâŠThat's just not reasonable. I mean, I knew what I was getting into before we ever started datingâ" Then came the sound of the closet door sliding open as you were surely, definitely, picking a shirt of his to sleep in. "Not that it's complicated or anything. I feel like that word has never really applied to us. I mean, I hope not. You've never been complicated to me, even after you told me who you really were."
He heard the rustle of fabric as you peeled off your shirt and the soft sound of your bra hitting the floor. Clark flew even faster.
"I remember telling you Kal was a pretty good name," you said and he could hear the smile in your voice. You cleared your throat, "I also remember that one time I moaned it while we wereâ"
A faint breeze drifted through the room, making you turn to the window to check if it was open. You suddenly screamed, shirt clutched to cover your naked chest as your heart hammered so loud he could count every individual beat.
Clark unexpectedly stood there unmoving and smiling unapologetically, hair slightly messy from the flight. "Having sex?" He continued for you, grin widening. "I also remember."Â
You exhaled a sharp breath, rapidly pulling his shirt over your head, feeling his eyes on you, "I get carried away."
He shrugged, still grinning. "It's happened more than once."
Your eyes narrowed at him, already desperate to change the subject. "Mind making a little more noise next time? I intend to live long."
He stepped toward you, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you to his chest. "You make enough noise for the both of us, don't you think?"
"Ha. Funny." You said dryly because it was true. Once close to him, you felt his chest while observing his face as you always did, checking for injuries. He looked untouched, which was always ideal, but⊠"You're really cold."
He smiled and something changed in his expression. "Do you know where you packed the winter clothes?"
You blinked, eyes going to the moving boxes and suitcases scattered across the bedroom, your mind already cataloging the rest of the clutter throughout the apartment. "I'm not sure. Why?"
Clark let go of you, eyes scanning through the boxes as he activated his x-ray vision.
"It's about to be summer, SmallvilleâŠAnd I don't think you've ever needed them."
He walked out of the bedroom, looking into boxes as you trailed behind him, accidentally stepping on the long cape pooled at his feet.
"Oops, sorry," you muttered as you coughed yourself with a gentle hold on his shoulders.
"You're going to need them."
"Need what? Apologies?" you asked, lifting a brow.
"Winter clothes," he specified with a breathy chuckle, stopping by a box that read âKitchenâ in your handwriting.
"In June?" You watched as he opened the box anyway. "That says âKitchenâ, Clark."
He fumbled for a second as he lifted it from a pile and put it on the ground, then he carefully opened it and pulled out your winter coat by the hood.
"That's why it was so light," you said under your breath.
"We're taking a trip tomorrow."
Your eyes widened slightly as you searched his face and found no humor there. "Did you use that little trick to find my passport and book the trip?"
"Never needed a passport to fly Clark Kent Airlines." He grinned.
"Never needed a coat to sit on a plane." You shrugged with a gentle smile. "Where are we going?"
Clark's smile faltered. His eyes searched the room, looking for anything to change the subject and landed on the takeout bags still sitting on the kitchen counter. "We should eat dinner before it gets too cold," he said, already reaching into the box and pulling out a scarf, hat and gloves. "You'll need your snow boots too." He set everything on the couch, almost distractedly and walked right past you into the bedroom, already peeling off his suit.
Your eyes followed him, narrowing at the deflection. "Good thing we have a microwave." You noted as you followed after him. "You've been acting weird lately."
"Weird?" He echoed with a light, forced chuckle. "There's nothing weird about meâŠBesides the obvious." He paused, pulling his shirt over his head. "Which you like telling me you love." There was another pause, longer this time. "You still do, right?"
"You mean the part of you that likes to take me along while soaring through the sky?" You questioned hypothetically, already nodding to yourself. "Yeah."
"That's goodâŠThatâs really good." He reassured himself more than you as he changed into a plain shirt and plaid pajama pants. "That you still do."
"I don't like how you keep saying 'still,'" you pointed out quietly, looking at him as if you could read his mindâŠand you probably could, if you werenât suddenly scared of what you might find.
He chuckled breathily, stepping toward you and placing both hands on your arms, caressing them gently. "You're making me really nervous right now."
You narrowed your eyes at him again. "I weirdly think you're doing that to yourself." You paused, letting the words settle. "I love you, ClarkâŠNo amount of weirdness is going to change that."
His hands went to your face, cupping your cheeks slowly, thumbs brushing over your skin with so much love in his eyes that it made your chest ache. Tomorrow had to be perfect..because you were.
"I'll fly slowly," he murmured, in an attempt to reassure you.
"No, you won'tâŠand thatâs fine," You laughed softly, poking his stomach playfully. "Just make sure you hold me tight."
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered long enough to make your eyes flutter shut. "I love you so much," he confessed against your skin. "I don't know how to hold you any other way."
Moments like that had a way of dissolving whatever fear or doubt had quietly accumulated and that night was no different. By the time you had dinner and you'd both found your way to sleep, there was nothing left to worry about.
The next morning was perfect. Genuinely and unqualifiedly perfect, the kind that felt almost unfair in how completely it arrived. No alarm pulled you out of it, no distant sound of something collapsing somewhere that would take him away before you'd finished waking up, just sunlight coming in at an angle through the curtains and Clark, who woke up like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of pretending otherwise.Â
He pressed kisses into your skin slowly and without urgency and the morning dissolved the way good mornings do, in warmth, weight and the breathlessness of someone who loves you, knows how to show itâŠand how to make you feel it. You lost track of time entirely and you didn't try to find it.
At some point he slipped away. You hadn't noticed the exact moment, sometime in the narrow window between you getting up and the shower warming, enough time for him to go somewhere and come back, which for Clark could mean almost anywhere. When you stepped out of the bathroom, towel around your chest, a bouquet was sitting on the kitchen counter and beside it, breakfast, already plated and still warm.
You ate together at the counter, knees touching, talking through where the art should go and whether the bookshelf fit better against the east wall or broken up between two rooms.Â
It wasn't much later that he started mentioning getting out for the day.
You didn't question it. You started getting everything he'd laid on the couch the night before, working through the layers methodically while he stood somewhere behind you watching you with an expression you couldn't fully read.
"I think you should add another scarf," he suggested. "Just in case."
You looked at yourself in the mirror, at the coat, hat, gloves, boots and the scarf that already looped twice around your neck⊠and it was June. "Clark." You turned to look at him with a gentle, reassuring smile. "This is enoughâŠYou'd think we were going to the Arctic."
You meant it as a joke. You were already smiling when you said it, turning back to the mirror to adjust the hat which meant you didn't see his face go completely still behind you.
Flying with Clark was its own category of experience, one that didn't get easier to explain the more times you did it, only more familiar. The first five minutes were always the same, your stomach hadn't made peace with the altitude yet, your eyes stayed forward or shut and some part of your brain spent the whole time insisting that this was not how bodies were supposed to work but underneath all of it, was certainty. He had never once made you feel like you might fall, not for a second. His arms around you were absolute, his chest solid and warm against your cheek and the cold that hit everything else somehow didn't touch the space he made around you.
"We're almost there!" he called over the wind.
You didn't answer, only nodded against him and held on.
Then, gradually, the quality of the air changed as the speed bled out of it. You felt him adjusting his descent in small corrections and a minute later your feet met the ground with a soft crunch that traveled up through your boots and into your knees. It was snow, fluffy and undisturbed in every direction.
You kept your eyes shut even as he released you and you stood on your own.
"Sweetheart." He called softly, you could hear the smile in it. "You didn't need to close your eyes."
"Oh. I thought I'dâ" you started explaining as they fluttered open.
The light hit first, that particular brightness that had no equivalent, white reflecting white under a sky that was almost cloudless. You blinked against it, adjusting and inevitably, as you looked around, your gaze landed on the structure in the distance and everything else stopped.
Your lips parted.
It rose from the landscape like it had grown there, which in every way that mattered it had. It was an eruption of crystal spires reaching at different angles, pale blue-white and enormous even from that distance, catching the flat Arctic light and fracturing it into something that barely looked real.Â
You took a few steps toward it without deciding to.
"Is that yourâ" you started, pointing at it in awe as the words died somewhere between your throat and your lips. You stood frozen in the snow, staring at it.
Clark stepped beside you, footsteps quiet in the snow as the wind tugged gently at his cape. Your shoulders almost brushed when he spoke, "I'll show you around."
You faced him then. He was smiling down at you with his hand extended between you, patiently waiting for you to take it, which of course, you did.Â
The two of you walked the remaining distance without rushing. There was no path, no track worn into the snow from use, no indication that anyone came and went from this place by foot. Just the flat white expanse and the crystal rising out of it and now, appearing behind you in a clean double line, your footprints beside his. You looked back once at the trail you were leaving and felt something open up in your chest that you weren't entirely prepared for.
He had never brought anyone here, you understood that without needing it said. This was the place that belonged to the man beneath everything else, the person who was both Clark Kent and Superman and neither of them entirely. He was bringing you into that, he was walking you to the door of the most private place he had and holding your hand while he did it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
You looked up at the Fortress as it grew larger with every step, feeling the weight of being trusted with something irreplaceable.
His thumb moved slowly, across the back of your hand as the entrance came into view and the doors began to open before him.
The inside of the Fortress opened up in a way that made you stop walking for a second without meaning to. Everything climbed, walls, ceilings and structures you didn't have names for, all of it crystalline and catching the same pale light from a dozen different angles at once. It was somehow colder and warmer at the same time, the air sharp but the light itself almost golden where it pooled. You could feel Clark watching you take it in, his hand still wrapped around your gloved one, waiting for you to need him to say something.
"Welcome back, sir."
You turned at the voice as footsteps approached from your right. For a moment, you simply stared.
Clark had talked about the Superman robots before, he'd mentioned their names, their functions and the way they helped maintain the Fortress but none of those descriptions had prepared you for seeing them in person.
"Ms. Y/l/n. I have long possessed information regarding you. It is noteworthy to finally confirm your existence through direct observation.â
You looked up at Clark first, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it, then back at the robot in front of you, eyes dropping briefly to the number four stamped into his chest plate.
You smiled softly. "Nice to finally meet you too, Gary."
Gary turned smoothly toward two more robots crossing the floor behind him. "I have observed that Superman references us during conversations with his human loverâŠIdentifying the species is unnecessary, as there is no other kind of lover for him." A brief pause, as if confirming the data was correctly filed. "This is Twelve. She is new."
You looked at Twelve and smiled.
Twelve looked back, head tilting slightly in your direction. "Oh, she looked at me!"
Seven approached next, arms already extended, holding a folded red blanket and a metallic blue thermos. Gary continued without missing a beat. "We have prepared warm blankets and tea. The tea has been heated for three minutes to the ideal temperature of eighty degrees Celsius, with two sugars, per Superman's specification."
"I'll take the tea." You took the thermos from Seven, wrapping both hands around it gratefully. "Donât think the blanket will be necessary. Clark already had me wrapped up like a burrito before he swept me off my feetâŠLiterally." You took a sip, the warmth spreading through your body.
"'Swept off my feet,'" Gary repeated, processing it audibly. "This is a common idiom among your kind. I hope you also intend it in the romantic sense, in the event further confirmation is required."
You narrowed your eyes slightly, glancing up at Clark. "Confirmation for what?"
Clark cleared his throat, a little too quickly. "Let me, uh, give you a tour." His hand found the small of your back, gently steering you down the hall before you could press further.
"We shall prepare for the activities, then," Gary said, already turning toward the main room. "The clock is, figuratively, ticking."
"Thanks for the tea!" you called back over your shoulder, lifting the thermos in salute.
"They're not very good at saying 'you're welcome,'" Clark told you quietly as you walked.
"Noted."
He smiled as he watched you sip more tea. "SoâŠwhat do you want to see first? The glass bedroom or the bathroom? The toilet seat is heated."
You stopped walking, eyes widening slightly at the possibility of a glass bed. "Are you serious?"
His grin only widened, he shook his head. "There's no glass bedroom."
You let out a breath, shaking your head as you started walking again. "Theyâre doomedâŠThe Superman robots are certainly learning from your sense of humor, Clark. Your jokes are setting their development back by decades...They need an upgrade."
"We should probably get you better winter gear, then. If you're going to be spending more time here." He glanced over at you, already thinking out loud. "I'll look into some kind of heating system." He kept walking, leading you down the corridor. "There aren't many rooms, but there's one I really want you to see."
You looked over at him, slowing your steps. "ClarkâŠwait."
The teasing had dropped out of your voice entirely and he heard it instantly. He stopped and turned to face you and for a moment neither of you said anything.
You chose your words carefully, offering a reassuring smile. "You've already trusted me with so muchâŠand I'm honored to be here, truly, I am, but..." You shook your head slowly. "You don't have to do this, any of this."
He listened in out of worry, the way he sometimes did without really meaning to, to your heartbeat. It was steady and still unafraid, just nervous in the ordinary way. "What do you mean?"
"This is your legacy, Clark. It's a piece of where you come from. It could just be yoursâŠI'd understand that.â You paused, âOnce I've seen it, I can't unsee it. Iâll become a part of it too, whether you meant for it to or not."
He stepped closer, taking your unoccupied hand in his. "I've always wanted you to know all of me...every piece, if you're willing to hold it." His voice dropped, steady and certain. "This isn't a sacrifice, sweetheart. Showing you this doesn't cost me anythingâŠYou've always belonged at the center of who I am. Thisâ" he glanced around, at the crystal stretching up into the light, "âthis is just proof of it."
You nodded slowly. Your breath caught and you sniffled, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes. "Do you happen to know the temperature at which tears freeze?" you asked, voice thick.
He laughed softly, pulling you gently forward by the hand as he led you toward the next room. "Yeah, I think a heating system really would be a good idea."
"Wouldn't a heating system melt the whole place, though?"
"It's Kryptonian crystal," he explained. "Not ice. It can withstand a lot more than that. It's just naturally cold in here."
"Well, insulation would ruin the aesthetic anyway, so think it through." you decided and felt him softly squeeze your hand.
He spent the better part of an hour walking you through the Fortress. Through the rooms that mattered and rooms that didn't but that he showed you anyway because you asked, small alcoves of crystal that hummed faintly when you got close enough. You stayed in a state of quiet awe through most of it but the room that stopped you completely was the one lined with his suits. Row after row, the same emblem rendered over and over in different materials and ages, the symbol of an entire dead world that he had carried across galaxies and made his own among people who barely understood what it meant.
You felt his eyes on you the entire time, watching you take it in and no matter how simple or obvious your questions were, he answered every one of them and you could hear the smile in his voice with each one.
Eventually, the two of you made your way back to the main room, where all of the Superman robots stood arranged in a loose half circle and at the center, set on a low pedestal, sat a small sealed box. You knew exactly what was inside before you directly saw it, that particular sickly green you'd only ever glimpsed in passing, in places you tried not to look too long.
Your hand tightened around Clark's, your first instinct pulling him back half a step.
"It's okay, sweetheart." His voice was steady, hand staying exactly where it was, not pulling away from yours. "Gary?"
Gary approached, holding out a pair of sunglasses toward you. "Please keep these on until we give the all clear," he said. "Your eyes are not equipped to withstand what you are about to see."
You took them carefully, turning them over once. They looked like ordinary sunglasses, maybe a little heavier and the lenses a shade darker than you expected.Â
You slid them on. "Is this some kind of science class?"
"I certainly won't be the one teaching it," Clark said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He looked past you toward the console. "Gary, are we ready?"
"Whenever you are, sir." Gary moved toward the main console, where two of the other robots were already standing by, lights along their forearms beginning to pulse in slow sequence.
"Clark, what's going on?" you whispered, eyes flicking between the box and his face.Â
"I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that, right?" He squeezed your hand as his gaze met yours.Â
"You, on the other handâ"
"I like experimenting." He shrugged, like it cost him nothing.
Your eyes widened slightly, "With Kryptonite? Since when?"
"UhâŠa year, give or take." He smiled down at you and then his eyes lifted to Gary, he nodded once. "Gary. We're ready."
Gary moved to the console without hesitation and the rest of the robots fell into position around the central platform like they'd rehearsed it a hundred times, because they had.
Twelve lifted the small box from the pedestal, carrying it with both hands toward the center of the room, where a shallow chamber sat recessed into the crystal floor, lined with something dark and metallic that looked nothing like the rest of the Fortress.
"Thatâs a containment chamber," Clark said quietly to you as his thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. "Built specifically for this."
"Sir," Gary said, eyes still on the console, "might I suggest you and Ms.Y/l/n retreat to the secondary platform. Fifteen feet, as discussed."
Clark's hand tightened slightly around yours. "Come on."
He guided you back, until you were standing on a raised section of crystal floor that put you above and away from the chamber. From there you could see the whole room laid out steps beneath you, the concentrator rising above the platform like an enormous lens angled toward the sky, panels of crystal catching light that wasn't there yet.
Seven lifted the lid of the box and even through the dark lenses the green light intensified, throwing long shadows across the floor, catching every facet of the Fortress and scattering it back in shades of sick emerald. Nestled inside, on a bed of dark fabric, sat the stone. Smaller than you'd expected and uncut, glowing from somewhere deep inside itself like it had a pulse of its own.
Twelve lifted it with a pair of long, articulated tools and lowered it carefully into the chamber. A transparent shield slid closed over the top, sealing it in. The glow didn't stop but it dimmed, pressing against the inside of the shield like something trying to get out.
"Sample secured," Gary announced. "Beginning calibration."
The concentrator began to hum. It started low, almost beneath hearing, a vibration that traveled up through the crystal floor and into the soles of your boots. Far above, panels began to rotate, realigning toward the chamber below and what little Arctic sunlight there was began to gather and bend, funneling down through the lens.
"Finally," Clark breathed, watching it. "We've been working on this for so longâŠthereâve been thousands of simulations." His jaw worked once. "I didn't want to tell you until I knew it would work."
"Tell me what?â You asked quietly, eyes never leaving the scene as worry crept in. âAnd do you actually know?"
"I trust the math." He nodded firmly.
The column of light reached the chamber and the room changed color. For a moment the green and the gold fought each other, the stone lit from above in concentrated solar light while it pulsed back against it, radiating that same sickly glow like it was resisting. The light intensified in stages, the hum climbing in pitch and beside you Clark's hand went rigid in yours.
You immediately looked away from the machine, eyes moving across his face, searching instinctively for every symptom you'd learned to recognize over the years. "Clark? Whatâs happening?"
"It's fine." His voice was rough. The green glow spilling from the chamber reflected across his face as he kept his eyes fixed on the stone. His fingers tightened once more around yours. "This is the part where it resistsâŠGary said it would resist."
"Isotopic activity decreasing," Gary reported. "Forty percentâŠThirty-five."
You watched his shoulders ease slightly, the tension starting to bleed out of him the way it had a moment ago and then it spiked.
The green flared violently, brighter than it had been at any point and the hum from the concentrator stuttered, a half second of dissonance that set your teeth on edge. Clark's hand crushed around yours, hard enough that you gasped and beside him his knees buckled enough that you felt him catch himself right on time.
"Sir." Gary's voice changed, the flatness cracking for the first time. "Output is exceeding modeled parameters. Fifteen feet is no longer sufficient at this intensityâŠI recommend immediate retreat."
"No." Clark's voice came out through his teeth, low and rough.
Twelve approached. "Sir, your vitalsâ"
"I said no." He straightened, forcing it, his free hand braced against the crystal wall beside you, now that sweat had broken out along his hairline despite the cold. "This is the spike before it breaksâŠIt has to be. We modeled this."
"We modeled a spike.â Twelve corrected and for the first time there was something almost uncertain underneath the calculation. âNot this one."
"Clark, baby." Your voice cracked. Both your hands were on his arm now, gripping tightly enough to feel the tension underneath his skin, the controlled violence of him holding still on purpose. "Clark, please, if it's hurting youâ"
"It's not going to last." He said it through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the chamber, on the violent pulse of green fighting against the gold. "It's a means to an end. It has to burn through, that's the whole point, it can't resist foreverâ" He cut himself off, breath hissing out through his nose and you felt his legs lock, refusing to let his body do what it wanted to do, which was fold.
"Gary," he called, "how much longer?"
"Unknown. The output is not behaving according to any modeled curve."
"Then we wait." His hand gripped yours again like an anchor. "We wait."
The green surged again and this time you heard him make a low and involuntary sound. His head dipped slightly as if something heavy had pressed down on him. His eyes shut for a second and every muscle in his jaw worked under the strain, the effort visible in the smallest movements of his face.
"Clark, look at me." You said as you stepped in front of him, both hands coming up to his face, so heâd look at you. His eyes opened and once they found yours, they held on. "Whatever this is aboutâŠitâs not worth the pain."
"It isâŠ" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "Youâll see."
The green light convulsed one more time, violent and bright, the air around the chamber shimmering hard enough to blur the shape of it until it broke, the same way ice breaks, all at once, the resistance simply gone. The green collapsed inward on itself and the gold flooded in to fill the space it left behind and the hum of the concentrator dropped, smoothed out and settled.
"Isotopic activity," Gary announced and there was no mistaking the relief in it now, flat as he tried to keep it, "Twenty percentâŠTwelve percent...Six percent."
Clark's head lifted as he watched over your shoulder, eyes moving away from yours while yours simply couldnât. He exhaled, long and shaking and you felt the tremor in his body ease as you too turned to watch.
"Two percent," Gary continued. "Zero point eightâŠZero point threeâŠZero point zeroâŠone." He paused. "Within acceptable marginâŠThe sample is inert."
The column of light thinned, it drew back up into the ceiling and the panels above began to rotate closed and the machines powered down in sequence as the Fortress went quiet.
The shield over the chamber slid back and where the green stone had been, something else sat now, pale and almost colorless, holding the ambient light of the room differently than it had before, no longer pulsing or alive with that sickly glow.Â
Your lips parted at the sight as Clark straightened slowly, drawing himself back together piece by piece before stepping down from the platform and offering you his hand. You took it, following him as your eyes met his.
âItâs okay,â he said before you could ask. âIâm okay. Itâs over.â
You crossed the floor behind him while every robot in the room stood motionless, watching him the same way you were. He stopped at the edge of the chamber and looked down at the stone for a long moment before reaching in and picking it up with his bare hand.
Nothing happened.
He stood there holding it, turning it slightly, watching the light shift across its surface and you realized youâd stopped breathing somewhere in the last minute and hadnât started again. He looked up, found your gaze and set a gentle hand against your cheek.
âItâs safe now. You can remove your glasses,â he said, still looking at you.
Your hands were already moving. The Fortress returned in full, unfiltered color as you stepped closer to him, staring at Clark holding something small and pale in his open palm, like the last few minutes hadnât happened at all, like heâd been waiting this entire time just to show you this.
You swallowed. âI thinkâŠwe need a breather,â you said, mostly to yourself.
You were already turning toward the nearest corridor when Clark suggested he take you somewhere outside. It took him only a moment to follow your movement and you didn't see what all the shifting and movement among the robots behind you had been about but only felt the change in atmosphere as Clark caught up.
His arm slid around your waist and a second later, the ground dropped away.
Air rushed past as he lifted you into the sky, carrying you through the open structure of the Fortress until the cold Arctic light returned in full. He set down on a platform high among the tallest crystalline spires, where the wind moved freely and the horizon stretched wide and white.Â
Snow shimmered below and the sky was pale, endless.
âI donâtâŠâ You let out a breathless laugh, the wind catching at your words. Your eyes swept the view once before you turned back to him. âIâm not sure what I just saw in there.â
Your voice tightened slightly. "And trust me, I tried to keep my eyes open through all of it, but you scared me." You gave his chest a firm hit with your fist. "What were you thinking, Clark Kent?"
The impact barely moved him, it only made him chuckle lightly.
He didnât answer right away. Instead, his gaze stayed on you, unreadable in that scary way that always came just before something important.
Slowly, he reached into his belt and your attention locked instantly.Â
He pulled out a carved band, holding it between two fingers like it mattered too much to be careless with. You could hear, or maybe just feel, your heartbeat speed up, loud enough that it felt like it filled the space between you.
He reached in again and produced a small, rough stone, one that bent the light in a way you'd never seen any diamond do, every facet catching a slightly different shade as it turned.
You watched as he closed his hand around it and when he opened his palm again, fragile shards fell away, revealing a small, clear stone underneath, which he carefully set into the first empty socket on the band.Â
You blinked, eyes following his hand as he reached in again and drew out another rough stone, this one glowing faintly the same way the untouched walls of the Fortress had. He crushed it the same way, the stone giving under his grip, not shattering so much as yielding, and a larger stone emerged from inside it, settling into its place on the band.
Then he reached into his belt one last time and pulled out the disabled kryptonite. Of the three, it was by far the clearest, though somehow it still caught the light in a way none of the others quite managed.
He crushed it in his hand and set the final âdiamondâ.
You stared at the ring as his eyes began to glow red, the heat focusing into two narrow beams that swept carefully along the edges of each setting, sealing the stones into place. Once he was satisfied they were secure, he lifted the ring to his lips and let out a slow breath of super breath, cooling the metal until it no longer shimmered with heat.
Your heart was pounding now, lips parting slightly as you watched him lower himself onto one knee, his eyes never leaving yours. When his knee touched the platform, he paused, drew in a breath that seemed to cost him more than it should have and swallowed. He held the ring up toward you and whatever he'd rehearsed every day for the past year caught somewhere in his throat.
"...Please."
Your brows lifted slightly, lips curving into a smile you couldn't have stopped if you tried, your heart stumbling so hard in your chest you thought you might actually faint.
It was all a blur of mumbled words, tears, tight embraces, breathless laughter and the strange sensation of height shifting under your feet as the hours folded into one another. You slid your glove off so he could finally slip the ring onto your finger and in the space of a heartbeat the both of you were already cutting through the sky, Clark holding you close as the arctic shrank into light beneath you.
What followed was a mess of emotion and surging energy you had never seen from him in that state. You made it home in record time and the first stop had been the bedroom, the both of you, but especially Clark, letting go of everything he had been holding back. Everything that had stayed trapped behind restraint finally spilled out, fast and unguarded, until the bedframe gave way under the force of it and you both broke into breathless laughter in the aftermath.
After that, everything blurred again.
You sat on the couch as a streak of motion moved through the apartment, Clark unpacking every box in milliseconds, placing everything exactly where you had mentally mapped it out. The remaining cardboard vanished just as quickly, carried away like it had never been there. He returned almost immediately after, kneeling at the edge of the couch in front of you with the same restless energy still burning through him, only now softened by relief and joy. You met it halfway on the carpet, where time stopped mattering in any real sense.
It was late when the rush finally eased into something his body could keep up with at a normal human pace. Only then did you think about food.
You ended up on the kitchen counter, one hand lifted as the ring caught the warm light and threw it back in shifting color. Clark stood at the stove shirtless, moving between pots and fridge with distracted focus, adding things, adjusting heat and insisting you needed to eat before you fell asleep. You had been fighting sleep for a while already, after so many rounds, caught between exhaustion and the aftershock of everything.
The cold air from the opened fridge brushed your bare legs and it brought back the memory of earlier that day without warning.
âTell me again,â you breathed, eyes fixed on the ring.
Clark stopped, whatever he was doing was abandoned in an instant. He stepped closer, placing both hands on either side of you against the counter, caging you in gently without pressure. His gaze didnât go to the ring at first. It stayed on you, studying your face and reaction, like that mattered more than anything else he had built.
âJewel Kryptonite,â he started, voice calmer now.
His hand lifted slightly as he spoke, indicating the first stone.
âI found it in the Fortress but it comes from the Jewel Mountains of Krypton. Its primary function was amplifying psychic abilitiesâŠtelepathy and mental projection for Kryptonians. In my caseâŠâ He hesitated, just briefly, choosing the right way to place it. âIt represents my mindâŠmy subconscious, dreams, grief and memories. The parts of me nobody reachesâŠthe parts I want you to have access to.â
He shifted his attention to the largest stone, the one in the middle.
âThe Fortress crystalâŠorigin and inheritance. Itâs everything I was given, my legacy, my peopleâs knowledgeâŠKrypton on Earth and Kal-Elâs home.â His eyes softened slightly as they stayed on you. âWhich you've gone out of your way to love and accept too in ways I never expected or thought possible.â
A quiet breath left him before he continued.
âAnd the last one but not leastâŠnever that.â His thumb brushed lightly against your hand where the ring sat. âDisabled green kryptonite. That was the hardest part and the reason this took so longâŠItâs what I trust you most with, my vulnerabilityâŠbut not the only one.â
His gaze lifted fully to yours at that.
You moved closer instinctively, arms sliding around his shoulders and pulling him in as if distance had become unnecessary. You raised your hand again, watching the ring catch the light between you both.
âWho you come from⊠who you are⊠and what you trust me with,â you murmured, more to yourself than anything else. Then something else caught your attention.
âWhat about the band?â you asked softly. You had noticed it earlier, the faint engravings when the light hit just right, the House of El symbol hidden in the design, it was subtle but definitely intentional.
It was clear nothing about it had been accidental.
He exhaled through a small smile. âEverything I am,â he said, quieter now, âset into the thing that led me to you.â
Your brows softened.
âI made it out of my ship.â
The confession pulled the breath straight out of you. âIt took you a year,â you said, voice catching slightly, âand so much effort and thought and Iââ
"I love you." His voice caught, eyes filling again as they held yours. "I loved you the day I met youâŠI love you today,â He paused, âY/n, I'll love you long after we leave this Earth."
You sniffled as a tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it had formed but still, you smiled, voice cracking with emotion. "And I'll love you as long as it exists."
Clark lifted a hand, thumb brushing the tear away with a tenderness that contrasted everything else about him and gently tilted your face toward his as he pressed his lips to yours, leaving no distance between what he had built and what he had finally given away.
He might have been unable to say anything when he was down on one knee, but that didnât mean he had no words for you. He simply doubted they existed in any language and if they did, they had a terrible tendency to fall galaxies short.
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, theyâre a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
âŠ..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.Â
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You're similar to Bucky. It's why the two of you are good friends. You both appreciate dimly lit bars, prolonged silences, and violence being the answer to most problems. The sex isn't half-bad, either.
She's the complete opposite of you. Sunshine personified. She bakes, wears colorful dresses, and is never in a bad mood. But it seems like she might be exactly what Bucky wants, and needs.
Content Warning: FWB!Bucky x Avenger!F!Reader, mature themes, smut, angst, unrequited feelings, jealous!reader, insecurity, pining, nightmares, trauma, PTSD, i started writing this before watching thunderbolts so this is a good old-fashioned Avengers tower fic.
word count: 14k
"We head out in the morning," He tells you, his voice at a low hum. "Gonna be my longest mission in a while."
You turn your head to face him, raising a brow as your finger runs around the rim of your beer bottle. "Are you trying to bait me into saying I'm gonna miss you, Sergeant?" You ask him, pulling a smirk from his lips.
"I know better than that, gunner," He replies before taking a long sip of beer. "Just letting you know ahead of time, so you can prepare for the cold, lonely nights ahead."
"Steve's not going, is he?" You question coyly, holding back your laugh.
All you get in response is an eye roll.
You like the bar when it's empty. No lavish party being thrown, no strangers attempting to socialize with you, no pressure. Just you and Bucky making a dent in Tony's good stuff, and christening a couple of the couches while you're in here.
"So, you'll be gone when I wake up," You begin, meeting his eyes with yours. "I think that means you owe me a good night."
"Yeah?" He utters, before wrapping his hand around the leg of your stool and dragging you closer to him. "And how, exactly, do I give you that?"
"You should know by now, Serge," You reply, tracing his right bicep with your finger. His arms might be your favorite thing about him.
"No, I wanna hear it from you," Bucky says lowly, leaning in closer. "In detail. Tell me what you want me to do to you."
Your stomach flips, and your heart beats a little faster. Don't show him how much he affects you. Don't give him the satisfaction. "I want you to bend me over this bar and fuck me," You say bluntly. "Hard."
"Yeah?" He mumbles, getting that dazed look in his eyes as he places his hand on your thigh and squeezes it. "Do you deserve it?"
Unable to keep collected, you let go of your pride and give in. He's the only one who gets you like this - the only one you trust with this side of you. "Bucky," You almost beg. "Please."
"There it is," He breathes out smugly. "That's my girl. Keep going; I'm not sure you've earned it yet."
Needing to feel him against you, you get off your stool and onto his lap, legs on either side of his. "Please, Sergeant, I need you really bad," You whine, moaning as you feel his boner against you.
His lips part and a shaky breath escapes his mouth. You're the only one who gets him like this - the only one he trusts with this side of him. "Give me a kiss, baby," Bucky mumbles, his hands moving down to your waist.
And, to his credit, he gives you a fucking great night. And, like you expected, he's gone in the morning.
"Couldn't this wait until next week's debrief?" You complain as you walk alongside Natasha down the corridors.
"Tony said we needed a short catch-up; there are apparently a few important updates he wants to give us," She tells you as you approach the meeting room.
"Is he finally gonna tell the spider boy to stop eating my protein bars?" You grumble before pushing open the door to the room.
You're surprised to see not only Avengers, but SHIELD agents in the room, too, as well as some others you don't recognise. The chairs around the table are all taken, so you and Natasha elect to stand against one of the walls, next to a group of agents that are familiar to you. Everyone's talking amongst themselves as it seems Tony still hasn't arrived. Trust him to be late to his own meeting.
"Good morning, Bloodhound," An agent standing next to you says with a nervous smile on his face, making you grimace.
The name that Oscorp gave you during their experiments on you unfortunately stuck in the minds of the public and anyone else you're not close to, and though you're not fond of it, you're not sure what else you'd rather they call you. The other Avengers usually use your first name, but you wouldn't want to give the agents that same access to you. Bucky calls you gunner as a reference to your time in the army, and as a response to you refusing to call him anything but Sergeant. Though the name Bloodhound has dark memories attached to it, you've learned to live with the fact that it's what you'll always be known as.
"I, uh, saw you running in Central Park this morning," The agent continues. "I see you there quite a lot, actually."
With narrow eyes, you glare at him. Your runs are an escape from reality, so to know they're being infiltrated by a stalkerish agent isn't the best feeling in the world.
"I was thinking," He goes on to say with a small smile. "Maybe we could run togeth-"
"What the fuck are you doing?" You cut him off coldly. Have you not built up your reputation enough? Why does he feel confident enough to ask to join you on your fucking runs?
His face drops and his cheeks flush pink, and he immediately turns to face the front.
Natasha snorts before nudging you. "Be nice," She mumbles.
You turn to her with an incredulous look. "Why?" You ask her, genuinely curious to hear her answer.
It's no secret that you aren't the most welcoming or warm of people - it took you three months to let Natasha into your room - and you don't care how it comes across. Admittedly, the trauma you faced at the hands of Osborn and Oscorp rid you of any fucks to give when it comes to being nice. Maybe you sound bitter and unfair, but you've done the therapy thing and you know it's not right to blame the world for what you went through- but that doesn't mean you have to be friends with everyone.
Most people suck. You'd rather not waste your energy on them.
Finally, Tony walks into the room with Pepper. "Sorry I'm late, folks," He calls out as the hubbub in the room quietens. "We haven't got a lot to get through, though, so I promise I won't be long."
While he talks through the more boring updates, you pull out your phone to check if Bucky's messaged you. It's a bad habit, and one that's only recently started. You've found yourself anticipating him; waiting for him to say something to you. It's a bad habit.
Sergeant Barnes
Just landed in Croatia.
It's been a full ten minutes and Sam hasn't mentioned Steve yet, so you owe me twenty bucks
Your lip pulls up at the corner but before you can subtly text him back, Natasha nudges you hard.
"Is he serious?" She asks you, looking at Tony with her brows furrowed.
Deciding to listen in, you put your phone away and focus on the meeting. "There won't be a huge difference and it'll be business as usual, but a few of you are being moved into other departments as a result of the government's involvement," Pepper says, to which Tony rolls his eyes. "They think it would be beneficial to create a role specifically focused on wellbeing."
"They still don't trust that I know what I'm doing," He adds, failing to hide the bitterness in his tone. "So I'd like everyone to welcome Poppy Newton; our Team Coordination and Wellness Officer."
Everyone's eyes go to the woman sitting in the middle of the table, including yours. Her baby blue dress and yellow-rimmed glasses make her stick out like a sore thumb among the agents in their dark tactical suits. The bright smile on her face only widens as the spotlight falls on her, and she looks around at everyone while she speaks.
"It's lovely to be here, and to be part of the team," She begins. "While I will be mainly stationed in the tower with a strong focus on the Avengers, I want the SHIELD agents to know that I'm just an email away."
"Lovely," Tony says, before clapping his hands together. "Alright, that's all for today. If anyone has any questions about their changed roles, ask Pepper, not me." While everyone else begins to file out of the room, Tony points at you and Natasha. "Girls, would you please be so kind as to show Poppy around?" He asks, though you know it's more of an order.
You grab Natasha's arm. "Hey, so uh, I was planning on training-"
"No, you're not getting out of this," She cuts you off bluntly. "Come on. It'll be good to meet her. After all; she's here to look after us."
With an inward sigh, you follow Natasha out of the meeting room where Poppy is waiting. She perks up when she sees you both, flashing you another one of those bright smiles.
"It's such an honour to be working with you Ms Romanoff, and Sergeant Y/L/N," She says.
"It's great to have you with us, Poppy, and please just call me Natasha; no need for the formalities," She responds politely. "Shall we start the tour?"
"Please!" Poppy chirps, before the three of you begin walking.
The tour consists of Natasha chatting away with Poppy, while you trail close behind. You know she's a part of the team now, but you can't see yourself being friends with Poppy - she describes things as wonderful and cosy, where you just see sweaty gyms and dusty common areas.
When the tour finally comes to an end and Poppy is dropped off to her room to settle in, you let out a long sigh and rest against the wall.
"She's nice!" Natasha exclaims, already knowing what you're thinking.
"She's exhausting," You grumble. "How can one person be so constantly... on?"
"You know, there are happy people in the world," She teases, nudging your shoulder before beginning to walk away. "Not everyone is as dark and gloomy as you!"
"Nah, I've sent Sam out on a beer run, and we're about 20 miles away from the nearest town, so I'll be alone for a little while," Bucky tells you over the phone. "How's it going over there? Steve said something about a big, important meeting we missed."
"I don't know about big and important," You reply flatly while mindlessly scrolling through movies on the TV opposite your bed. "Mostly just updates for the agents that make no difference to us. Oh, and Tony's had to hire someone to look after us."
"Look after us?" Bucky repeats with confusion in his tone.
"Yeah, I'm not actually sure what her job is, but the government sent her to make sure we don't go crazy or something," You tell him absentmindedly. "So far, she's printed off everyone's schedules on coloured paper, and I think she gave Steve a massage."
"A massage, hmm? You're making me excited to come home," He says, and you can hear the smirk.
"Oh, yeah? The idea of a woman you've never even seen gets you more excited than me?" You ask dryly, not genuinely offended but still wanting to push the boundaries of whatever your relationship with Bucky is.
"Is she hot?" He asks.
You think about it, tilting your head. "She's definitely pretty," You say. "I don't know if she's your type, though."
"So what you're saying is, she looks nothing like you?" He questions, to which you snort.
"Are you saying I'm your type?" You ask slyly. "And here I thought you were just getting your dick wet with the first person who could get it hard."
"Hey, you weren't the first," Bucky says defensively.
"I was the first who managed to keep it up," You point out.
"Doesn't that technically make you my type?" He wonders.
"Maybe I intellectually turn you on because of how smart I am," You poise. "Doesn't mean I'm physically your type. But I think Poppy definitely isn't your type."
"Poppy, huh? Sounds cute," He quips.
"Oh, cute is the perfect word for her because she uses it to describe, like, everything," You say with a dry laugh. "And she wears a lot of colors, and is always smiling, and bakes cookies every night."
"Alright, I'm beginning to see what you mean," Bucky says with a chuckle. "She's not you, baby."
As much as you hate that your heart takes him seriously when he makes off-handed comments like that, you can't help it when your stomach flips. "Anyway, when are you coming back? I'm bored and want sex," You say flatly. That's it. Make it about sex. Nothing romantic or emotional at all.
"We'll be back at some point tomorrow, we just need to wrap a few things up tonight," He tells you. "Then I'll wrap my thing up tomorrow night... and put it inside you."
"That was terrible. We don't even use condoms," You utter. "But I'm looking forward to it."
"You're not leaving me, are you?" He asks.
"I have my show to catch up on," You tell him.
"But I thought, you know, with Sam gone for a little bit, we could have some fun," He says suggestively.
You smirk to yourself and sink back into your pillow. "I don't think so, Sergeant," You reply. "You know I love it when you get back from a mission with all that pent up frustration you can take out on me. I'm not ridding myself of that opportunity. Especially not when you've been gone so long."
"Fuck, you're killing me," He groans. "You're really not gonna help me out?"
"No, and you're not allowed to help yourself out, either, so don't take it out your pants," You order him sternly.
"Too late. It's been out since you picked up."
"Sergeant Barnes!"
"You know your voice is enough for me. Can't I just listen to you rant about your show, or Poppy while I... help myself out?" He inquires.
"Absolutely not; you've been waiting all week so you can wait another night. And I don't want you to jerk off while I talk about another woman," You say curtly.
"Jealous, are we?"
There it is. The stinging J word. You tease each other with it, knowing it's the second emotion you aren't allowed to feel - the first being love. You and Bucky are just friends who have a lot of sex, and emotions would just get in the way of that.
"No, it's the principle," You claim. "I'm not helping you get off to someone else."
"I don't even know what she looks-"
"Listen, Sergeant, you are not allowed to cum until you next see me," You cut him off, sick of him thinking he has you on strings. "Put your pathetic little dick away and count sheep. And when you see me tomorrow, you're gonna fuck my brains out like it's the last time. Do you understand?"
There's a brief pause and he lets out a shaky breath. "Yes."
You sigh. "Yes, what?"
Another brief pause before he responds. "Yes... mommy."
"That's a good boy," You say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"If you haven't killed me by then," He says with a strained voice. "Fuck, I can't wait to fuck you."
"Good night, Sergeant," You sing teasingly.
"Good night, you little shit."
Team dinners are one of the first things Poppy implemented as the Wellness Officer. She claims that quality time can lead to a 25% increase in efficiency and communication in the field, and you wonder what branch of the army she learnt that from.
While the others converse among each other, you play with your stew. It's almost 8pm and Bucky and Sam still aren't back, and if you have to wait another day, you aren't sure that you'll survive. One of the reasons you and Bucky started sleeping together was stress relief, and with Poppy's delightful presence having you on edge, you're as stressed as ever.
"More bread?" Steve asks as he holds the basket out to you.
"No, thank you, Captain," You reply, unable to speak to him any less formally. Your time as a weapon for the army left you with traits and behaviors you couldn't control, most of which you therapied away, but respect for those who rank above you is one of those things that just doesn't seem to budge.
Steve knows that, and though he hates that you're constantly at attention around him, waiting for an order or scolding, he understands that it's how you're wired.
"Poppy made it fresh," Tony tells you as he takes another piece, his eyes fluttering shut as he smells it. "And it's glorious."
With pink cheeks, Poppy shyly looks down at her bowl. If nothing else, it is interesting to have her around. Though nobody is quite as stoic or cold as you (besides Bucky on his bad days), none of the Avengers are anywhere near as upbeat and joyous as Poppy, either. You wonder how it works. Where does that energy come from? Is it naivety that makes her see the best in everything? Has she never been hurt, or betrayed? What's wrong with her?
Would you be like her if you didn't go through what you went through?
"Finally," Tony says as he looks down at his watch that just flashed with a notification. "The boys are back!"
Although you want to rush to the hangar and steal Bucky away to the nearest bed, you have an image of nonchalance to uphold, so you remain seated, taking another bite of your stew. It takes almost ten minutes for Sam and Bucky to get to the dining room, each minute driving you closer to the brink of insanity.
When you see him walk in, you shift in your seat but remain sitting. His eyes immediately land on you, and he shoots you a sly wink that makes your thighs squeeze together.
"Hey, come on in, sit down," Bruce greets them, pulling out the empty chair next to him. "You must be hungry."
"Nah, we filled up on MREs on our way back," Sam tells him, to which Wanda grimaces.
"I don't know how you guys actually eat those things," She says with a look of disgust on her face.
"They're army boys; they're used to 'em," Natasha says with a laugh.
"And they're much better nowadays than they were in the 40s," Bucky adds.
"Sure? Poppy made stew and fresh bread," Tony tells them, before perking up. "Oh! This is Poppy, by the way, our new Wellness Officer. Poppy, this is-"
"Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Barnes, it's an honor to meet you both," She says as she rushes to her feet, shaking each of their hands.
"Please, we're just Sam and Bucky in here," Sam tells her with a chuckle. "So, wellness, huh?"
While they chat, Bucky walks over to you. "Hey, do you mind if I discuss something with you? We found some files that might be linked to Oscorp, so I wanted you to have a look at them first," He says, and you know he's lying through his teeth and just wants to get you alone so he can ravage you. And, more than happy to comply, you stand up.
"Ooh, hold on!" Poppy calls out to you both. "As Sergea- Bucky has just arrived from a mission, I need to go through the debrief with him."
"We don't have debriefs until Captain Rogers and Tony look through the intel," You point out to her with a frown.
"Oh, no, not a mission debrief, per say," She says with a soft laugh. "More of a personal debrief. Just to make sure everyone comes back feeling good."
"I feel fine," Bucky says flatly.
Poppy laughs again, and you realize it's something she does when she's nervous. "I'd much prefer to talk about it one-on-one with you, Bucky," She says. "It's a new policy that's been put in place. I'll talk to you first, and then Sam, if that's okay?"
"Sure," Sam agrees while taking a piece of bread from the basket on the table.
"It's policy, Barnes," Tony sings, giving him a pointed look.
Letting out a sigh, Bucky nods. "Alright," He says, shooting you a quick look. "We'll discuss the Oscorp files later."
"Yep," You say, trying not to let your annoyance show as Poppy leads Bucky out of the room.
"Ooh, Y/N's boyfriend just got stolen," Clint sings teasingly, making Sam snort.
A cold glare is shot his way from you. "Fuck off, Barton," You utter. "Don't you have kids to raise?"
"They're at sleepaway camp!" He exclaims.
"You two should fight to the death," Tony casually suggests, standing up. "I'm taking bets, people."
"I'll put ten on Clint," Bruce says, raising his hand.
"What? Y/N's a super soldier that can make his blood explode," Wanda says with a scoff.
"That was one time, and I still haven't figured out how I did that," You tell her, before focusing your glare on Clint. "But what I do know is how to dislocate your shooting shoulder in less than a second."
He clutches it protectively. "Alright, I yield," He says, sitting back in his chair.
"Anyway, I'm going to bed before Poppy comes back and makes us all sing kumbaya," You say flatly, standing up.
Thor snorts, shaking his head. "She's a lovely girl, Y/N," He comments while you walk towards the door. "You oughta learn a thing or two from her!" He manages to get in before you leave the room.
You grumble all the way back to your room. Learn from her? What, how to perfectly place stickers on a chart?
You manage to watch an entire episode of your show and Bucky still doesn't arrive. For some reason, even though you know it likely isn't his fault that his talk with Poppy is taking so long, you still want to punish him, so you leave your room and head to one of the common rooms you know will be empty at this time.
This common room is filled with lava lamps and low lighting; Tony said it would be relaxing. Relaxing isn't something you're capable of, though, so you pace around the couch instead, letting your mind wander to dark places. Are they fucking? Or worse, emotionally connecting? What if he falls in love with her?
"Thought I'd find you here, gunner."
You spin around to see Bucky standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of briefs, taking you aback.
"You're naked," You utter.
"I'm sorry I took so long," He begins. "It-"
"I don't care, Sergeant," You cut him off curtly. "Get over here, already."
He obeys you without another word, striding over to you. Once he reaches you, he immediately crashes his lips onto yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands squeeze your ass. It doesn't take long for him to remove your t-shirt and pyjama shorts before throwing you onto the couch with a look of hunger in his eyes.
"I thought about this every second that I was gone," He utters lowly, sinking to his knees. "Are you nice and wet for me, baby?"
Your hips lift up in anticipation as your breath hitches in your throat. "So fucking wet for you," You whisper.
He crawls over to you before leaning up and using nothing but his teeth to pull down your panties. Once they're off, he tightly grabs your thighs and spreads your legs. When he dives into your pussy, you cry out, your head thrown back against the couch.
Bucky wasn't always this good at eating you out- in fact, at first, he was borderline terrible. It was his first time going down on someone since the 40s, and you could tell. He was happy to take on your constructive criticism, though, and now you can honestly say he's the best oral sex you've ever had - you could also honestly say he's the best sex you've ever had, full stop, but you don't want to give him a bigger ego.
"Just like that, Bucky, don't stop," You whimper, tugging on his hair. His eyes are on you, his pupils so dilated you can barely see any blue.
His hands trail up your stomach, up to your tits. While his tongue fucks you, he pulls and twists on your nipples, making your legs shake. Your eyes roll back and your back arches. The long wait for this has meant you're not lasting very long at all, ready to cum already.
"That's it, baby, let go," He mumbles before sucking on your clit.
You let out a strangled cry, pulling his hair so hard you're sure you've left a bald patch, as you reach your climax. Bucky keeps going while you shake beneath him, letting out weak whimpers.
He eventually gives you a break and pulls away, crawling up onto the couch and settling between your still-shaking legs. His hand cups your face as you breathe heavily, his thumb stroking your cheek, watching you. Many times before he's told you how much he loves watching you during this part - coming down from your orgasm. Watching as your heartbeat returns to normal, your breaths less deep, your wits slowly returning to you. Bucky lets you come down completely before kissing you. He's always been a good kisser; that was one you thing you didn't have to train him on.
"How was that?" He whispers against your lips.
"It was alright," You answer with a grin.
"Hmm. One step up from okay," He says, rubbing your earlobe between his fingers. "Ready for me to fuck your brains out, now?"
"No, I wanna suck your dick, first," You tell him. "Needa return the favor."
"That wasn't a favor; that was me doing what I wanted to you," He corrects you. "And now, I wanna fuck you."
"But I wanna suck your dick," You counter, digging your nails into his shoulders as you grind your hips, rubbing your wet pussy against his clothed boner. "Please, Sergeant Barnes, I want it in my throat."
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum if you don't stop," Bucky says with a shudder. "How do you get me like this so easily, huh?"
Using more of your strength than usual, you push him off you and get on your knees on the floor in front of him. He balls his hand into a fist and bites his knuckles, throwing his head back over the sofa. It drives him crazy when you manhandle him; it's the reason you can't spar together.
"Give me a second," He whispers, his chest heaving while you slowly peel his boxers down.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I'm impatient," You say teasingly before wrapping your mouth around his thick cock and taking a few inches of it in.
"Oh, fuck!" He cries, running his hand through your hair. "Baby, I swear, I'm gonna cum so fucking fast if you don't give me a second-"
"So cum," You say, though your words are muffled due to the cock in your mouth. Pulling your mouth off him with a pop, you give him a blank look. "Cum down my throat, and then you can have two minutes to recover before you rail me."
He lets out a shaky breath, and lets out what almost sounds like a sob when you take him back in your mouth and start bobbing your head up and down. "Fuck, baby, you'll kill me one of these days," He groans, staring down at you as strings of pre cum and saliva coat his cock and your lips. "That's it, get it nice and messy. You like getting messy, don't you?" He rubs the cum onto your cheeks, shuddering when you wink at him. "You suck my cock so good, baby. My good little cumslut, aren't you?"
You let out a moan as his words send sparks through to your core. His dirty talk drives you insane, and he knows it. He could destroy you by just whispering a few words into your ear, and he especially loves doing so in public when there's nothing you can do about it.
"I'm close, baby," Bucky warns you.
As much as you would feel good about making him cum right now, it sounds like am even better idea to prolong his frustration- so you pull your mouth off of his dick.
"What the fuck?" He whispers between heavy breaths.
You stand up with a coy look on your face. "I changed my mind," You say simply. "Just want you to fuck me, now."
He clenches his jaw while you bite your lip, recognizing the dark look in his eyes. Not only is he frustrated, now he's irritated too. And he always fucks you harder when he's irritated.
Bucky stands up and grabs a fistful of your hair before forcing you face-down onto the couch. He mounts you from behind, using his metal hand to keep yours behind your back while he pushes his cock into you.
"Is it in yet?" You ask with a smirk, trying to hide your gasps as he fills you up.
"Fuck you just say?" He shoots back, lowering his head so his mouth is at your ear. "Gonna be like that, huh?" Without warning, he starts fucking you, hard.
Sex was something he was good at from the start, too, but he only gets better the more he learns what makes you squirm, what makes your eyes roll back, what makes your cunt tighten around him.
One of the other reasons you and Bucky decided to start sleeping together was the fact that, as you both had serum running through your blood, and had been through the worst kind of physical pain already, you can be as rough with each other as you want (which is a lot). Bucky doesn't have to worry about hurting you, which is what stopped him dating normal people, and you can manhandle him when he's in the mood to be submissive (which isn't often enough, in your opinion).
"Fuck, I missed you," He groans as he slams in and out of you. "Did you miss me, baby? Tell me."
You turn your face so your cheek is smushed against the couch. "I missed you, Serge," You let out weakly. "So fucking bad."
"Yeah?" Bucky presses, his lips nibbling at your earlobe. "Bet you couldn't stop thinking about me. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Your heart flutters at his words. Don't take him seriously. It's just horny sweet nothings.
He slows down his thrusts but still fucks you just as hard, letting out a grunt each time he bottoms out in you. His face is buried in your neck, while you feel your second orgasm quickly approaching.
"Bucky," You whimper.
"Tell me, baby," He whispers softly, though his thrusts are anything but.
"I'm- I'm gonna-"
All of a sudden, you hear it. Footsteps. Then you smell it. Strawberry perfume. Bucky's thrusts stop at the exact same time your sentence is cut off - someone's coming.
The second he pulls out, the doors open. Bucky gets off you and tosses you your shirt, which you rapidly put on.
"Oh!" A familiarity grating voice chirps. "I wasn't expecting anyone to- oh."
You pull on your shorts before standing and turning to see Poppy, and you can't help the way your eyes narrow at her.
"Sorry, Poppy," Bucky says as he uses a pillow to cover his bare chest, his boner poking through his briefs.
"No, I'm sorry!" She says. "I'm just doing my nightly sweep of all the common areas to make sure they're fit for use in the morning- I assumed everyone was in their rooms by now."
"It's barely 9pm," You point out flatly, frustrated that she interrupted when you were so close to finishing.
"I'm so sorry for just bursting in like that," Poppy said, hugging a decorated clipboard to her chest. "There's never anyone in these rooms past 8."
"You've been here a week, so how would you know?" You question her.
"Alright," Bucky utters sternly, giving you a pointed look before turning back to her. "It's our fault, Poppy. We shouldn't have been... doing that here."
She nods slowly. "I wasn't aware that the two of you were a couple," She says. "There's actually a policy in place for this kind of thing - you know, to keep the both of you safe."
"I think we're plenty safe, Newton," You utter curtly. "We don't need a color-coded schedule for when we're allowed to fuck."
Bucky hides his snort with a cough.
"Of course not!" Poppy exclaims with flushed cheeks. "I don't expect you to have to schedule... that. I just want to make sure you're both alright."
"We're fine," You tell her, folding your arms across your chest. "Neither of us rank higher than the other, so there's no abuse of power. We're both consenting adults. You don't need to be involved. At all."
She winces at your words, but keeps that damn smile on her face. "I completely appreciate that, but I really do need to follow policy and speak to you both alone, just a quick catch up so we're all feeling comfortable," She says. "Bucky, could we please have the room? I'll speak to you tomorrow."
Bucky glances at you and nods. "Uh, sure," He replies, before coming closer to you and whispering in your ear. "I'll be in your room."
You clench your jaw as he walks out, watching as Poppy shyly looks down when he walks past her.
"So, that's nice! You and Bucky!" She exclaims as she closes the doors and walks further into the room. "Now that we're alone, I can ask you some questions to make sure everything's fine- which I'm sure it is."
You say nothing, your fingers twitching.
"This won't take long at all," She assures you. "Let's get started - how did this all begin?"
"Do you really need the whole story?" You ask her.
A nervous laugh escapes her mouth. "I guess not. It's just that, with you having a relationship with someone on the team, we need to ensure a healthy and respectful workplace," Poppy explains.
"I was horny one night. Bucky was there. The rest is history," You say bluntly.
Her cheeks flush pink and she nods quickly. "Right. Uh, to begin, I'd just like to ask if there have been any concerns raised by your fellow teammates about your relationship with Bucky?"
A sigh leaves your nose. "It's not exactly public knowledge," You tell her. "We've never explicitly told anyone, anyway. And to be honest, I'm not sure anyone cares."
"...Right," She says, before scribbling something down on her clipboard. "And if the relationship was to come to an end, do you foresee this resulting in any conflict, if you're still expected to work together?"
"No," You utter. "We're mature adults. I think we can handle it."
"Right, and um, just to make sure we protect you in the case of a pregnancy, would you be happy to do a monthly test?" She asks you with a raised brow.
"That won't be needed," You tell her flatly. "Oscorp didn't think it was necessary for their weapons to be able to reproduce."
Her lips part and she sucks in a sharp breath, before pursing her lips together and nodding quickly. "Right. Right."
"Will that be all?" You ask.
Poppy nods at you. "Of course. Oh, one more thing," She begins. "I would really appreciate it if you and Bucky kept your... relations... strictly in your own rooms, and not in the common areas. Alright, you're free to go!"
"I hate her," You mumble as you repeatedly open and close your switchblade. "I fucking hate her."
"She's not that bad," Natasha says. "You just need to get used to her."
You let out a grumble, staring at the breakfast counter. It's a quiet Sunday in the tower, which you're grateful for. Bucky's looking through the cabinets while Natasha paints her nails next to you. Suddenly, he gasps.
"No way. Chocolate cookie mix," He says, holding the box up. "Check it out!"
"Looks like it's been in there for years," You comment.
He reads the back and shakes his head. "It's not expired yet," He tells you, before giving you a grin. "Wanna help me make them?"
As much as you wouldn't mind baking with Bucky, you can't. Domestic, romantic tasks like that are exactly what will cause you to slip up and do something stupid like catch feelings for him. And you'll also look like a total sap in front of Natasha.
"Come on, gunner," He presses. "I'll even let you crack the eggs."
"I'm good," You say, standing your ground.
Bucky pouts at you, and before he can beg you further, someone else enters the kitchen. And of course, it's her.
"Hey, gang!" Poppy greets with a grin, her eyes widening when she sees what Bucky's holding. "Ooh, what do we have here?"
"Uh, chocolate cookie mix," He tells her. "Just in the mood for something sweet, so I thought I'd make 'em."
"That sounds like fun!" She exclaims. "Can I help?"
"Sure," He replies quickly. A little too quickly for your liking.
"First - aprons," Poppy says with a giggle, tossing him one of the aprons hung by the oven before putting on her personalised pink one that has 'Pop!' embroidered onto it. She takes the box from Bucky and reads the back. "Hey, these kind of cookies were pretty popular back when you were a kid, right?"
A warm smile grows on Bucky's face. "Yeah, they were. My grandma made the best chocolate cookies," He tells her. "I, uh, thought it might be nice to have a taste of home."
Fuck. You feel awful for rejecting him now, knowing he wanted to share a heartfelt memory with you. Shit.
"Judging by these ingredients, I don't think this box mix will taste anywhere near as good as your grandma's," Poppy says, before tossing it in the trash. "I happen to have my own recipe for chocolate cookies, passed down my family through generations. Wanna give me a hand making them?"
"Of course," Bucky says, his face absolutely lit up.
You feel a little nauseous, watching them bake together. You've never seen this side of him before. He looks... happy. At peace.
Sometimes, you wonder if you make him worse. If every time he looks at you, he's reminded of his own sordid past. If every time you refer to what you went through, it gives him his own traumatic flashbacks. He tells you his nightmares aren't as bad anymore, but he could easily be lying. At first, with everything you had in common, it made sense for you to spend time with him. But maybe he's grown out of you. Maybe he needs someone more like Poppy to show him everything good in the world, rather than remind him of all the bad.
Maybe it's best for you to withdraw.
"You okay?" Natasha asks with a whisper before blowing on her nails.
"Perfectly fine," You mumble, your eyes still on Bucky who's laughing while Poppy places balls of cookie mixture on the tray.
"All you gotta do is tell him how you feel," Natasha says.
"I don't feel anything," You state adamantly.
"Sure," She says with narrow eyes. "I see through you, ice queen. You gotta melt before you lose him."
With a huff, you leave the kitchen and make your way to the living area just outside it, slumping down on the couch. Natasha may be right, but she's also wrong. It's not about you telling him how you feel or admitting that you want more than sex - it's the fact that he deserves better than you. Someone who will light him up. Make him feel joy and excitement, not bring him down.
You're watching a mind-numbingly boring documentary when Bucky walks out into the living room, smiling when he sees you. "There you are," He says, walking over to where you're sitting.
"Here I am," You reply, your heart racing the closer he gets. Get a grip.
"Thinking about me?" Bucky asks you, standing next to the couch.
"Not at all," You lie through your teeth.
He leans down and lowers his voice. "Are you sure about that?" He questions you teasingly, before leaning in and giving you a soft, slow kiss.
His hand slips under the band of your shorts and bypasses your panties, and he rubs his fingers up and down your wet pussy. A whimper escapes your mouth, and he pulls away from the kiss with a smirk.
"I knew it," He utters, taking his hand out of your panties. "Always wet for me, aren't you?"
"No. It's this documentary," You claim stubbornly. "I'm really into... the process of making sheet metal."
"Oh, yeah?" Bucky asks with a smirk. "Got it. That's my next Halloween costume settled."
"Sorry for not making cookies with you," You say, blinking up at him. "If I knew you'd emotionally blackmail me with the dead grandma thing, I'd have said yes."
A grin spills out on his lips. "Gunner, are you feeling bad for me right now?" He wonders with a look of delight in his eyes. "Don't worry, baby, I got my cookies in the end. Poppy is a wonderful baker, by the way."
"So I've heard," You say with your eyes on the TV screen.
"She's also got a great ass," He adds, trying to get a reaction out of you.
"Yep."
"And is probably a great kisser."
"Mhm."
"Baby," He mumbles in your ear, rubbing your thigh as he finally gives up trying to lure you into an outburst. "Let's fuck."
You snort. "We're not allowed to fuck in common rooms anymore," You remind him.
"So, let's go to my room," He suggests.
This wasn't the plan - but how are you supposed to withdraw from him when he looks at you like that? Maybe he is happy with you. He's been a lot less stressed out and snappy ever since you've been sleeping together - everyone can see that. He seems happy right now, anyway.
"Fine, but you're carrying me," You say, holding out your arms.
Just before he can pick you up, Poppy bursts into the room with a wide smile. "The cookies are done!" She sings, waltzing over with a plate which she places on the coffee table. "Everyone, dig in!"
Natasha's behind her, already chowing down on a cookie. Bucky immediately reaches out and picks up two, handing you one. Hesitantly, you take a small bite. You hate that it tastes amazing.
"Oh, my God," Bucky says with a mouthful of cookie, swallowing before he continues. "Poppy, this tastes exactly like grandma's."
"Ah, I'm so happy to hear that!" She gushes.
"These are incredible," He all but moans, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you. "You sure you shouldn't be a baker, instead? I'd pay good money for these."
"Oh, no," Poppy says bashfully. "I like taking care of you guys too much."
He chuckles at that, while you bitterly eat your cookie.
He wouldn't be happier with her. He wouldn't. He would not be happier with her. He categorically would never be happier with her.
That's the mental mantra you find yourself repeating as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You're not insecure about your looks. You believe him when he says you're the most attractive woman he knows. You know you're great in bed. Your physical strength is one of his biggest turn-ons. Besides your inability to love, you're the full package. But Bucky doesn't want love, anyway. He's never asked for it. That's not what this is. The both of you are traumatised beyond belief, so all you want is a warm body and orgasms; not a fragile emotion that could fall apart at any moment.
"Done checking yourself out?" Grant cuts in dryly as he stands behind you, his arms folded across his chest and an unimpressed look on his face. "I came all the way up here to spar, Bloodhound, not watch you fall in love with your own reflection."
With an eye-roll, you turn to face him. Grant is the only Agent you semi-get along with, and the only one you'd ever spend time outside of work with. He doesn't ask stupid questions, pry into your personal life, or try and suck up to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the agents.
"Alright, Ward, let's do this," You say, walking over to the boxing ring.
Grant gets a lot more out of these sessions than you - you have to hold back your strength to make sure you don't kill him, while he gets to go as hard as he can to test his own strength and agility. The only reason you agreed to these sessions is because you've learnt that it's good to have a high-up agent in your pocket for when you need information about a mission or target that you wouldn't otherwise be able to get.
The gym's empty when you begin to spar, and slowly fills up with your teammates as the sun rises outside the window. Among the agents, you spot Bucky walk in at some point too, unable to help his wandering eyes from watching you fight. You barely break a sweat while Grant is fighting for his life, before he eventually taps out.
"Alright, alright, I'm done," He says between heavy breaths. "Next time, you can go a little harder."
You snort and raise a brow. "Are you sure about that, Ward? Know what you're getting yourself into?"
He just nods, grabbing his water bottle from the side of the ring and chugging.
"Oh, Y/N! It's great to see you here!"
You can't help but immediately roll your eyes at Poppy's chirpy voice, slowly turning to face her.
"I know you usually train alone, so it is brilliant to see you working with the agents," She goes on to say with a grin, before craning her neck to look behind you. "I hope she didn't go too hard on you, Special Agent Ward!"
"Not at all," Grant replies, wiping his sweaty forehead with a small towel as he stands next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulder. "Bloodhound looks after me very well."
With a grimace, you shove him away from you. "Consider it charity," You tell Poppy.
"Well, it's very kind of you," She says, before her eyes light up. "But if you want a more challenging partner, why don't you spar with Bucky? I know he's been complaining about Steve missing their last few sessions, and he'd likely appreciate training with someone more on his level."
"Good luck with that," Natasha calls out to Poppy with a smirk. "Barnes and Y/N don't train together."
Poppy frowns at Natasha's words. "But why not?" She asks.
"He's scared of me," You throw out as Grant clambers out of the boxing ring.
From the other side of the gym, Bucky snorts. "You fuckin' wish, gunner," He calls back smugly. "I'd have you on your back in seconds."
Ignoring his quick wink, you shoot him a glare. "You'd be knocked out before you even realized what was happening," You fire back.
"Well, why don't we find out?" Poppy asks with a grin. "It'll be good for you both to train with someone at your level so you can really give it your all. Holding back on training will only weaken you."
"Does this really fall into your remit?" You wonder.
"Of course!" She exclaims. "I need to look out for your wellbeing on the field, too!"
The truth is, the reason you and Bucky don't spar - or rather, can't spar - is because he gets far too excited whenever you exhibit your strength against him. You've sparred him exactly once, and when that ended with him jizzing in his pants, you both agreed it would be best to train separately from then on. And that was before you started sleeping together.
"I'll tell you the truth, Poppy, about why they don't spar," Sam inserts as he strolls over with a smirk on his face. "Because they're both too scared to find out who number two is."
"Number two?" Poppy repeats with a confused look.
"You know; Steve is the strongest on the team in terms of human physical strength," Sam explains. "He's beaten both Bucky and Y/N in strength tests before. So, he's number one - and if Bucky and Y/N ever fight, we'd find out who number two is."
"And they're both too scared of the shame they'd feel if they ended up being number three," Natasha adds with a shrug. "It's all very juvenile."
You hold back your smile. It's cute that they think Steve is number one. The only reason he's beaten you in training sessions is because you don't use your full strength against him - he's your Captain, your senior, and you've frustratingly got it stuck in your head that you're to be subordinate to him, and beating him would be disrespectful.
"Alright, fuck it," Bucky states as he makes his way over. "Let's do this, gunner."
You raise a brow as he climbs into the ring, and admittedly your heart flutters. Though you're much better at hiding it, there's no denying you get just as excited as Bucky at the prospect of being manhandled by him.
"This is gonna be good," Sam says with a smirk. "Tasha, get your hundred bucks ready, because Barnes is going down."
Moving closer to Bucky, you lowly warn him, "You better keep your shit together, Serge."
He clenches his jaw as you walk circles around each other. "Go easy on me, baby," He whispers.
Although you know it's best to do as he requests, you can't ignore your competitive streak - especially knowing that Natasha's bet against you. You and Bucky start slow and carefully, but it quickly turns into a brawl.
You've forgotten how much fun it is to use your full strength in a fight when you know your opponent isn't actually trying to kill you. At one point, you slam Bucky onto the ground and straddle him, pinning him down. His eyes darken and you feel his boner poke against your inner thigh.
Bringing your lips to his ear, you whisper, "You're far too easy, Sergeant."
With a huff of frustration, Bucky all but throws you off of him. He's slower and weaker than he can be, too turned on to think straight. His new goal is to pin you down, to take control, in an attempt to drive you as crazy as he feels. You fight back against his attempts, catching on to what he's trying to do.
Meanwhile, Natasha nudges Sam from the sidelines. "Is it just me, or is this incredibly sexually tense, right now?" She mumbles.
Sam just continues watching on with wide eyes.
When Bucky grabs your waist, it immediately gives you flashbacks to all the times he's grabbed it before - and you falter. He takes the opportunity to grab you and throw you down, crashing down onto you and pinning your arms down on either side of your head.
His eyes burn into yours, and suddenly, all you can see is him. The world melts away as his crystal blues hook you in, holding you captive. His boner rubs against you, stealing your breath.
With a new wind of determination, you rip your right hand out of his grip and wrap it around his throat, before pushing up your waist against his and forcing him onto his back, sitting on top of him.
He lets out a grunt and shudders beneath you, to which you grin.
"That was a new record," You mumble. "You lasted a lot longer than usual. I'm proud of you, Sergeant."
"Fuck you," He hisses through gritted teeth.
"Well, we should probably go," Sam calls out awkwardly as he claps his hands together. "I think you owe me a hundred bucks, Romanoff."
"Are you sure?" She asks, tilting her head. "I have no idea what just happened."
"I think I do," Sam grumbles before him and Natasha share a look and leave the gym.
"That was exhilarating to watch!" Poppy exclaims, entirely unaware as to what Bucky just did in his pants. "Bucky, do you want another shoulder massage? You said it really helped after your last training session."
Your eyebrows fly up. He didn't mention a fucking massage to you. And he let her touch his shoulder?
"Uh, no, I'm alright, Pop," He replies. "Think I need a shower more than anything."
Pop? That bastard.
Before he can leave first, you climb out of the ring and speed-walk out of the gym, refusing to be the one left behind.
This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.
So why aren't you waking up?
You see flashes of their faces. The innocent lives you took without hesitation. The families you destroyed.
And you see the faces of your captors. The doctors who experimented on you, pushed the limits of pain until you forgot what comfort felt like, who turned you into an inhuman weapon. Not only do you see their faces, you feel them. Their fingers, their grip, their pull.
And you see him. Bucky. He looks soft and sweet and everything you know him to be.
But you're hurting him. Chasing him down like one of your victims, watching as his skin is coated with his blood, destroying him. He's screaming. Begging you to stop. Asking you why you're doing this to him.
You sit up in bed with a gasp, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat sits on your skin. The bed feels cold and empty, and you think you might have a panic attack if you don't get proof that Bucky is safe, so you rush to your feet.
The clock on the wall tells you it's 2am, so you know it's likely that Bucky isn't in his bedroom. He'll be in one of the common rooms, the one with the lava lamps, probably recovering from his own nightmare. You've told him numerous times that you don't mind him waking you up when he needs to, but he says he'd feel too guilty to wake you up in case you're actually having a good night's sleep; a rare occurrence for you both.
You make your way to the common room, making sure to grab a packet of Bucky's favorite cookies from the kitchen on your way. As you get closer to the common room, you can hear his breath, but you stop in your tracks when you hear someone else.
"That's what I do, anyway," Poppy says softly. "That, or a warm glass of milk and counting sheep - my mom's method."
They laugh gently together, and you lean against the wall in the dark corridor so that you can peek through the crack in the door. He looks beautiful, his skin free of any blood, his face free of any pain. He's smiling. He looks at peace. He's safe, so you can rest easy.
But it still kills you that it's not you who he's safe with.
"If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'm always here," Poppy goes on to tell him, making your stomach churn.
Slowly, you back away. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like Bucky heard you at all; a testament to your sneaking skills. Though the feeling of panic and dread isn't quite fully quelled, you at least you know he's okay. Maybe even happy.
And you know you're selfish and a bad person for resenting Poppy for being the one to make him feel that way. It should be you - but you know you can't be that for him. So now you're stuck in a cycle of hating her but also hating yourself and appreciating her for being what you could never be for him.
It's painfully conflicting, so instead of thinking too much about it, you leave the tower, hoping to find some lowlife criminals you can beat up instead of yourself for once.
No matter how many fancy parties Tony throws, you'll never get used to the sight of yourself in a nice dress. You opted for a silky, black number, and you're glad when you see the myriad of colorful outfits that help you blend into the background as you enter the bar. Making a beeline to where Sam and Steve are chatting by the balcony doors, you avoid making eye contact with Tony's annoying business partners.
"Hey, here she is," Sam calls out with a wide grin, holding him arm out. You give him a quick side hug before standing up straight when you face Steve.
"Evening, Captain," You say firmly.
He sighs. "What's it gonna take for you to call me Steve, huh?" He asks, to which you glance down.
"I'm sorry, Captain Rogers," You say sheepishly. "It's built in."
"Maybe you two need to spend more time together so that you can see what a goof this guy really is," Sam suggests with a laugh. "All that respect will drop real quick."
"I'd really like that," Steve says, holding his arm out to you. "C'mon, Y/N, let's get you a drink."
With a nod, you link your arm with his and allow him to lead you to the bar.
"Y'know, I've been meaning to spend more time with you anyway," Steve admits. "With how close you and Bucky are getting, I figure I better make more of an effort."
"Oh, it's not like that between him and I," You assure him.
"No? Could've fooled me," He says teasingly as you reach the bar. "What's your poison?"
"Uh, just a whisky for me, please," You say, feeling entirely odd. It's not like you to engage in casual chit-chat with Steve, let alone get him to order you a drink.
Once the bartender slides your glass over, Steve takes your hand and walks you over to the floor-length windows. "This is killing you, isn't it?" He asks with a chuckle. "Holding your Captain's hand?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, using all your will-power not to pull your hand out of his and give him a salute instead. "I'm fine, Captain Rogers. This is fine," You claim.
"Alright, I'll be nice," He says, dropping your hand with a grin. "Anyway, I don't want to be holding your hand when Buck gets here. He'd probably throw me through this window."
You laugh at that, shaking your head. "I'm sure he wouldn't. He'd be too busy dodging all the women fawning all over him, as per usual," You say with a smile.
"Crazy how that's changed, right?" Steve says with a playful frown. "I used to be the one fighting off the attention, and now he's come in and stolen it all."
"I'm sure you still get plenty of attention," You mumble without meaning to.
"Are you flirting with your Captain?" He asks in a stern voice, making your eyes widen.
You straighten your back and look up at him. "No, Captain Rog-"
"I'm messing with you," He cuts in with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. That was mean." He then takes out a flask from his inner jacket and looks around to make sure no-one's watching, before pouring a splash into your glass. "Asgardian. Consider it a gift."
As much as you didn't think so, Sam seems to have been right, and the more time you spend chatting with Steve, the more comfortable you feel around him.
"Alright, as much as I'm enjoying this, I should go speak to some of Tony's partners," He says reluctantly. "Save me a dance later, yeah?"
"Will do, Capt- Steve," You say, smiling when his face lights up.
He puts a hand on his heart as he walks backwards. "We did it!" He cheers, before leaving you alone.
You turn towards the bar in search of another drink when you almost bump into Poppy, who looks equally as surprised to see you.
"Oh, hello!" She greets you cheerily, before looking you up and down with wide eyes. "You look absolutely gorgeous!"
"Oh, uh, thanks," You reply curtly, taking in her lilac dress. "You look nice, too."
"You're too kind," She says with a grin. "Hey, I've been meaning to speak with you a little more, one-on-one. I feel like I don't give you as much of my time as I do the others."
"That's not a problem," You assure her quickly. "I don't need therapy, or anything like that."
"Well, that's not all I offer!" She claims. "I'm here to help you meet whatever needs you feel aren't being met. That could be anything and everything."
"Right," You mumble. "My needs are being met, Newton, so I don't need you."
She looks disheartened at your words, but you don't care. "Um... how are you and Bucky doing?" She questions you carefully.
"What?" You ask, getting more irritated by the second. "Bucky and I are nothing, so you don't need to keep asking."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," She says, taking your words to mean that you've ended it between yourselves.
And then you get an idea: if she thinks you and Bucky are over, she'll stop pestering you about it every week.
"Well, it was only ever sex between us, so it's not a big deal," You say casually. "I'll find someone else to screw."
"Right," She utters.
"So, like, what's wrong with you?" You can't help but ask, the Asgardian ale loosening your tongue.
"What? What do you mean?" Poppy asks you with wide eyes.
"I mean, what's your deal?" You question. "You're just always happy, and upbeat, and seeing the brighter side. What's up with that?"
She looks taken aback by your words. "Oh. I guess... I just like being happy? There's far too much sadness and gloom in the world as it is, so why add to that? I just want to make sure everyone's comfortable to be themselves, and remind them that there is so much beauty and joy to be experienced if you just let it reach you."
Taking in her words, you nod slowly, and realize exactly how different you really are to her. Where you see failure, she sees opportunity. Where you see disappointment, she sees a second chance. Even now, with you being cold and closed off, she's still trying with you. She hasn't rolled her eyes or gotten annoyed at how stand-offish you are. She listens and engages and, even though she never could, she does her best to understand.
She's the complete opposite of you.
Suddenly, you get that sixth-sense feeling. You smell his aftershave as he approaches the room, combined with the perfume he only wears on special occasions. Your stomach flips. You're facing the doorway before he even appears in it, and it's like the whole room quietens down by twenty decibels when he walks in. Everyone turns to look at him, just as you look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing you're anticipating him. Instead, you look at Poppy, and you instantly recognize the look on her face.
Her eyebrows are raised slightly, her lips parting. Her eyes are locked onto him as if he's the only thing she sees.
And you can't blame her for feeling that way. You'd be a hypocrite if you judged her at all.
She starts fidgeting, looking down at her dress and smoothing down any creases, tucking her hair behind her ear and taking in a deep breath. Almost as if she's preparing for him to-
"Hi."
Your breath hitches in your throat. With your focus solely on Poppy, you didn't sense Bucky getting closer. You turn to him, his all-black suit destroying any sense you had left in your head, and just stare at him dumbly. He's looking back at you, warmth in his eyes.
"Hi, Bucky," Poppy replies nervously.
You look back at her. She's good. She would be good for him. Better than you could ever dream of being for him.
So you pat his shoulder and give him a nod as if he's nothing more than a colleague to you, and walk away, leaving them to it.
It feels like you're being torn apart as you hear them talk, so you speed to the balcony, focusing your heightened hearing on the wind, instead. Regretfully, you take a look back just as the French doors shut behind you, only to see Bucky laughing at something she said. It's his genuine laugh; the one where his eyes light up and his eyebrows fly up in delight.
She'd be good for him. For his mental health. How could you come in the way of that? If you truly care about him, how could you stand in the way of his health and happiness? He'd probably lose the abs from all the baked goods, but he'd be happy. How could you stop that?
"Hey," A voice calls out from behind you.
You turn to see Wanda who has a knowing look on her face. "Get out of my head, Maximoff," You utter sternly.
"I couldn't help it. You looked so... sad," She says, walking over to where you're standing by the railings and looking out at the city.
"That's none of your business," You say with a bitter tone. You're angry that she's read your mind, but a part of you is slightly relieved to know it isn't just your secret anymore.
"He really, really cares about you," She claims. "It's very obvious."
"That doesn't matter," You reply, tightening your grip on the railings. "He could be in love with me, for all I care. It doesn't change the facts."
"And what facts are those?" She pushes.
"That I'm bad for him," You reveal. "I'm... I'm just a walking reminder of everything he went through. At the start, it was nice to have someone who truly understood what we went through, who could genuinely relate. But now... he's come so far, and all I do is drag him back to the past. I can't keep doing that to him. It's selfish."
"Is that how you feel?" Wanda asks you. "That Bucky just reminds you of your past? Does speaking to him, being around him, take you back to your days at Oscorp?"
"No," You answer instantly. "Never. Even when he talks about HYDRA, all I can think about is how... angry I am at them for hurting him. How much I want to make him feel better."
"So why do you believe it's any different for him?" She questions with a quirked brow.
You let out a long sigh, staring up at the sky. Barely any stars are visible thanks to all the light pollution, but the moon's still shining. "He still has a chance. There's still light and love in him; I can see it. It comes out around... people like her. She brings out the best in him. Makes him smile and laugh, and bakes fucking cookies with him. I can't do that. Her magic doesn't work on me. I'm too far gone," You tell her, the Asgardian alcohol allowing you to open up in ways you wouldn't usually dream of. "I could never be like that. In fact, I'm so unlike her that I resent her for how happy she is. How positive her outlook on life is. I'm... jealous and I wonder why the fuck she gets to be like that. Why didn't she have to go through what I went through? Why does she get to live her life in a bubble? Why does she get to be happy and patient and kind? I hate her for something that she can't control, and convince myself that it's fine for me to treat her like shit because nothing I do to her will ever even come close to they did to me. It's like I'm... punishing her. Which makes me a bad person, with a rotten soul. And proves that Bucky deserves better."
"I think you'd be surprised at how wrong you are," Wanda says simply, before squeezing your shoulder and leaving you alone again.
After a few more minutes of listening to the traffic below, you decide to head back into the party. It's warmer inside, though seeing that Bucky is still talking to Poppy sends a cold shiver down your spine.
"I was wondering where you were," Steve says as you approach him and Natasha in the middle of the room.
"Just needed some fresh air," You tell them casually.
"I'm gonna head to the bar; I think Bruce is trying to play bartender again," Natasha says with a grimace before she walks away.
Steve gives you an expectant look. "Come to give me that dance you promised?" He asks.
"Sure, Steve," You say, still feeling incredibly weird using his first name.
"That's it; you're learning," He teases before taking your hand and leading you to the makeshift dance floor.
You dance to the slow rock song for a short while without speaking, your mind racing with a hundred thoughts. Would you be able to watch Bucky with her? It would probably kill you to see them kiss. You'd need to move out of the tower, and maybe even leave the Avengers as a whole.
"What's on your mind?" Steve asks, interrupting your overthinking.
"I don't know," You answer dumbly.
"Is everything okay?" He questions with concern on his face. "You and Bucky all good?"
A dry laugh leaves your mouth. "I don't know," You repeat.
"What did he do?" Steve utters, looking around the room in search of his idiot best friend.
"Absolutely nothing," You assure him. "Bucky is... perfect."
A warm smile takes over and he leans in closer. "I have it on good authority that he feels the same about you," He whispers.
Your chest tightens but you keep the pain off your face. Instead of responding, you rest your head against his shoulder. It does feel nice, being friends with Steve and not having to be on edge around him just because of his status in the army all those years ago.
Once again, you feel it - that sixth sense. Bucky's approaching. You remain as you are, hoping he's just walking past, not sure you're able to handle a conversation with him right now.
"Uh-oh. I'm about to be thrown through a window," Steve mutters, to which you snort.
"You could take him any day," You say, purposely loud enough for the brunet to hear as he reaches you.
"Is that really how you feel?" Bucky asks from behind you. You lift your head off of Steve and turn to face him, everything inside you stilling as you see the small smile on his face. All you want is to melt into him.
"I mean, I've never seen you pull down a helicopter, Sergeant," You say teasingly, to which Steve chuckles.
Bucky's smile gets a fraction bigger, before he gives Steve a nod that says, alright, your time's up, leave us alone. And Steve, knowing his friend well, bids you both farewell before doing exactly that.
"You're avoiding me," Bucky says bluntly once Steve is out of earshot.
With a sigh, you place your hands on his shoulders. "Let's dance," You say, not giving him a choice as you start swaying to the beat.
His hands find your waist and he pulls you closer. "I don't dance," He utters bluntly.
"Neither do I," You return.
"Why did you tell Poppy we broke up?" He questions you with a frown.
"Broke up?" You repeat with a confused look.
"You know what I mean," He says with an eye-roll. "You told her you're not screwing me anymore."
"Just wanted to get her off my back about it," You answer casually.
He purses his lips and nods slowly. "But I... you are still screwing me, right?"
A breathy laugh leaves your mouth, but then you falter, and don't reply.
Bucky stops in his tracks. "Okay. You're scaring me now," He says lowly.
"Let's go talk about this outside," You say, taking his hand.
"What? No," He replies stubbornly, planting his feet on the ground. "Tell me what's going on, right now."
You look around the dance floor at all the other guests before looking back up at him. "I don't think this is the best place to-"
"I don't care," He cuts you off, his brows furrowed. You can hear that his heartbeat has quickened. "Just talk to me. What is going on?"
You run a hand through your hair and let out a sigh. "I just... I've been thinking lately, and..." You trail off, hoping he'll jump in and say something, but he just looks at you expectantly. "Bucky. I don't think we should do this anymore."
His hands fall from your waist. "You can't do that," He mumbles. "You can't just do that to me, gunner."
"It's for the best," You claim, feeling like your insides are being ripped apart.
"What the fuck does that mean?" He asks, getting the attention of a few people around you.
With a wince, you shake your head before running away, like a coward. He chases you out, obviously, grabbing your arm just as you press the elevator button.
"You have to explain yourself," He says, his eyes filled with rage and pain. "You can't just... you don't get to just drop me like I'm nothing and leave me to find out from the fucking Wellbeing chick."
"And? You're just gonna give me up without a fight?" Bucky asks you incredulously. "As if I'd ever just step to the side cause some other guy had a crush on you? You're not gonna tell her to fuck off, and that I'm yours? I mean, this is Poppy we're talking about; who the fuck is she compared to you?"
You hear a short gasp and turn your head to see none other than Poppy standing at the entrance, her eyes wide. Fuck.
Bucky glances over at her, but he's too mad to even acknowledge her presence. "C'mon, let's go upstairs and talk about this," He says as the elevator arrives and opens up, and pulls you into it before pressing the button for your floor.
The doors slowly shut just as you see Poppy wiping away a stray tear. And for the first time since you were a child, you feel bad for someone.
"That wasn't nice, Buck," You say lowly, surprising yourself with your empathy.
"I'm not a nice man," He says bluntly.
"Yes, you are!" You claim, turning to face him. "You can be. If you're with someone like her."
He gives you an incredulous look. "Is that seriously what you think?" He asks, offence in his tone. "What, you think she can fix me?"
"You don't need fixing," You retort. "But she can make you happy."
"You make me happy," He shoots back at you.
"I'm just a warm body; I can't help you feel better," You say, feeling sick to your stomach.
"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks as the elevator comes to a stop.
The doors open up and you step out, with him hot on your trail as you walk towards your room. "I'm like you, Bucky. Exactly like you. Too much like you," You say as you reach your door. "I just... I don't want to bring you down. Remind you of all the... all the shit we went through. We fuck, and it's great, but I can't... I can't bake fucking cookies with you. I can't go on dates to Coney Island. I can't wear dresses like this every night and... I can't marry you or have kids. I'm nothing like her. Maybe... maybe if I wasn't taken by Osborn and turned into a weapon, I'd be more like her. But I was. And you deserve to feel normal and safe. And to go on cutesy fucking dates and eat homemade brownies and... she'd be so good for you, Bucky. And if not her, then someone like her."
"So, you'd be happy with someone more like her, too?" He asks you. "Someone more normal?"
"No, and that's the point!" You exclaim, entering your room. "She asks me to do pottery painting and I'd rather smash the clay over her head. She wants to go on fucking nature walks and play board games and I'm too bitter and resentful to play along. It's like I... I don't want to be happy. I'm fine the way I am. But you're... I see the way you laugh with her. I can imagine it. Maybe not her specifically, but someone you could have a picket-fence life with. A healthy relationship that fulfills you in every way, not just sexually."
He doesn't say anything, processing your words as he follows you into your room. You collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, lying back and staring at the ceiling. He shuts the door with a soft click before pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto your drawers. For a short while, neither of you speak.
"I don't even know where to start," He mutters, taking a seat at your desk. "I... I had no idea you felt like that. As if you've been doing anything but bringing me peace."
You let out a dry scoff. "Buck, I cry to you almost every Saturday night about all the fucked up shit I've been through," You remind him. "I dump my trauma onto you as if you don't have more than enough of your own. That can't be healthy."
He stands back up and sits on the opposite site of your bed, lying down so his head is next to yours. "Remember that first time you opened up to me, all those months ago? When you first had Thor's beer and were drunk for the first time since you were a teenager, and all you could do was cry?" He asks you, making you cringe.
"All too well," You whisper.
"And I kept you in my room because I knew you wouldn't have wanted everyone to see you like that. And the next morning, I thought you'd just leave, but you stayed. And you talked to me. Opened up to me about your feelings and your triggers and... fuck, you were hugging my arm so tight, and..." He shakes his head, letting out a short sigh. "That was the first time in a long, long time that I felt like I could help someone. The fact that you felt comfortable enough around me to speak about your deepest wounds... Letting me hold you while you cried, like I wasn't a monster. Like I could be someone that protected you."
"You were that person," You mumble. "You are."
"And since that day, I've never stopped wanting to be that for you," Bucky tells you, turning his head to face you. "That's how you make me feel. When you trust me with your secrets and let me carry the burden of your past, I feel more human than ever. This isn't just sex to me, my girl. You mean so much more than that."
You turn your body to face him and rest your hand on his chest, feeling each of his breaths with a rise and fall. "I'm not the kind of girl you can take bowling, and I'd rather die than kiss you in public," You point out. "I'm not gonna be your Valentine, or celebrate anniversaries. I'm-"
"I'm not asking for anything to change between us," He cuts in, placing his hand on top of yours. "I'm just telling you that... you're it for me. This is it for me. I don't need anyone else or any other kind of woman. As long as you want me, I'm yours. You fit me, more than anyone ever has and ever could."
You lean forward so your noses touch. "I... I'm not going to say this often, Barnes, so take it in while you can," You pre-warn him. "I love you."
A grin spills out on his lips. He doesn't try to hide it. "I love you, my girl," He whispers back. "We're all we need."
You smile back at him.
"I didn't get the chance to tell you how incredible you look tonight," Bucky says softly. "When I walked in, all I could see was you. It's like that every time I walk into a room. Even when you're not there, I look for you. Just... wanna be wherever you are."
"I, uh, have this weird thing," You begin with a laugh. "You know how we can tell when someone's about to walk in? We hear the specific weight of their footsteps, or smell their perfume, or whatever? Well, with you, it's like... I know it's you before I even hear your footsteps. And not just because I recognize your aftershave. I just... feel you. And it puts me at ease, knowing you're nearby. I'm not exactly a damsel in distress, but I feel safer when you're with me. I've never depended on someone like that. Even though it terrified me at first, I've grown to appreciate it."
Bucky's eyes flutter shut as his grin stays up. "You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that," He says, turning his body to face you and cupping your cheeks in his hands. "And I know it's hard for you to drop your guard. I'll never do anything to make you regret it."
"I know," You mumble, before laughing. "You look weird upside-down."
"I was just thinking whether I'd be able to kiss you in this position," Bucky admits with a chuckle.
You lean forward and shuffle down so your lips are level with his. Slowly, you close the gap between you, and though it's slightly odd at first to be kissing his mouth upside-down, you quickly get the hang of the tongue logistics.
"As much as I love you in it," He begins saying between kisses. "How about we get you out of this dress?"
You grin into the kiss, tugging on his hair. "I thought you'd never ask, Sergeant."
a/n: eek so this has been in my drafts for a good few months. been a concept i've wanted to write for soooo long. reminds me a little of one of my first ever (potentially my first ever) bucky fic, silent girl and the winter soldier. hope you enjoyed <3
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pairing: clark kent x journalist!reader
summary: clark kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. he is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man you know. so when your hard-won article gets pulled without explanation, the softest man in metropolis is suddenly ready to raise quiet, righteous hell. because when somethingâs wrong, he never lets it slideâespecially when it comes to you.
word count: 5.7k
warnings: 18+ mdni, coworkers/friends to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), semi-public sex (office), hair pulling! (m!receiving), wall sex, mutual pining, so much yearning, light angst, happy ending, clark losing it over an injustice, them christening every corner of the daily planet, this man lives to go down on u idc idc
In the twelve months youâve known Clark Kent, youâve counted exactly zero swear words.
Not one.
Not when the printer jammed five minutes before deadline. Not when a senatorâs aide âaccidentallyâ dumped her $14 latte over his notes. Not even when a rat the size of a chihuahua moved into the break room and stared him down like it paid rent. Â
Three hundred and ninety-something days. Zero expletives. Youâve been tracking it like a long-term assignment.
The working headline? The Unshakable Composure of Clark Kent.
It started as a joke. A mental note. A private running tally for your own amusement.
But over time, it became something else.
A quiet, obsessive little profile you couldnât stop writing in your head:
Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter.
Height: 6â4â (estimated; difficult to confirm without stepping too close and risking spontaneous heart failure).
Known aliases: None.
Known vices: Also none. (He drinks decaf. Returns library books early. Buys cookies from every internâs fundraiser and forgets to take them home.)
Notable habits: Misuses emojis in texts. Says âgood goshâ and âheckâ with a straight face. Holds elevator doors for people that are two hallways down. Apologizes when you step on his foot. Carries backup pens for forgetful coworkers (see also: you) and never complains when they disappear. Stops traffic in the middle of rush hour to rescue pigeons stranded in the rain. (Ok, that was one time, but still. Ridiculous.)
Relationship status: Unknown. (Not that youâve checked. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.)
And through a yearâs worth of careful observationsâof eleventh-hour rewrites, hostile interview subjects, and downloads crashing at 98%âthe man has yet to let so much as a âdamnâ slip past his lips.
And sure, that used to make sense. It fits the rest of the draft youâve outlined in your head:
âClark Kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. His deadlines are always met. His quotes always triple-checked. His emails always signed off with âThanks so much!â even when they absolutely should not be.
He is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man in this building. Possibly on Earth.â
And that, youâve always thought, makes him predictable. Safe. Easy to write, easy to understand.
But tonightâ
Tonight blows the whole story wide open.
Because Clark Kent is ten feet away in the quiet, after-hours bullpen, lit only by desk lamps and the glow of your phone screenâand he is absolutely vibrating with fury.
Heâs leaning back against a desk like itâs the only thing anchoring him to the ground. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose, fogged at the edges. His jawâs locked tight. Arms folded so hard across his chest itâs like heâs physically holding himself back.
And he hasnât looked at you once since you showed him the memo with shaking fingers:
We regret to inform you that your article has been removed from the upcoming issue.
No edits. No explanation. Just a clean corporate kill order, stamped with that neat, infuriating euphemism: Failure to meet editorial guidelines.
Which, translated from Boardroom Bullshit into plain English, means:
Too real. Too loud. Too close to someone with more money and lawyers than youâll ever have.
Youâre still standing there, ghost-lit by your screen, white-knuckling the phone like maybe, if you squeeze hard enough, you can unsend reality.
But Clark?
Clark is something else entirely.
Heâs past fury. Past protest.
Standing still in that way he only gets when something breaksânot out in the world, but inside him.
Youâve seen it before, in fragments.
When a shelter he covered lost its funding days before winter.
When a foster care bill he championed got struck down at the last second.
When your tires were slashed in the Planet garage and he didnât ask if it was tied to your reportingâjust asked which story.
When Clark gets truly upset, he doesnât raise his voice. Doesnât storm around or slam doors.
He goes still.
Brows drawn, jaw tight. And behind all that warm, glasses-wrapped mildness, his eyes turn diamond-sharp.
Youâve seen that look maybe four times in the last year.
Tonight makes five.
And this time, itâs for you.
You glance at him, then back at your phone, like the memo mightâve changed since the last time you read it.
It hasnât.
The bullpen is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own pulse feel like an alarm. Outside, Metropolis breathes, moving ever forward. But in here, time feels like itâs buffering.
Life still chugging along for the rest of the city while yours has come to a sudden, brutal halt.
Because it wasnât just a story. It was a truth someone didnât want printed. It was weeks of whispered meetings and late-night calls. It was sources you swore to protect and facts you held like lifelines.
It was the kind of piece that reminded you why you started this job in the first place. Why you stayed when it got hard. Why you cared so deeply when everyone else called it a lost cause.
Now, itâs nothing.
Scraped like gum from the bottom of someoneâs shoe.
But what wrecks youâwhat truly undoes youâisnât the memo.
Itâs him.
Clark Kent. Ten feet away, still as stone, burning quiet and hot like a forge under pressure.
And itâs unbearable. Not because heâs angry, no. Because his anger makes yours feel real. Valid. Itâs a spotlight on everything youâve been trying not to feel.
And the fact that it means this much to Clarkâit's excruciating.
When he finally speaks, his voice scrapes low. Gravel and steel.
âThis is such completeââ
He stops. Swallows it. You see his throat work through the rest.
You blink. âWere you about to swear?â
His laugh is barely a breath. âNo. I was about to flip this place upside down.â
You snort softly. âWell, thatâs healthy.â
He looks up at that. Â
And something shifts. Subtle. Measurable only if youâve spent a whole year cataloguing his tells, whichâyou have.
The set of his shoulders loosens by a fraction. His fists uncurl slightly at the edges. And then his eyes meet yours.
Theyâre still burning, molten with rage. But beneath it now is something raw and unmistakable. Something worse.
Grief. Fragility.
Recognition.
Not of your name or your work or even this story, but of you.
The kind of knowing that canât be taught, only earnedâthrough late nights and impossible deadlines, through buried stories and quiet sacrifices. Through witnessing each other bleed for something no one else can see the value in.
He knows you.
Knows the way you double-source everything down to the commas. The way you get when you're deep in a leadâobsessive, hungry, fired up on all ends.
Knows how hard you tried not to care about this one.
And how badly it broke you when you failed.
And whatever he sees in your eyes, red-rimmed and rimlit by your phone, he doesnât look away. Doesnât flinch.
He absorbs it like gravity. Holds it, honors it.
âIâm sorry,â he says.
And it shouldnât hit as hard as it does.
But it lands clean, deep, like the final line of a piece you didnât know how to end until just now.
Because he means it. Really means it.
Not just for the storyâfor you. For everything you try to keep buried. For everything you still are, despite your best efforts.
You clear your throat and shove your phone into your bag, as if thatâll erase the memo from existence.Â
âShouldâve pitched a fluff piece,â you mutter. âStuff that matters. âPuppies of Metropolis.â Or, I donât know. âTen Best Councilmembers Ranked by Forehead Shine.ââ
 Clark frowns. âYour story mattered.â
âYeah, well,â you shrug. Try for a smirk. Miss. âItâs just a job.â
âNo.â His voice sharpens, solidifying. âItâs not just a job.â
And the way he says itâ
God, it slices clean through all your practiced apathy. Hits something soft and guarded and quietly breaking.
So you do what you always do when it gets too real:
You deflect.
âWhatâre you gonna do, Kent? Fly it to another paper?â
Itâs a joke. A dumb one. Youâre not even sure why you say it, except that sarcasm is easier than crying.
But something flickers in his expression.
His mouth twitches. His spine straightens. His eyes narrowânot in anger now, but in purpose.Â
And youâve seen this look before, too.
In press conferences. In interviews. In war rooms and city council hearings and anywhere something needed to be done.
Decision.
Steel-willed and absolute. Like heâs already ten moves ahead and just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
He pushes off the desk and closes the space between you in two deliberate steps.
âGive me the files.âÂ
You blink. âWhat?â
âYour article. Your notes. Sources. Everything. Justâtrust me.â
 âClark, Iââ
âIâll make sure it gets out.â
You stare at him. Â
This is the part where you argue. Where you ask how. Where you remind him that corporate kill orders donât get reversed by sheer force of Midwestern conviction.
But thereâs something in his eyes that stops you cold.
Because whatâs there isnât hopeâitâs certainty.
Like the truth has already been printed, and he just has to go pick up the copies.
And for the first time in hours, your ribs loosen. Your lungs expand. Air returns like forgiveness.
You nod. âOkay.â
He nods back, steady as anything. âGood.â
You turnâtoward your desk, your files, this impossible thing youâre now apparently doing togetherâbut he reaches out. Fingers brushing your wrist with deliberate softness.
âHey.â
You look back.
And thatâs when it hits you again.
That thing.
That not-quite-hidden headline thatâs been quietly building in the margins between you for months.
The Look.
The Iâd burn down the sky for you look.
The Iâd rewrite every rule if it meant you got your byline look.
The this isnât just friendship and we both know it look.
His eyes are warm. Devastating.
âI know it hurts now,â he says, voice like silk-wrapped iron, âbut this is how change starts. With one person refusing to stay quiet.â
It cracks something wide open in you.
Youâve held it together for hoursâthrough the email, through the silence, through the aching injustice of it allâbut this? This is the last thread.
And before you can stop yourselfâ
You kiss him.
Quick. Soft. Barely more than a breath. A quiet, shaking whisper of a thingâfull of too many sleepless nights and too many unsent drafts and too many almosts you never let yourself say out loud.
Every moment since that first coffee-stained blouse and fumbled apology.
And then you pull back like you've been burned.
âShit,â you breathe. âIâmâIâm sorryââ
But Clarkâ
He doesnât flinch. Doesnât stammer or reassure.
He just looks at you.
Steady. Intense. Certain.
Eyes gone dark and molten, burning with that same impossible heat.
And then his hand is cupping your cheek, and his mouth is on yours, and the axis of the Earth tilts.
You thought heâd be gentle.
Because he always is.
But this?
This is not gentle.
This is a damn bursting. A planet cracking. A lifetime of restraint boiling over in the space of a heartbeat.
His kiss is all heat and purposeâno backstepping, no second-guessing, none of that fumbling reserve you used to tease him for.
Just immediate, all-consuming want.
And youâre gone. Instantly.
Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, trying to memorize the feel of him before the world finds a way to take it back.
Under your palms, his skin is hot. Not warm, but radiant. Like heâs built from something older and brighter than flesh. Sparks catch where your fingers land, skittering like static.
His glasses tilt, poking into your cheek. You press closer anyway.
And then you hear itâ
A low, guttural groan, raw and unrestrained, ripped from deep in his chest.
It destroys you.
Because Clark Kent does not make noises like that.
Not the Clark who holds doors and apologizes to vending machines. Who runs back to the third floor because the printer ate your story again. Who leaves you sticky notes with silly doodles after a rough meeting and texts you safe after every late-night interview.
Not even the Clark who believed in your story when the whole building turned cold.
No, this Clarkâthe one kissing you like heâs starving, like heâs been waiting months to be allowed this close, like youâre the only thing tethering him to Earthâ
Heâs new. Terrifying. Addictive.
You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, enough to make him lift his head.
âClark,â you whisper, breath ragged. âWe shouldnâtââ
âI know.â His voice is raw, lips brushing yours. âI know. Iâm sorry. I justâI canât not anymore.â
And then heâs kissing you again.
Harder. Deeper. Less asking, more need.
You chase him. Tilt your chin. Take. Take. Give.
His hands roam everywhereâyour waist, your back, your jawâlike something broke loose in him and thereâs no putting it back.
When your back hits the desk with a soft thud, you barely feel it. Because heâs there. A wall of heat and strength, all breath and heartbeat and too-broad shoulders. One hand braces your waist, the other cupping the back of your headâlike even now he doesnât know how to be rough with you. Like no matter how desperate this gets, reverence is the instinct he canât shake.
Your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, popping a button free. He shudders under your touch.
âWeâre still at work,â you manage to gasp.
Itâs not a protest. Just a fact. A threadbare attempt at logic thrown into the fire.
âIâll stop,â he murmurs.
But he doesnât move. Doesnât blink. Doesnât let go.
Then his mouth finds your neck, searching. When his teeth graze that one spot, your body jolts. He latches on there, slow and sure, kissing and mouthing like heâs studying you. Committing you to memory. When he finally sucks, itâs just enough pressure to leave your bones soft, make your knees buckle.
You bite your lip to hold the sound in, but his name escapes anywayârough and wanting and far too loud for a quiet newsroom.
And something inside him snaps.
His hands slide to your hips, lifting youâgentle, effortless, like you weigh nothing but mean everythingâand suddenly youâre perched on the edge of your desk.
His palm slides along your inner thigh, eyes never leaving yours.
âTell me to stop,â he says quietly. âIf this isnât what you want, please. Tell me.â Â Â
Your pulse stutters.
Heâs wrecked. Trembling. Holding himself together by threads. And stillâstillâbeneath all that, heâs endlessly soft.
This is Clark Kent at his coreâsteadfast and true.
The same man who brings you tea when your voice is shot. Lets you fix his crooked tie in the elevator. Held your hand the last time your story was gutted and said, âIâm proud of you.â
You take his hand.
Guide it beneath your skirt, up your thigh, to where youâre already soaked.
âDoes this feel like I want you to stop?â
His breath catches. His fingers twitchâthen freeze.
Like he still doesnât quite believe this is real. Like heâs been holding this want in both hands for months and doesnât know how to set it free.
But then you lean in, forehead to his.
"Clark."
And thatâs all it takes.
His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and sure.
Your skirt rucks up around your hips. His hands frame your thighs like heâs holding something sacred. When his fingers slide beneath your underwear, itâs slow. Tender. Almost unbearably gentle.
âJesus,â he breathes, voice blown wide open. âYouâreâŠâ
His thumb moves through your slick heat, circling over your clit in patterns that are nothing short of devastating.
â...youâre gonna kill me.â
âYouâre telling me.â You gasp, already trembling.
He huffs a laughâshaky, ruinedâbut it vanishes the second he drops to his knees.
Just like that.
No pretense. No buildup. Just down.
And something in you stutters.
This wasnât supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. But heâs already got your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.
And then his mouthâ
His mouthâ
Fuck the plan. No time to think.
The first stroke of his tongue is slow, greedy, filthyâit knocks the breath clean from your lungs.
Your hips jolt, fingers finding his hair. Your thighs lock instinctively around his head, but he doesnât flinch. Just keeps holding you open and hums deep in his throat, the vibration lighting you up from the inside out.
His tongue draws slow, maddening circles over your clit. Just light enough to tease. One of your leg twitches, your body bucking under the gentle pressure of his mouth.
And he just smiles. You feel the curve of it against you.
Bastard. Â
âClarkâpleaseââ
He glances up, just enough to meet your eyes.
And the sight between your thighs just about flips your stomach inside out.
His hairâs a mess from your hands. Mouth slick. Eyes dark and shining and so damn warm itâs almost too much to bear.
âIâve got you,â he whispers, eyes locked onto yours. âDonât hold back.â
Then heâs gone again.
No hesitation. No showmanship. Just devotion.
His mouth seals over you with devastating precision, tongue steady and unrelenting. Every motion pulls you higher, pressure climbing in sharp, stuttering waves.
Youâre shaking. Buckling. One hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled tight in his hair. Every part of you taut, humming.
And Clarkâsweet, perfect, fucking Clarkâjust keeps going.
When he drags the flat of his tongue up your clit, simultaneously slipping two fingers inside, slow and curling just rightâyour back lifts clean off the table.
âClarkâ Jesus, Iâm gonnaââ
You barely get the words out before you break.
Your whole body locks up. Pleasure slams into you like a wave cresting too high to outrun. You cry outâsharp, wild, unrestrainedâcoming hard and helpless in his mouth.
And he doesnât stop. Just keeps kissing you through it, patient and tender, coaxing every aftershock from your trembling frame.
Only when your hips start to flinch, too tender to bear more, does he pull back.
Careful, reluctant. Like heâd stay there forever, if you let him.
And when he rises, he looksâ
Destroyed.
Beautifully, sinfully destroyed.
Gloriously flushed, chest heaving, lips shining with everything you had to give him.
And god help you, youâve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.
He kisses you then. Slow and deep. Like he needs to taste every part of what had just passed.
Your hands fumble for his beltâstill burning, still achingâbut he catches your wrist. Gentle, steady.
Still the same Clark underneath it all.
âNot here,â he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. âNot like this.â
You blink, dazed. Floating somewhere just outside yourself.
âWhy not?â
He huffs a quiet laugh, warm and boyish. Tender in a way that makes your stomach twist.
âBecause when I finally have you,â he says softly, âI want to take my time. I want to see you.â
And the way he says itâlike itâs something sacred, like youâre something sacredâknocks the breath from your lungs.
ââŠokay,â you whisper, voice shaking. âUhm, your place or mine?â
He grins. That crooked, ruined, stupidly perfect grin that makes your knees wobble again.
âYours. Youâve got better snacks.â
You laughâreally laughâand something cracks open between you. Something warm and deep and safe. Â
He kisses you once more, gentle and lingering, before helping you off the desk. His hands stay firm at your waist until heâs sure you wonât topple.
The newsroom around you is hushed. Lamps dimmed. The soft buzz of the city humming through the windows, distant and irrelevant. For once, the world outside isnât clawing for your attention.
You smooth your skirt, catching your reflection in the dark windowâswollen lips, wild hair, flushed cheeksâand something curls sweet and slow in your stomach.
When you turn back, Clarkâs looking at you like youâve just rewritten his world.
âYou okay?â he asks, soft.
You nod, exhaling slow. âYeah, it's just⊠kind of unexpected.â
He lifts an eyebrow, teasing. But thereâs something nervous in it too.
âUnexpected... bad?â Â Â
You snort softly, breath still uneven, heart fluttering in disbelief.
Searching for footing in a story you once thought you understood.
âNo, justââ
But you pause. Because now thereâs room to really look at him.
The glow behind his eyes. The soft flush on his cheeks. The open, vulnerable way heâs watching youâlike heâs terrified to move in case the moment vanishes.
Like he knows every jagged, weary part youâve tried to hide, and wants you more because of them.
His hands twitch at his sides. Waiting.
Your chest goes soft.
âNo,â you say quietly, eyes locked on his. âUnexpected perfect.â
Clarkâs lashes flutter. And thenâ
He smiles.
Not the polite, mayorâs-office smile. Not the Sunday-church one either.
No. This one is his.
Crooked. Bright. Disarming in its sincerity. The kind of smile that plants morning light deep in your ribs. Making soft gold bloom from the inside out.
And when he leans in againâslower this time, as if memorizing the way you breathe when itâs just the two of youâ
You meet him halfway.
Three days later, your article is everywhere.
Not buried. Not trimmed. Not sanded down to fit corporate comfort zones.
Published. In full. On the front page of a different paper entirely, circulated across Metropolis before most of your newsroom have had their first cup of burnt breakroom coffee.
When you walk into the bullpen, the room goes still for a moment. Then comes a ripple of applause, a couple cheers. A low whistle that has to be Jimmy.
Even Perry White, who doesnât do applauseâwho curses, barks, and points at clocks like they owe him moneyâwalks past, claps a hand on your shoulder, and grunts:
âHell of a story, kid.â
You nod. Swallow. Try to look like your knees arenât full of helium.
You donât ask how it happened. You donât have to.
Because across the room, at his desk, typing away like itâs just another Friday, is Clark Kent.
He doesnât look up at first. Doesnât need to.
But when he doesâwhen his eyes find yoursâhe gives you that look.
That quiet, unshakable thing he carries in his gaze when heâs sure of something.
It hits you dead center.
You mouth: Thank you.
He pushes his glasses up, mouths back: Anytime.
And when you move past himâheaded for the coffee pot, trying very hard to look normalâhe reaches out without looking, fingers grazing the back of your hand.
Light. Deliberate. Like a secret traded in plain sight.
You stop. Turn.
Your heart is hammering so loud youâre sure he can hear it. Something coils tight and electric in your stomach.
You lean down, all slow and casual, like youâre just checking his screenâthen murmur, lips barely brushing the edge of his ear:
âStairwell. Five minutes.â
Clark drops his pen.
You smirk.
His back slams into cold concrete before the door even clicks shut.
You shove him hardâno grace, no patience, just raw, pent-up needâ and he barely grunts before youâre on him, kissing like itâs a fight, like youâre trying to crawl under his skin and disappear.
Itâs more violence than a kissâteeth dragging, lips bruising, nails digging. Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer, and his groan rumbles through both of you, hips pressed flush to yours. Â
âWhat isâfuckâwhat is wrong with you?â You gasp against his jaw, kissing him between words. âWhose balls did you have to bust toâget thatââ Another kiss. Frustrated. Shaky. âYou said itâd take longer. You canât justâdrop this on meââ
Heâs laughing now, happy and breathless, lips brushing your collarbone.
âI cashed in a favor,â he murmurs, not even trying to sound sorry. âDidnât think youâd mind.â
âFor fuckâs sake, Kentââ
You yank back just far enough to glare at him.
His hairâs a mess. Glasses askew. Your lip balm smudged on his mouth.
He looks completely undone. Glowing with it. Â Â Â
Lit from within by that maddening, quietly heroic light he wears whenever he does something outrageous and pretends itâs ordinary.
Something behind your ribs gives way.
Your throat tightens. Your nose prickles. Emotion catches you off-guard and rises sharp behind your eyes.
You blink hard, trying to look away.
But he sees it.
He always sees it.Â
His hands come up, cupping your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye before the feeling has a chance to fall.
âYou did all the work,â he says, voice rough with truth. âI just helped the story get where it needed to go.â
You blink back at him.
This man.
This infuriating, ridiculous, unshakably good man who has never once doubted your voice. Who saw your fury and didnât turn away. Who held your anger like it was something holy and refused to let the world bury it. Placed all his stubborn kindness, all that relentless quiet conviction, in you.
Like the truth was always going to find the lightâheâd just hold the sky steady until morning came.
You want to say something. Anything.
But your voice is gone, twisted up in your chest with everything else you canât name.
So you do the only thing you can.
You grab his collar and kiss him.
Desperate. Grateful. Furious. In love.
He groans into your mouth, hands sliding low to anchor you, pulling you tight against him. Your back hits the opposite wall, and you barely register it before his hands find the backs of your thighs and lift.
Your legs wrap around him instinctively as he presses against you, body slotting perfectly to yours. You fumble for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgencyâand when your hand slips past the waistband of his briefsâ
Jesus.
Heâs already hard. Hot. Thick. Practically pulsing in your palm.
He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke himâslow and firm, with a teasing twist at the top.
Heâs stunning like thisâglasses slipping, flushed from neck to fingertips, biting his lip so hard to keep quiet. Which, frankly, only makes you want to ruin him more.
âFuck, pleaseâ"
âLanguage, Smallville.â You grin.
He laughsâjust barelyâbut it turns into a moan when you squeeze.
âUnfair,â he whispers, forehead thudding against your shoulder. âYouâre being so unfair.â
âYou broke embargo,â you murmur, kissing his jaw. âIâm just collecting interest.â
Then, you fist his hair and give a sharp tug. He moans loud enough for it to echo to the ground level.
âClark! You canâtââ
âSorry, sorry!â
Three days ago, you didnât know what Clark Kent sounded like when heâs desperate.
Now, it lives under your skin.
You used to think heâd be quiet in bed. Gentle. Restrained.
Heâs not.
He moans. He begs. He loses himself in you.
And he swears too, colorfully so. Under his breath, against your skin, sometimes loud enough to rattle the walls.
And as you dig your fingers into that thick, impossibly soft hair and give another deliberate pullâhe shudders. His hips jerks forward, cock leaking in your hand as his mouth falls open around your name.
"Still works," you whisper. "Thought maybe the effect would wear off."
He huffs out a ragged laugh, eyes hungry as they flick up to yours.
âNot a chance. And itâs really not fair how well you know me already.â
âThree days,â you murmur, lips brushing his. âEleven orgasms. Iâve had time to study.â
âTwelve,â he rasps. âYou forgot the shower this morning.â
You groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. âOh god, the shower.â
âI like you wet,â he murmurs, free hand gliding up your thigh. âYou make the best sounds when Iâve got you up against tile.â
âClark,â you gasp, laughing. âWeâre not in a shower right now.â
âNo,â he grins, shifting you up higher. âWeâre not.â
His fingers pull your underwear aside, and he groans.
âJesus,â he breathes. âStill soaking.â
You gasp as he slides in two fingersâslow, familiar, devastating. He knows your rhythm already. Circles first, just enough pressure. Then deep strokes, curling upward.
You tremble in his grip, clinging to his shoulders.
He watches your face the whole timeâeyes dark, mouth parted, like your pleasure feeds him.
You pull at his hair again, impatient, and he grunts.
"Condom?" you gasp, breath hitching as your orgasm flirts with the edge.
"Pocket," he pants, "But youâll have to let go.â
You whimper and release him just long enough for him to fumble it on one-handed.
And thenâ
Heâs inside you.
The stretch immediately steals the air from your lungs.
Itâs not new. Not anymore.
But it knocks the wind out of you, every time.
He moves slow, sinking deep, jaw clenched tight with restraint. And when he bottoms out, hips flush, he exhales into your shoulder like itâs the only breath heâs needed all day.
âEvery time,â he murmurs, voice hoarse. âYou feel unreal.â
You clutch at his back, hips rolling.
âMove,â you plead. âPlease, Clarkâmoveââ
He does. A slow pull. A hard thrust.
Again. And again.
The rhythm builds fastâskin slapping, gasps mixing with half-broken moans, your name like a prayer on his lips. His hand braces behind your back. The other grips your thigh, grounding you as your body stutters and trembles.
And thenâyou feel it.
The edge. That rising, pulsing ache about to break you open.
âThere,â you choke, eyes flying open. âRight there, donât stopââ
âI wonât,â he pants, unraveling. âIâve got youâjust like thatâplease, keep pullingâfuckââ
So you do.
You yank his hair again, and itâs enough.
You shatter around him. Your whole body tightens, clenches, falls apart. Unrelenting pleasure floods through you as you cry out, gasping, body convulsing as you cling to him.
Clark follows with a groan, hips stuttering as he spills into you, forehead buried in your shoulder.
The world holds its breath.
Only the sound of panting. Heartbeats slowing. Limbs trembling.
He holds you like heâs afraid to let go.
You cradle his head, fingers stroking his hair, and after a long, slow moment, you whisper:
ââŠwe should head back.â
He nods, reluctant, and eases you down onto unsteady legs. One hand on your hip, the other steady at your elbow.
You donât need a mirror to know that youâre a wreck.
Hair ruined. Lip balm long gone. Thighs sticky and trembling. Â
You adjust your underwear and fix your skirt, trying to gather yourself into something vaguely resembling human. Trying to find the composure you lost the moment Clark looked at you from across the bullpen this morning.
And Clarkâwell, Clark doesnât even try.
His shirtâs wrinkled, belt undone, hair a disaster. Glasses missing.
He just looks back at you with that smug, slow grin on his face like heâd do it all over again in a heartbeat.
You meet his eyes, brows raised. âThink we were subtle?â
âAbsolutely not,â he shakes his head, beaming.
You smack his chest. âClark, weâre gonna get fired.â
âIâll write a defense,â he says, tucking himself away. ââA Case for Stairwell Trysts: Breaking the Taboo of Workplace Romance.ââ
You choke on a laugh. âCatchy. Real Pulitzer-worthy.â
He grins, pretending to type on invisible keys.
âIn these uncertain times, can love not be found between the third and fourth floors?â
âOh my god.â
âSources confirm the encounter was loud, reckless, and deeply necessary,â
âClark.â
âEyewitness has declined to comment but was visibly traumatized.â
âEyewitness?â
âFerguson. The rat, remember? Hope heâs still crawling around the vents somewhere.â
Youâre still laughing when you reach for the stairwell door, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist. Â
When you turn, the jokeâs still in his eyesâbut something else has surfaced.
Vulnerability, soft and quiet, flickers to the surface.
âOkay,â he starts. âWhat if⊠instead of writing that articleâŠâ
He clears his throat, fingers brushing the back of his neck. âI pitched a different one.â
You raise an eyebrow. âOh?â
His smile tiltsâshy and hopeful.
âYeah, forget the op-ed. How about: âLocal Man Caught Stammering Around Brilliant Coworker, Attempts Recovery By Asking Her Out For Dinner Instead.ââ
You blink, heart catching in your throat.
And suddenlyâthis is scarier than anything that came before.
You search his face. The smudge of gloss on his jaw. The curve of his lips.
That quiet, unshakable look in his eyes. Â
You swallow.
âWhatâs the angle?â
He doesnât miss a beat. âHuman interest.â
You bite your lip, smile threatening. âAnd your sources?â
âReliable,â he says, nodding seriously. âShe even let me stay over. Twice. Her kitchen may never recover.â
You hum. âSounds like sheâs into you.â
âYeah,â he steps closer, smiling shyly. âIâm starting to think so too.â
You let the silence bloom between youâwarm, delicate, just a little terrifying.
Then, without thinking, you press up on your toes and kiss him.
He leans down to meet you halfway.
This kiss is different. No urgency. No heat. Just a quiet kind of knowing. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they belong there.
You rest your forehead to his, breathing slow.
âHey, Clark?â
âYeah?â
âTell her seven oâclock.â
His smile blooms slow and brightâa sunrise you get to keep.
âDone.â
epilogue
Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Boyfriend. Love of your life.
Height: 6â4â (confirmed; measured via very scientific method involving back kisses and the doorframe in your apartment).
Known aliases: Smallville. Pretty boy. Baby. Honey. Lover. Oh, andâSuperman. (Yes, that one. Youâre still not over it. You probably never will be.)
Known vices: Hair pulling. You saying his name, any tone, any time. You, in his glasses and nothing else. Praiseâsaying it, hearing it, saying it again. And anything that lands him on his knees with his nose buried between your thighs.
Notable habits: Still hopeless with emojis. Still says 'good gosh' and 'heck' unironicallyâonly now itâs the morning after heâs had your legs over his shoulders for an hour and made you cry on his tongue.
Still buys cookies from every intern, but remembers to bring them home now. Saves the peanut butter ones for you.
Leaves notes with hearts and your name doodled all over like heâs twelve and in love. (He is.)
Still drops everything he's doing to rescue tiny lives. (You'd asked him about the pigeon once. He'd just shrugged and told you 'he looked scared.')
Relationship status: Taken. By you. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.
On every flat surface in your apartment. And his.
And yesâoccasionally, on questionable ones at work. (Sorry, Jimmy.)
pairing: clark kent/superman x reader
summary: itâs been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and youâre beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you
tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend theyâre not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise
warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like âi felt like i was going crazy,â nothing else that i can think of but correct me if iâm wrong!
word count: 13.2k (itâs worth it i promise <3)
note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so iâm still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x
masterlist
You hadnât meant to look at himâagain.
But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. Heâd just bumped into the edge of someoneâs desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.
Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.
Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadnât figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didnât quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: âA walking apology,â sheâd teased.Â
Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangersâ grandparents or vintage films.Â
âItâs really nice to meet you,â heâd said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism.Â
Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and youâd let him, more curious than surprised. When he didnât even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.
Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolisâs south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didnât quite understand.
âHey,â you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. âThis is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.â
Clark glanced up at you, startledâbut not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like heâd known it was you before you spoke.Â
âOhâgreat,â he said, reaching for the stack. âThank you.â
You hesitated, then added, âYou know, weâd probably be halfway through a draft if you didnât show up an hour late every morning.â It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you.Â
Youâd been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planetâtrying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely werenât part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet.Â
You were still new.
Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softenedâeyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasnât quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.
âYeah,â he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. âI know. Iâm sorry.âÂ
Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance heâd sent your way before. Like heâd just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like heâd known it all along and hadnât decided what to do with it until now.
Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead.Â
âYouâve got notes in the margins?â Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.
You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. âMhm,â you replied, scanning your inbox. âAny inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didnât have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.â
Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like youâd just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was againâthat flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it shouldâve.Â
Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.
He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.
You tilted your head. âSomething wrong?â
âNo. Justâuh, impressed. Youâre fast.â Clark smiled again, smaller this time. âAnd thorough.â
âSomeone has to be.â You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didnât look away so quickly.
When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you.Â
You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.
You werenât sure when it startedâwhen the sound of Clark Kentâs laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural.Â
Strange, considering how different the two of you were.
Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someoneâs concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing.Â
Youâsharp, composed, observantâhadnât expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.
There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldnât stand the Planetâs terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.
It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when itâs built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldnât say.
You werenât sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.
Maybe.
The office changed at night.Â
Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillnessâa low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clarkâs chair shifting in the quiet.Â
You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.
He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of placeâtoo polite, too clumsyâbut softer at the edges.Â
Almost like a different person entirely.Â
You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didnât look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes.Â
Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didnât want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway.Â
âYour handwritingâs atrocious, by the way,â you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles heâd added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.
Clark looked up, mock offended. âThatâs expressive shorthand, thank you very much.â
You arched a brow. âIt looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,â you countered.
He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm.Â
Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyesâbroad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look.Â
âWell, this is Metropolis,â he pointed out. âThatâs statistically probable.â
You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback.Â
It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely.Â
Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spokeâa silent assurance that your words mattered.Â
Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.
You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.
âOf course,â you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.
The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didnât budge. Not even a millimetre.
âNeed a hand?â Clarkâs voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.
His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.
You blinked, gaping in shock. âSeriously?â
Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. âFarm boy strength?â The way he said it sounded more like a question.
Your laugh came out slightly stunned. âOkay, Kansas,â you quipped. âYou got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand fromâwhat? Moving hay bails?â
âNot exactly,â Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement.Â
âWell, thanks anyway,â you said, reaching for the freed paper.Â
You didnât stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way heâd done it.
You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet.Â
Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.
He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. âAny time,â he murmured.
His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.
You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. âYouâre always around when I need help. Iâm starting to think itâs not a coincidence,â you teased.Â
Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. âI like to be useful.â
âI thought you liked being late.â
He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. âIâm not always late.â
You gave him a look. âClark, you didnât show up until nearly eleven this morning.â
âI was⊠delayed,â he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.
âUh-huh. Youâre lucky youâre charming.â You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. âAlthough if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldnât be breathing down my neck, and I wouldnât beââ You cut yourself off.
Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didnât. âYou wouldnât be what?â he asked.
You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance.Â
His seniority at the Planet wasnât official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name heâd already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors.Â
He wasnât just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winnerâthe list of his accolades was endless.Â
And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didnât do that, not with anyone.Â
Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. âYou worry too much about impressing people,â he said.
You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. âThat obvious?â Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.
Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. âOnly to someone who knows what itâs like to feel like you donât belong,â he assured you.
That cracked something open in your chest. You couldnât imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.
âItâs justâŠâ You shook your head. âThe others all know each other. Theyâve got their rhythms and inside jokes. Iâm still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.â
âYouâre not,â Clark said, gently but firmly. âMaybe they donât say it, but they like you. Youâre good. Smart. And braveâespecially in your writing.â
Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasnât teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadnât expected. You swallowed hard.Â
âPerry wouldnât be breathing down your neck if he werenât eager to read your work,â Clark went on. âAnd Lois canât stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesnât say that about anyone.â
You gave a surprised smile. âShe said that?â Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.
Clark nodded. âYouâre good at this. Really good. And Iâm not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and thatâs hard to earn here.â
âAnd you?â you asked before you could stop yourself. âDo you respect me?â
He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. âMore than respect.â
That caught you off guard.
Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didnât match it. âI see you.â His words were heavy with honesty. âI pay attention. Probably more than I should.â
The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldnât undo.
You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard.Â
Then you cleared your throat. âWe should finish,â you broke the tension. âPerry wanted the draft by ten.â
Clark exhaled like heâd been holding his breath, too. âRight. Letâs get back to it.â
He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where heâd stood, and your breath never quite evened out.Â
You didnât look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didnât want him to stop.
You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didnât tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.
It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadnât so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.
And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasnât farm boy strength.Â
Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.
You had work to do. Explanations could come later.
Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you werenât really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist.Â
The anchorâs voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.
ââŠSuperman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolisâ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one armâŠâ
You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystanderâs phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.
Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.
You blinked once. Then twice.
âThatâs ridiculous,â you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. ââŠIsnât it?â
Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview.Â
And yet⊠Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??
You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.
For now.
You werenât expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you werenât expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.
He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone whoâd slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though youâd both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.
Clark made a beeline for your desk.
âI thought Iâd spare you the breakroom sludge,â he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasnât the paper cup from the Planetâs vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.
Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.
In case no one tells you today: youâre doing great. âC
You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.
The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.
But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.
âThank you,â you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. âI owe you one.â
Clarkâs lips curved, slow and tender. âYou really donât,â he denied.
Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didnât even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.
Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.
Until now.
You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.
You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention.Â
This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.
This wasnât just a shared article anymore. This wasnât just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.
Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.
Something had changed, and you liked it.
Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.
Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea heâd brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.
Clark Kent? Superman?
You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.
You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
Still, you didnât delete the note on your phone.
A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last nightâs draft and wondering if youâd remembered to respond to that source from the city clerkâs office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.
Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.
You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.
Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that dayâs issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. âLook who made the front page,â she declared proudly.
You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didnât process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.
Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.
Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviouslyâyouâd lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tipsâbut it looked different in print.
Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.
The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You werenât even breathing for a moment. You just stared.
By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.
âHell of a job,â Perry said. âYouâve got good instincts, kid.â
The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.
You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet âThank you,â though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You werenât sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.
For so long, youâd felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different.Â
Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like sheâd known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.
Clark approached last. He didnât interrupt, didnât insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.
Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. âFor the star reporter,â he said, smiling softly. âExtra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.â
You looked at the cup, then back at him. âHow do you alwaysâ?â
Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. âLike I said, I pay attention.â
You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. âThanks,â you said. âBut you didnât have toââ
âI wanted to,â he said simply.
You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.
Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perryâs approval, Loisâs quiet satisfaction, and Clarkâs constant support, you didnât feel like an outsider anymore.
âHey,â Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. âYou okay?â
You blinked. âYeahâyeah. JustâŠâ You let out a breathy chuckle. âItâs a lot. In a good way.â
âI read it twice this morning,â Clark admitted. âYou nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearlyâitâs not just good reporting, itâs honest and poignant.â
You stared at him for a second. âYou read it twice?â
âWell,â he grinned sheepishly, âonce last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.â
Your eyes lifted to meet Clarkâs, and you couldnât look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasnât trying to make a point.Â
Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. âNot even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,â you teased, tapping the paper.
Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. âAh, well, itâs not my first barn fire.â
You blinked, amused. âWhat?â
âItâs a Smallville thing,â he said, shrugging, still smiling. âMeans Iâve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and thatâs exactly what shouldâve happened today. Your story mattered.â
Your teasing faded into something quieter. âThanks, Clark.â
âDonât tell Superman,â he said, mock-serious. âI still want those exclusive interviews, after all.â
You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk.Â
Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. âYouâve got ink on your jaw.â
You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. âRightâhere.â
His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you couldâve stopped him, but you didnât. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.
âGot it,â Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where heâd touched you. You didnât move an inch.
You swallowed thickly. âThanks.â
His eyes met yours one last time, steady. âAny time,â Clark said.
And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.
You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.
You hadnât meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator.Â
You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didnât want the day to end.Â
Your name had been on the front page, and youâd written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen.Â
So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrowâs pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.
Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morningâs front page byline, still propped up on your desk.
It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.
You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice sayâ
âWell, itâs not my first barn fire.â
Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.
The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.
You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.
ââbut we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.â
A reporter off-screen asked, âSuperman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?â
Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. âWell, itâs not my first barn fire.â
You rewound it again. And again.
Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.
Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat.Â
You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?
Except no, they didnât.Â
Youâd never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.
You stared back at the screen.
Superman wasnât from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.
You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.
What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way heâd said it. And now that you were thinking about itâ
That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.
Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched âSuperman Smallville,â then âSuperman phrases,â and then âSuperman voice analysis.â
And just like that, you werenât going home anymore.
You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth.Â
âWell, itâs not my first barn fire,â Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.
You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morningâeyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.
Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You werenât doing anything serious, not really. It wasnât a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.
Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark?Â
You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmyâs office birthday party last month. He wasnât looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.
Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces werenât the same.
You sat back in your chair and stared.
âNo,â you muttered. âNo, thatâsâno.â
Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didnât hesitate. He didnât blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didnât so much as shift his stance.
Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.
He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.
There was no way they were the same person.
You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clarkâs archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. Youâd always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.
But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.
You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.
That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming heâd had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.
You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.
You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clarkâs, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.
Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.
Unless that was the point.
You scrolled back up. Watched the âbarn fireâ clip one more time. Played Clarkâs laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.
You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.
You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.
You werenât saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasnât.
And if you couldnât? Well, youâd cross that bridge when you got there.
The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you shouldâve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.
Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All youâd meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.
The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadnât taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so youâd come here.
Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. Youâd been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and heâd told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself.Â
Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city.Â
You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldnât slow down.
What exactly were you doing?
You werenât just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasnât even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark.Â
Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.
Youâd pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when heâd submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.
But every time you got close to feeling like youâd figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Supermanâs voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clarkâs was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.
And yet.
When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. Youâd never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.
Now, you couldnât help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.
You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldnât decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.
The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Thenâlight. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.
Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaoticâand heading right for the Daily Planet.
Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable.Â
You flinched, braced for impact.
But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.
There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.
Nothing so much as grazed you.Â
When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you.Â
Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.
Supermanâs cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.
And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you.Â
You didnât speak at first; you couldnât after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.
âAre you alright?â His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.
You nodded automatically before your voice returned. âY-yeah. I think so.â
Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.
When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didnât. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldnât stop staring.
Superman was right in front of you.
âThank you,â you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.
Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didnât wait for the factsâit reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.
It didnât make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didnât care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.
You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadnât cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system.Â
Youâd been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and youâd spent hours researching a connection between two peopleâof course, youâd be primed to see that connection even if it wasnât there.
Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. Youâd reported on them.
But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasnât just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen.Â
The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.
It shouldâve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his gripâthe way he braced you without hesitationâit didnât feel foreign at all.
And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didnât believe you were fine, even if you insisted.
Superman didnât look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly.Â
But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark.Â
âYou shouldnât be up here,â Superman spoke, more gently this time. âItâs late.â
âI just needed some air,â you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.
Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. âIâve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,â he confessed. âItâs a good place to clear your head.â
He smiled, just barely. It was faintâgentler than youâd expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.
Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldnât let go. That smile wasnât bold like a superheroâs. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clarkâs.
God.
You were losing it.
Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.
It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks.Â
He could have meant it generally, but you didnât think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.
Superman shouldnât know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planetâs building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.
Your throat tightened. You couldnât move, couldnât breathe.
Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his capeâno, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.
âPlease, get home safe,â Superman said gently.Â
Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.
You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.
The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.
But you knew. You knew.
Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. Heâd seen this view, heâd felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasnât conjecture anymore. It wasnât a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.
This was real.
Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairsâbarely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You werenât even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.
The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.
Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.
And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.
You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins.Â
It could all be bias, projection, or madness.
But you didnât care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.
The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldnât focus.
Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere.Â
While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.
You glanced up.
Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasnât looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilledâjust slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.
Your eyes met.
It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into.Â
It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you werenât supposed to. Something dangerous.
Since the rooftop, every day had been like thisâdense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadnât mentioned it, hadnât said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Supermanâs familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark.Â
There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose.Â
Clark hadnât explained. You hadnât asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.
You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.
Your thoughts circled back to the rooftopâthe closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you werenât ready to voice.
Footsteps approached. You didnât look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.
It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadnât looked at you when he passed, hadnât so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.
You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:
Tonight.
My place.
We should talk.
No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message.Â
You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.
Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldnât ask?Â
The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.
Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.
You didnât know if you wanted to go, but you didnât think you could afford not to.Â
Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didnât look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.
You stood before the closed door of Clarkâs apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday lookâyour favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.
Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from workâhis usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tieâbut his hair was less tousled than usual.Â
There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.
You stepped inside hesitantly.
The apartment was surprising.
It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place youâd expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern wayâglossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didnât try too hard.Â
The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.
You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.
It didnât quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didnât mesh with the clumsy way heâd knock over his mug, the scattered papers youâd noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.
This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark youâd never fully had the chance to know.
He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.
âTea?â Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.
You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.
You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.
âSo,â Clark started, voice careful, âhowâs the Peterson piece coming along? Deadlineâs Friday, right?â
You forced a brief nod. âYeah. Iâm still digging through interviews. The storyâs bigger than I expected.â
He smiled, but it didnât reach his eyes. âThe newsroomâs been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.â
You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than youâd ever seen it.Â
You thought of Supermanâthe cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence.Â
How could the same man feel so different?
Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter youâd gotten to know at the Daily Planet.
Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Supermanâs presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.
Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. âYouâve been quiet tonight.â
You gave a tight grimace. âJust tired.â
He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, âYou donât have to pretend with me.â
You blinked. âPretend?â You refrained from adding, Thatâs ironic.
Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didnât waver. âThat everythingâs normal.â
You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. âItâs just been a long week.â
You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes.Â
Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say noâbut he didnât. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.
Your breath caught.
Without the familiar frames, Clarkâs face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadnât seen before.
Still unmistakably Clark Kent.Â
And Superman.
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clarkâs eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.
Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. âYouâre Superman.â
Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. âIâm Superman,â he echoed.
It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first timeânot just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before.Â
It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.
Instead of the satisfaction youâd always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like youâd already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.
âHow... how did I never see it before?â you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clarkâs glasses.
He gave a small, rueful smile. âThe glassesâthey change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.â He started to explain, but something snapped inside you.Â
âTheyâre supposed toââ
You cut him off before he could finish. âYou interviewed yourself,â you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. âYou lied to everyone at the paperâto the world. To me.â
Clarkâs face tightened. âI had to. You know that.â
The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.
You watched Clark closelyâwatched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss.Â
His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask heâd worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.
âYou let me spiral,â you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. âYou didnât trust me. Iâve been tearing myself apart, wondering if Iâm seeing something that doesnât exist, or if Iâm the only one who sees the truth.â
Clarkâs hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying.Â
âI didnât know how to tell you,â he confessed, his voice desperate. âEvery time I thought I could, I justâI couldnât..â
Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, heâd always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions youâd held back began to surge to the surface.
âDo you have any idea what itâs like,â you said, raw and breathless, âto look someone in the eye every day and feel like youâre going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that theyâre hiding something?â
Pain flickered across Clarkâs features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.
âI imagine itâs something like hiding a part of yourself away,â Clark said quietly, âand realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.â There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. âLike falling for someone and being terrified that who you areâwho youâve always beenâcould ruin everything.â
You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. âAnd yet,â you said slowly, âyou still let me believe I was wrong.â
Clarkâs expression faltered.
âYou watched me doubt myself,â you continued, your voice rising, shaking. âYou watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasnât even real.â
âI didnât mean to,â Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. âI wanted to tell you every single day. Iâd sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and justâjust say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.â
âWell, congratulations,â you said bitterly. âEverything has.â
He flinched, like youâd physically struck him. But still, he didnât retreat.
âI never wanted to lie to you,â Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. âI just didnât know how to stop without losing you.â
You laughed onceâshort and hollow. âYou were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldnât trust my own instincts.â
His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. âYou donât know what itâs like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,â Clark retorted. âI needed someoneâyouâto see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.â
âOf course I see you as âjustâ Clark!â you exclaimed. âEven the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.â
âI know,â Clark breathed. âIâve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose youânot because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didnât tell you the truth.â
You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. âThen be honest with me now,â you whispered. âYou asked me hereâso say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.â
Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. âI love you.â
And for a moment, you didnât breathe.
You looked at himâreally looked at him. Clarkâs pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like heâd forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out.Â
Without his superhearing, you couldnât know that his heart was thundering in time with yours.Â
Clark Kent loved you.
âIâve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,â he went on, voice shaking. âSince you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. Iâve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.â
You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadnât let fall yet.
âI love you,â Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. âClarkâSupermanâtheyâre all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when Iâm with you, Iâm only ever one thing. Iâm yours. And I donât want to hide anymore.â
His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. âCan I?âÂ
You nodded before your words could betray you.
Clarkâs palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.
âIâm sorry for making you doubt yourself,â he whispered. âAnd Iâm sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.â
Clark exhaled shakily. âAnd Iâve wanted to kiss you,â he added, voice nearly lost between you, âfor so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.â
You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.
And then he kissed you.
Not like Superman. Not like a secret.
Like Clark.Â
He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasnât soft or tentative. It was desperate, like youâd both been waiting too long and couldnât bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clarkâs arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.
In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, âI wonât tell anyone. You know I wonât.â
His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. âI know.â
You didnât know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didnât matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.
The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clarkâs jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didnât care.
There was no confusion now, just clarityâdizzying and sharp.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clarkâs mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldnât quite believe he was allowed to touch you.
You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at himâreally looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasnât. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.
It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.
âI see you,â you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. âAll of you.â
Clarkâs hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. âNo one ever has like you do,â he said, the words a quiet confession. âEspecially when I was trying to hide.â
Clark kissed you again, like he couldnât risk the silence, couldnât bear to let the truth echo too long. You werenât sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.
The kiss that followed wasnât gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadnât meant to say aloud.
You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips.Â
Clark kissed you like a vowâheady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you werenât thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.
And you didnât want him to.
Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You werenât sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.
Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.
Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didnât stop you. You undid one. Then another.Â
The fabric parted just slightlyâenough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric.Â
You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clarkâs chestâvivid and unmistakableâwas his bold red-and-yellow insignia.
It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you werenât just kissing Clark Kent but Superman.Â
Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. âYouâre wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?â
Clarkâs face flushed, sheepish but fond. âOccupational hazard,â he declared.
You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.
âI canât believe I didnât notice,â you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. âYouâve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.â
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. âYou werenât supposed to see me,â Clark pointed out.
You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. âWell, I did. And I love you too.â
And Clark smiled backâsmall and real and all yours.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.
Except it wasnât. Not anymore.
You spotted Clark before he noticed youâacross the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didnât quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners.Â
Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.
He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.
The way Clark smiledâit wasnât the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.
Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too lateâyou already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.
In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him thereâmore present than Perryâs voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.
You didnât. But you thought about it.
Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.
At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clarkâs hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.
âI had it first,â you murmured without looking at him.
Clarkâs voice stayed low. âI bet you really believe that,â he teased.
It wasnât flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You werenât sneaking around because you had toâthere was no rule against it, no fear of scandalâbut because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.
You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.
And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.
Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perryâs office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.
Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.
âYou two have been weird lately,â she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. Youâd been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasnât budging. âI donât know whatâs going on, but if itâs a story, I better not be the last to know,â Lois quipped.
Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.
âJust long nights editing,â he said, straight-faced.
You nodded. âStress does weird things to people,â you added in a pleasant tone.
Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.
âUh-huh,â she muttered, stepping out. âJournalists and their secrets.â
Then she was gone.
The elevator doors glided shut.
You just looked at each otherâthis charged, suspended secondâand then moved in sync. Clarkâs hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.
The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.
Clarkâs lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like heâd been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didnât stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctivelyâone hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.
You sighed against his mouthâquiet, surrenderingâand felt him smile into the kiss.
It wasnât rushed. It didnât need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.
Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.
You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.
âClark,â you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.
He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldnât get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kissâsofter, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.
âYouâve been teasing me all day,â Clark whispered against your mouth.
âI barely looked at you,â you whispered back.
âExactly.â
You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clarkâs hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.
Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clarkâs body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.
âI missed this,â you murmured.
âI never stop missing it,â Clark whispered back.
It wasnât until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.
You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.
âClarkââ
âIâve got you,â he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. âAlways.â
Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.
Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.
Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.
âIâm never going to get tired of seeing this,â you said, grinning despite yourself. âThink you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?â
Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. âSorry,â he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. âGot a little carried away.â He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.
You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.
As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.
âI like knowing itâs there,â you admitted.
Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. âSo do I.â
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.
Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.
Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadnât just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator.Â
Everything was back to normal.
Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didnât look away.
note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me đ€
if you leave something behind (you gain something too.)
pairing: bucky barnes x multiverse! reader
summary: youâre a TVA agentâmeant to observe, never interfereâbut you fall for him in every universe. every iteration. every version of james buchanan Barnes. and across centuries, across collapse and convergence, that love stays. steady. inevitable. written into the code of the multiverse like a rule it canât break. (multiverse!) inspired by past lives (2023) and the ministry of time. for an expanded explanation and playlist, click here.
word count: 15.7k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, heavy angst w/ a happy ending, oral (f and m receiving), creampie, piv, praise, overstimulation, hair pulling, breast worship, use of pet names, mentions of death and loss
This is it.
The glamorous, sparkling career of a TVA precision-field agent.Â
Emphasis on âprecision.â Emphasis on âfield.â Emphasis, mostly, on âagent,â because the term âanalystâ was deemed too misleading after what happened in 1806 Prussia (one rogue spreadsheet, a very confused Napoleon, and three weeks of bureaucratic bloodshed).
Youâre not like the Minutemen, stomping into timelines in those tactical chic jumpsuits, pruning anomalies with the self-satisfaction of people who still think âdeleteâ is a solution. Youâre not an auditorâthank Godâsquinting at branching event charts and muttering about entropy coefficients over cold tea.
No. Youâre the needle. The thread. The hand that sews.
Your job is surgical. Your presence is a whisper. Where others correct by erasure, you correct by inclusion. You enter the timeline. You become part of it. You donât push the dominoes overâyou walk by, breathe funny, and trust the air will tip them just right.
Thereâs no glory in your work. No medals. No mission logs, either.Â
Everything you do is redactedâeven from you. You carry the residue of other peopleâs lives under your fingernails, and sometimes forget which memories belong to whom.Â
Sometimes you wake up choking on grief that was never yours. You learn to live with that.
Itâs the first thing they ask you in training, during the psych filters: Would knowing the future help you grieve less?
No one answers yes. Not honestly.
You understand now why. Thereâs no solace in foreknowledge, just the burden of it. Knowing that someone dies doesnât stop you from loving them. It just makes every moment feel like a countdown.
You specialize in delicate convergences: moments in history so precariously balanced that a sneeze in the wrong direction could avalanche into centuries of collapse. Your handlers call them âsoftpoints.â You call them âthe edge of the knife.â
Sometimes youâre a midwife in 1421. Sometimes youâre the barista who smiles just enough to make a physicist reconsider her route to work. Sometimes youâre a corpse at the right place, the right time, to remind a man of the past he keeps trying to forget.
Right now, you're really fucking hungover.
You started having the dream again.
Not a dream, exactly. A memory with the edges worn smooth. At first it came in piecesâclipped sounds, filtered light, the low hum of something old and mechanical beneath your feet. You dismissed it. Just timeline residue. A misplaced echo.
But it kept returning.
Always the same: a red-brick apartment building. New Yorkâno file, no mission tagâin winter. Brooklyn, more specifically, from your view of the bridge. Youâre on a stoop. Someone calls your name and you turn just in time to see a shadow disappear around the corner. A laugh rides the wind, low and familiar.
You wake up before you follow. Every time.
Your mouth tastes like floor polish and betrayal. Your eyes open one at a time, not out of coordination, but protest. Your skull seems like it's determined to play a high-stakes game of ping-pong against itself.
You groan.
This is how your days usually start.Â
You sit up slowly, bones cracking like old film reels, and assess the carnage around your quarters.
Clothes: on the chair, on the floor, one boot in the sink.
Timepad: blinking faintly on the nightstand, still charged.
Your hair is somewhere between âungovernableâ and âformerly respected.â You run a hand through it and immediately regret that decision. Your reflection in the tiny wall mirror is a damning indictment of last nightâs choices. Smudged eyeliner. A smear of something neon-orange near your jawline. You shower quickly â TVA-issued water pressure: inconsistent, ironic. You pull on a button-up and slacks instead â neutral, inoffensive.
Youâll blend into whatever century they throw you into next. For now, you settle for looking like you might belong in the TVA cafeteria line.
By the time you lace your boots (twice â the first attempt ends in a mild panic attack and a missing sock), the hangoverâs down to a dull roar. Your breath smells like expired mint gum and broken dreams, so you down two cups of black coffee and chew on one of those flavorless temporal hydration tablets like it might save your soul.
You do your job. Reliably. Unremarkably. The way they like it.
And sometimes you drink enough that for a few hours, you donât remember how you got here. Or how youâve always been here.
You toss your timepad into your holster, slap a mediocre patch on your face to cover the worst of the under-eye shadows, and mutter something vaguely threatening at your own reflection.
Time to go.
Three mugs deep into lukewarm cafeteria coffee that tastes like regret and the glue holding office furniture together, youâre hunched over yet another Form G-17 â âSuspected Non-Nexus Deviation: B-Class Branch.â Your fourth this week. Youâve logged more hours categorizing existential anomalies than actually interfering with any, which is particularly unusual, for you anyway. You've been dormant for much longer than you're used to.
The previous G-17s included such branch classics as âcow develops rudimentary consciousness,â âSteve Rogers blinks twice during a televised 2013 speech instead of once,â and âLoki starts a book club.â (Unauthorized self-improvement remains a hot-button issue.)
This one, thoughâthis oneâs different.
The case file reads:
CASE FILE: #616-BE0
MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Convergence
LOCATION: Siberia, USSR
DATE: February 1955
SUMMARY:
A low-grade temporal softpoint has been detected. Origin ambiguous. Energy output consistent with pre-convergent instability. Divergent potential is not yet sufficient to trigger a Nexus Event, but the timeline is exhibiting signs of local timeline âfraying.â Mission parameters suggest passive stabilization through presence, not correction. Duration: 3 hours. Environmental hostility high.
NOTES:
Embed into local context. Observe anomaly behavior. Maintain temporal camouflage. Apply Softpoint Integration Protocol if deviation escalates.
You stare at the file.
Cold, quiet dread coils low in your stomach. Siberia. February. 1955. No glamour in that assignmentâjust ice and silence and the kind of untraceable damage that leaves timelines limping.
Across from you, Casey is organizing his pen caddy by weight again. You catch a glimpse of the sticky note on his lunchbox: âPlease do not eat my croissant. Please.â The second âpleaseâ is underlined three times.
You stole that croissant yesterday.
Honestly, he should thank you. It was a little dry.
You turn your eyes back to the file and eye the temperature index: -43°C. S. âOh good,â you mutter to no one. âToe amputation weather.â
You stand, suit creaking as you shift, and tug on your tie with practiced resentment. You snap your timepad into place on your wrist. The UI pings with a mild hum â dull orange light, sanctioned and soulless.
Casey looks up.
âHeading out?â he asks, hopeful. He always wants your desk when youâre gone. You have the only chair that doesnât squeak like a dying goose.
âYup,â you say. âBrad flagged something âmildly interesting.â Weâll see if itâs another raccoon wasted off shrooms.â
âOr a bear,â Casey offers.
You click your timepad open, keying in the Siberia coordinates. âOr a hallucinating bear.â
Casey nods gravely.
The door opens, temporal energy flaring in its signature burnt-orange halo. You take one last swig of your bad coffee, grimace as it hits your tongue, and mutter, âLetâs go see what broke this time.â
Then you step through.
The light swallows you whole.
And you forget, for a secondâjust a secondâthat you were ever anything else.
EARTH-616 | SIBERIA, 1955
The walls groaned when the wind pressed against them. Not urgently. Not like they were in danger of collapse. More like an old man muttering in his sleep.
You didnât trust the ship, not entirely. It had been retrofitted for temporal operations, but barelyâstill more icebreaker than chronal vessel. The insulation was patchy in places, and every vent exhaled a little breath of cold that bit at your ankles. If the TVA had a top-shelf of deployment crafts, this wasnât on it. This was bottom-shelf. Dusty. Dinged up. Probably cursed.
Still. It was warm. Warm enough.
Outside, Siberia stretched like a battlefield already lost. White, endless, blank. Indifferent to watchers, to wanderers, to time itself. It didnât care that the threads of history bent here. That the TVA had deemed this place a convergence zoneâa softpoint where multiple outcomes were forming brittle overlaps. No Nexus spike yet. But something was pulsing.
You leaned back against the wall and let the thermos rest against your chest. The rhythmic thump of the engine hummed through your bones. You liked that. The vibration reminded you that you were still solid. Still here. Still someone with a job to do.
Observe. Do not interfere.
And yet. A flicker on the monitor caught your attention.
Unidentified movementâQuadrant C. Low thermal. Not vehicle. Not patrol. One heat signature. Steady. Moving through the storm.
Human-shaped. Probably.
You didnât move yet. Just watched. Let it crawl across the display while you listened to the wind.
You checked your timepad again. No nexus flare. No spike. But there was a pulse. Faint, irregular. Like the anomaly was alive.
You didnât believe in fate. But you believed in gravity. In the way some people pulled history around them like cloaks. This place? It felt pulled.
The door behind you hissed open, then shut again with a metallic shudderâjust a shift in cabin pressure, but your body went still anyway. One hand tightened around the cooling thermos; the other hovered near your holster. Not paranoid. Just prepared.
You took a breath. Let it sit in your lungs like steam.
The blip on the monitor moved closer. Still slow. Still steady.
Somewhere out there, in that wide, white nowhere, something was walking toward you.
Before you can focus or fixate on the blip, you hear the bang. Itâs not the ship groaning this time. Not the distant thunder of ice shifting. This is close. Inside.
You didn't run. Running was noise, panic, a rookie move. Instead, you moved swiftly and fluidly, silent as frost.
The corridor narrowed as you descended, metal groaning beneath your boots, the walls sweating condensation from the sudden temperature drop. Ahead, you heard clear sounds of intrusionâboots scraping against metal, something sharp and metallic snapping like bone.
Voices shouted orders in Russian, clipped and urgent.
You pressed against the wall outside the sub-hold entrance, flicking your wrist to pull up the heat signatures on your timepad. Fourâno, fiveâdistinct signatures flickered on screen, scattered and frantic, like dropped matchsticks.
Far more than the single blip you'd tracked earlier.
You move anyway.
Quiet. Calculated. Not to neutralizeâjust to see.
Inside, the hold is chaos: crates overturned, equipment flickering, something sulfuric in the air. A soldier stumbles into your path, disoriented, eyes wrongâlike the mind inside doesnât fit anymore. You sidestep, smooth and practiced, letting him fall without intervention. Another crashes through the smoke and doesnât even register you.
Your breath clouds the air. The hold smells like ozone and rust and something sharperâlike old blood sealed in with frost. And then you see it.Â
In the corner of the hold, something humsâlow, persistent, and thoroughly annoying. Not a cryo chamber, thank god. You've had enough encounters with frozen bodies this fiscal quarter.Â
Instead, it's a pulse field generatorâstandard TVA gear, uncomfortably grafted onto mid-century Soviet tech. You frown deeply, which is practically your default expression at this point. This thing was supposed to be dormant.
According to the updated log, this thing is officially a Temporal Dissipation Nodeâa fancy TVA euphemism for a safety valve that bleeds out timeline tension. Supposedly passive, no-contact. The kind of setup they drop into delicate softpoints, relying entirely on subtlety and minimal human interaction.
This node, however, isn't subtle at all. It's malfunctioning, stuttering irregular pulses instead of smooth ones. Perfect. You crouch, eyes narrowing as you spot obvious manual overrides and Soviet tampering. Wonderful. Someone's been messing around inside the casing.
âGreat,â you mutter under your breath, tasting bitterness that has nothing to do with your morning coffee. âNo wonder they didnât send backup. Needed someone expendable.â
Before you can fully embrace the gravity of the situation, the far wall explodes inward in a decidedly dramatic fashionâmetal screeching, smoke filling the room. You whip around, baton raised instinctively, already calculating how much paperwork this will generateâ
âand freeze.
Because someone's standing there. Just standing. Breathing hard, like he ran the whole way here through the ice.
His hair is long and damp at the ends, curling slightly where the frost is starting to melt. His clothes are frayed at the edgesâstandard-issue Soviet combat gear, only half-zipped, soaked through. Thereâs snow clinging to the edges of his sleeve. His stance is wide, solid. Familiar in a way that makes your blood run cold.
But it's his eyes that hold you still.
Not the metal arm, titanium and deadly. Not his sharp-edged stance, nor the rifle slung almost forgotten across his back. It's the eyesâpale blue, intensely focused. Clear. Too clear.
Just staring.
Like youâre an answer to a question he hasnât been able to phrase. Like heâs seen you before and forgot until now.
And maybeâyou freeze, stomach folding in on itselfâmaybe you forgot too.
The Winter Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes.
Itâs not recognition, exactly. Not full-blown. But something in you shifts, quiet and tectonic. The sensation of stepping into a half-remembered dream. Or maybe it's the ache youâve been waking up with lately, the dream you can never hold onto, just shapes and colors and a voice you almost know.
Youâve heard plenty about Buâthe Winter Soldier from hushed whispers in break rooms and blurry security footage in restricted archives. Never once did you picture him looking so⊠aware.Â
At the TVA, heâs quietly regarded as a tragedy. Not a threat, not a glitchâjust a sorrow too persistent to be useful. His story, in every version theyâve managed to scrape together, is one long unraveling. Grief braided into duty. Identity shredded and rebuilt, over and over, never the same way twice. Heâs the man who keeps losing himself and somehow finding his way backâbloodied, wrong, resilient.
Maybe thatâs why he doesnât replicate well. His storyâs too heavy to echo cleanly across timelines. The trauma calcifies too early or never forms at all. He fractures, or fades, or dies too soon. The man doesnât scale. Whatever makes him who he isâthe loyalty, the guilt, the staggering, stubborn will to keep tryingâitâs never quite transferable.
The few variants that do emerge feel more like flickers than full lives. Glimpses. Reverberations. None of them last long. Some of them are never quite right.
In all your missions, all the cautious mentions of him across different centuries and realities and debriefs and documents, youâve never actually met any versions of him.
Not directly. Not face-to-face. Youâve seen the aftershocks he leaves behindâcratered timelines, corrupted code, confused agents muttering about ghosts with metal arms. Youâve traced the outlines of his story across so many fractured worlds, each one slightly wrong. The scent of smoke where he shouldâve stood. A silhouette in archival footage. A name carved into a resistance wall in a language long dead. But never him. Not until now.
It should be insignificant. It shouldn't matter. There should be no correlation, not even a twinge of paths intertwining.
Except now heâs standing in front of you, and it feels like being struck clean through the chest with something invisible and ancient.
In one smooth movement, he dispatches a soldierâa precise blade across the throat. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Then his eyes sweep the hold again, landing on you and locking in place like he couldn't stand to take his eyes away.
You take in the rest of him.
His face is younger, but that's to be expected. Well, not young, exactlyâbut preserved, like a man caught mid-sentence and left on pause. Strong jaw, a haunted set to his mouth, cheekbones that look sculpted more by winter than by genes. He looks like he hasnât shaved in a week and hasnât cared in far longer. You run a mental calculator, it must've been only about a decade since⊠the thing.
But itâs the eyes againâflicking over you, sharp and clinical. Blue, frostbitten, edged with something youâd almost call suspicion, if there wasnât so much⊠exhaustion in it.
And finallyâhis silence. Not blank, not confused. Just... watchful. Like he's seen this play out a hundred times already. His head tilts slightly. Just a fraction. Like heâs cataloging the shift in your body language.Â
Realization hits you with an unpleasant jolt: heâs uncertain. Of the timeline. Of the mission. Of you.
Whatever brutal conditioning was poured into him hasnât fully rebooted yet. Thereâs still too much of the man bleeding through the programming. His breathâs too ragged. His movements, a fraction too slow. His gazeânot vacant, not robotic, but⊠blinking too hard. Like the worldâs coming in too fast, too bright, too much.
Your timepad buzzes insistently, a sharp vibration at your wristâtwenty minutes and some change until convergence. You lower your baton slightly, resigned, and open your mouth.
âLookââ
But your sentence is abruptly cut short as a shadow drops from the walkway above, gun raised. Before you can react, a powerful arm wraps across your mouth, hauling you sharply back against a solid chest. The bullet punches into the floor exactly where your head had been, sparking furiously.
âQuiet,â he rasps. His voice is rough-edged, wind-scouredâhoarse from disuse or screaming into nothing or god knows what else. The metal arm presses lightly against your abdomen. Not pinning. Just⊠grounding.
You nod. One deliberate motion. A signal that you understand. That youâll play along.
Thereâs a beatâone heartbeat, maybe twoâbefore he releases you. The contact disappears like breath off a mirror. Quick. Clean.
Two more figures drop from aboveâarmed, definitely not TVA or Soviet. Fantastic. A third-party complication. Just what this mission needed.
Bucky moves first, a blur of ruthless precision. You watch him take down an attacker effortlessly: elbow, weapon disarm, throat strike. Smooth, clinical, deadly poetry.Â
The air shudders againâan ugly crack in the hull overhead. Your timepad screams: fracture line detected. asset instability threshold imminent. Everythingâs shaking. You grab his arm and mutter, âWe have to move.â
He hesitatesâbut only for a second.
Then he runs.
You donât speak as you sprint through the corridor, ducking falling beams and sparking lights. He stays close. Too close. Like heâs guarding your back on instinct. Like he hasnât figured out yet that you arenât the one who needs protecting.
You hit a collapsed hallway and double back, darting into a maintenance shaft. The walls here sweat condensation. Buckyâs chest is heaving from exertion, breath coming too fast.
You glance back.
Heâs stopped.
Heâs leaning a hand against the wall, eyes shut. Not from exhaustion. From something else.
His metal fist clenches tightâso tight the plating groansâand he presses it to his temple like heâs trying to block something out. His whole body shakes, just once. A full-body flinch. Like his brainâs short-circuiting.
âHey,â you say, softly now. No command. Just presence. âHey.â
Nothing.
âBucky.â
It slips out before you can catch it.
And it works.
He startles. Freezes. His eyes snap openâand they find yours instantly.
Something ancient and aching floods his expression. Not anger. Not threat. Just confusion. Recognition. Fear.
Not of you. For you.
His lips part like heâs going to speakâbut no sound comes out.
You move toward him. Slowly. Hands up. Nonthreatening.
You reach him slowly, each step cautious, deliberate. His back is against the bulkhead now, shoulders rigid like heâs trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. You stop just short, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
The lighting flickers, painting sharp angles across his face. For a moment, he looks nothing like a weapon. He just looks... young. Tired. Worn raw from too many ghosts.
âIâm not here to hurt you,â you say quietly. âI swear. Iâm not.â
His jaw twitches. His eyes wonât leave yours. That look againâlike he knows you. Like heâs trying to dig the truth out of your face with nothing but instinct and desperation.
âI know this place is loud,â you continue, softer still. âI know your head must feel like a war zone right now. But youâre doing fine. Better than fine.â
A sharp breath. His fingers twitch at his side, metal knuckles flexing like heâs fighting the urge to reach for you. Or to run. Youâre not sure which would be worse.
And then the timepad on your wrist pulsesâa slow, resonant tone. The kind it only makes when a divergence has been successfully reabsorbed. You glance down.
Of course. Thatâs what this was. The system was waiting for the moment he didnât break. For the second he chose not to collapse, or kill, or disappear. A single, improbable outcome unfolding exactly as needed.
It was him. He was the pulse.
You let out a shaky exhale. The node in the hold mustâve gone inertâno more timeline bleed, no more irregular pulses. Outside, the stormâs intensity drops by half in minutes. The hull creaks as pressure stabilizes. Everythingâs slowing down. Calming.
Itâs over.
The right call now would be to leave. Every protocol youâve ever memorized is screaming at you to disengage, to extract clean, to leave no mark and make no memory.
But.
Youâve alreadyâfuck, youâve already. The moment he looked at you like thatâlike you were familiar, like you matteredâit was over. You are so utterly, catastrophically screwed.
âI donât know what they told you,â you say, and your voice barely clears your throat. Itâs quieter now. Gentler. Like youâre afraid of scaring him back into whatever shell he crawled out of. âAbout this place. About this mission. I donât even know if youâre going to remember this tomorrow. But I wanted you to knowââ
You donât finish.
Because he speaks.
âWill I see you again?â
The words are soft. Barely voiced. Like he had to haul them out of someplace deep and rusted shut. They land heavyâdenser than sound has any right to be. It knocks the breath out of you.Â
You blink. âWhat?â
He steps forwardâjust one measured stepâbut itâs enough to change the air between you. Close now. Close enough to see the uneven skin at the corner of his mouth, the wind-chapped crack at his lower lip. Close enough to notice how his left hand shakes, barely-there tremors betraying the tension heâs trying to lock down.
He doesnât say it again. He doesnât need to.
You could lie. You could make it easier. There are a dozen lines youâve used beforeâsmooth, forgettable, safe. But you donât reach for any of them.
Instead, you smile. Itâs lopsided, weary, born of too many years being the one who leaves first. Itâs your shield and your surrender, both.
âOnly if you start talking more,â you say, a half-hearted tease wrapped in something much more fragile. You flip open your timepad as the breach activates, casting soft gold light against the hallway walls.
The portal hums. Warm. Waiting.
But your heartâs a thunderclap now. Relentless. Youâre already tucking away the tilt of his head, the way his gaze softenedânot like surrender, but like a question. Like maybe heâd found something in you worth staying awake for.
And you know betterâgod, do you know betterâbut your feet donât move. You hesitate. Just a second. Just enough to feel it. Then you step through.
You donât look back. You never do.
But the image of his eyesâice-clear, impossibly humanâfollows you like a ghost you didnât mean to keep.
.
You wait for the hammer to fall.
You expect it in the usual waysâa recall order, a message from Oversight, a polite but unambiguous invitation to report to Subsector 8 for disciplinary review. You expect the breach notice, the system ping that says unauthorized designation use or noncompliant field contact, maybe even timeline contamination: agent-induced.
You expect something.
Because you said his name.
Because you looked at him like a person, not a variable. Because you touched him. Not in passingânot incidental. You chose to.
Youâve seen people get demoted for less. Scrubbed out. Timeline reassigned, memory wiped, consigned to desk duty or worseâshunted into the Void or the Nullspace, that softly brutal end-of-line where broken things go to dissolve.
And youâyouâlet your guard down in the middle of a convergence zone and called the Winter Soldier by his name. Thatâs not oversight. Thatâs not mission drift. Thatâs a lapse.
And yet⊠nothing happens.
Not a single alarm. No reprimand. No haunting message from Internal Realities. No pulled credentials. No veiled threats in Performance Management.
Instead, your timepad pings three days later with a new assignment.
Business as usual.
You run it back a dozen times, trying to parse the angleâwaiting for the catch. It never comes. You go on a mission in Year 3830 where the only threat is a sentient vine and a mild temporal rash. You document a collapsing micro-timeline in 1994 Missouri. You sit through three mandatory debriefs and a cross-departmental cultural sensitivity training that somehow lasts six hours.
Nothing.
Just⊠more work.
You fall back into the rhythm, the TVA's particular brand of unremarkable eternity. The recycled coffee, the endless corridors, the clipped dialogue, the dozens of agents who all look slightly frayed around the edges in the same way. The paperwork is never-ending, the bureaucracy divine in its pettiness. Time moves strange hereâlike chewing on tinfoil. Sometimes it gallops. Sometimes it forgets you entirely.
But thereâs something different now.
Itâs you.
You keep seeing himâin flickers and echoes, half-formed thoughts you donât realize youâre having until they hit the page. You start reviewing your field notes only to find entire paragraphs written in shorthand about the moment he tilted his head. About the way he said Will I see you again?
You shouldnât care. You donât care. Itâs just a glitch in your focus. Just⊠inertia.
Still, you pull up his file. James Buchanan Barnes.
Itâs a fractured thing. Not quite whole, like someone took sandpaper to the edges. Parts redacted, others duplicated. A timeline that canât seem to decide if it wants to be linear. No two missions involving him look the same. There are strange annotations. Personal tags from long-retired analysts. Notations like non-repeatable trauma pattern and event recursion index unstable.
Some entries are missing dates.
You read through anyway. Not for duty. Not even for curiosity, really.
You just want to.
And then, one standard TVA cycle later, it lands. Another assignment. This time the seal is embossed in goldâCausal Preservation Division. Low-risk, softpoint reinforcement. Routine.
You flick through the details:
CASE FILE: #456-TH9
MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Reinforcement
LOCATION: British Isles, Kingdom of Latveria Borderlands
DATE: JUNE 1602
ASSIGNED COVER: Itinerant Herbalist, non-native, licensed under local superstition codes
SUMMARY:
Objective is limited to passive timeline stabilization: ensure delivery of a restorative tonic to a six-year-old child suffering from swamp fever. This act preserves a familial survival event critical to a downstream medical lineage. Mission does not intersect with major temporal figures.
You are not to interfere with core narrative threads. You are not here for Bucky Barnes.
(But the file doesn't say that last sentence. You just write it down anyway.)
You frown at the file. It feels⊠small. Intentionally. A clean mission. An easy one, all things expected. No soldiers, no storms. Just a timeline that needs a nudge.
Still, you hesitate.
Not because itâs dangerous. Because itâs not. And because part of you wondersâquiet, insistentâif heâll be there again. Not as the Winter Soldier. Maybe as something else. Someone else.
The TVA says every mission is randomized.
But it never quite feels like that, does it?
EARTH-456 | BRITISH ISLES, 1602
The first thing you register is the smell. Damp earth. Horse sweat. Pine sap and someone nearby frying something questionably birdlike in lard.
Your boots sink into wet loam as the time door closes behind you with a dull sigh. Itâs quiet here, beneath the canopyâjust birdsong and the faint crackle of something cooking over a badly constructed fire pit.
You scan the clearing.
They call it a "camp," but itâs more aspirational than functional. A few makeshift tents, some scattered crates stamped with the royal crestârecently liberated, if the smashed locks and missing inventory are any clue.
You move quietly, cloaked in the nondescript garb of a traveling herbalistâdirt under your nails, satchel full of fake tinctures, a few well-placed knives.Â
You watch from the shade of the trees as he crouches beside the firepit, running a cloth along the edge of a short dagger. His hairâs tied back, rough and practical. Thereâs mud up to his knees and blood on his knuckles, dried like old guilt.
He doesnât see you, not yet.
Later, after setting up a modest stall in the village square (all intentional smoke and drying herbs, designed to blend in more than stand out), youâre told by a fellow field agent to visit the pub.
âThe meadâs surprisingly tolerable,â they say, nudging your satchel. âAlso, your contactâs not due for another twelve hours, so donât just sit there and brood. Blend in.â
You go.
The pub is suspended in a towering yew, three stories up a gnarled trunk, accessible only by a ladder that looks like it hates everyone who uses it. The structure groans in the wind but holds, its branches creaking like tired bones. The inside smells of firewood, old ale, and something herbalâprobably the same bitterroot tincture youâve been pretending to peddle all day.
The mead is surprisingly tolerable. You settle into a booth carved into the wall, lit by low-burning lanterns. Itâs warm. Quiet. You sip and let yourself feel anonymous.
Right up until the door slams open in that unmistakably theatrical way only someone with a chip on their shoulder and too much presence can manage.
You look upâand still, somehow, youâre not ready.
Heâs changed, of course. Thatâs the constant.
His hair is pulled back in a low tie, streaked with ash and caught with a bit of red cloth. He wears a leather cloak patched with scavenged velvet. The left arm, impossibly, is still metalâbut shaped like something out of myth. Not sleek. Not sterile. Forged. Etched in old runes that flicker faintly in the lantern light.
A blacksmithâs nightmare. A knight's inheritance.
And then thereâs the way he movesâlike someone used to silence, used to watching the world from its edge and only stepping in when absolutely necessary. He doesnât walk so much as arrive, and the moment he does, the tavern seems smaller. Quieter.
His eyesâthose same pale, searching eyesâfind yours almost immediately.
He pauses, mid-step. The look on his face isnât surprise. Itâs that ache of recognition, buried too deep to name. Like catching your reflection in a mirror that doesnât quite match.
He walks toward you without invitation. Controlled. Coiled. Not hostile. Just inevitable.
âMy lady, you shouldnât be out this late,â he says, voice worn at the edges, smoke-scoured and rough from a life thatâs clearly involved too many cold nights and too few comforts. âNot alone.â
You take a slow sip, meet his gaze. âItâs always late here. And rarely alone.â
He studies you. Not just your face, but your posture, your stillness. The way you speak like youâve been somewhere else too long to fully belong here.
Something flickers in his expression. Not memory. But something adjacent.
He lowers himself into the seat across from you without asking. Heâs still damp at the collarârain, or sweat, or both. Heâs got a scar running from his jaw to the hollow of his throat, clean and straight like a blade meant to silence. But his voice doesnât shake.
âHave we met?â
You offer a small, unreadable smile. âI donât believe so.â
But he keeps looking. You can feel him doing itâmapping the angles of your face against some invisible sketch, something etched into his bones that refuses to fade.
âYou look lost.â
âJust passing through.â
His mouth pulls tight at the corner, like that answer doesnât satisfy. You can tell he doesnât believe youâbut he doesnât press.
He nods toward a table in the back, where a small crew drinks from shared mugs and watches the door. They wear scraps of stolen uniforms and carry themselves with the weight of people whoâve stopped pretending theyâll live long lives.
âYou shouldnât be here,â he says again.
You glance at them. âNeither should you.â
His silence is telling. It confirms what you already guessed.
Heâs part of something. A resistance, sure, but not just that. Heâs the center of it. The calm in the chaos. The one who moves supply through enemy lines and burns bridges behind him. His coat bears a crest heâs tried to removeâonce royal, now repurposed. His fingers twitch when heâs still too long, and thereâs something reverent in how the others look at him when they think heâs not paying attention.
This version of him is no less dangerous. But more visible, somehow. More known. To these people, heâs a savior. To himself, probably a liability.
Always the same story: a man pressed into myth by the weight of his own regrets.
And still, he looks at you with that same protective wariness. Like something in him knows you donât quite belong hereâand wants to guard you anyway.
âCome on,â he says quietly. âIâll walk you home.â
The words strike you harder than they should. Like something remembered from a dream that felt real long after you woke.
The night outside is so still you can hear the wind whispering between the boughs.
He pauses under the lantern hanging from a bent branch. Looks at you, shadow-draped and silent.
âWhy are you here?â
You should lie. You want to lie.
But instead, you say it softly. âBecause I said I would be.â
He blinks. The words hit something deep. Maybe he doesnât understand them. But he feels them.
You step closer. Just close enough to reach up, cup his jaw gently, feel the sharp edge of his breath catch in his throat. And then you kiss him.
The moment your lips touch his, the rest of the world blanks. Not goneâjust irrelevant. The pub, the low burn of lanterns, the sound of rain tapping against the wooden slatsâit all slips away. All that remains is this.
His mouth is warm, unexpectedly so, and still. Cautious. As if heâs holding still for a test he doesnât know the answer to.
Youâre the one who moves first. Just slightly. Just enough to let it mean something.
And godsâit does.
It means everything you havenât said aloud. Every hour you spent since Siberia rewatching that moment when he looked at you like he knew you. Every line of his file you traced with your eyes long after you were supposed to close it. Every anomaly he left in his wake, the hollow prints he pressed into timelines like fingerprints you couldnât scrub clean.
Youâd told yourself it was curiosity. Professional interest. A harmless fixation. Just trying to cover your own ass in the event that the TVA catches up to you, foolish, foolish girl. But now you know better.
Because kissing him feels like gravity finally catching up to you.
He doesnât pull away.
His hand twitchesâjust onceâlike he might lift it, might anchor you there with the metal one, or with the other, the one that remembers touch. But he doesnât. He just breathes against your mouth like he doesnât know what heâs doing. Like no oneâs kissed him like this in years.
Like no oneâs ever kissed him like they remembered him.
The kiss is brief. You make yourself pull back before it deepens, before it turns into something hungrier, something you wonât be able to file away as incidental.
But you linger close.
He sends you off with a kiss to your forehead.
You complete the mission in silence.
The child is easy to findâjust as the file described. Freckled nose, limp in his motherâs arms, fever-bright. You hand over the tonic with a reassuring word and a warm enough smile to pass for human. The woman weeps when the boy stirs minutes later, the color already returning to his cheeks.
And just like thatâitâs done.
Softpoint reinforced. Future intact.
The door opens in a grove just outside the village, where moss curls over tree roots like sleeping hands. Golden light hums at the edges of the breach. You donât look back. Youâve learned your lesson there.
But as you step through, the last thing you hearâcarried faintly on the windâis his voice.
âI never got your name,â he says into a room thatâs not as empty as he thinks it is. Not yet.
.
You try to stay detached. Try to mark each version of him like a data pointâdistinct and catalogued, filed neatly beneath coordinates and context. But it never works. The lines blur.
Thereâs the one with the scar over his brow and the wild dog stare, who watches your hands like theyâre a threat and touches you like theyâre a prayer.
The one in 2049 who doesnât speak until the third encounter but holds out his hand like heâs known you forever. The one who plays cello in a city that shouldn't exist, who smiles only for children and flinches at thunder. The one who dies before you can reach him. You stay by his body anyway, until the timeline resets.
Each time, itâs different.
Each time, itâs him.
You start to think: maybe heâs not a variable. Maybe heâs the constant. The fixed point the multiverse canât help but echo. A gravitational pull in human formâtethered to something your soul must have signed onto long before the TVA ever handed you a timepad.
You wonder if the multiverse is trying to teach you something. Or if itâs punishing you insteadâshowing you every version of the thing you canât quite keep. Like a lesson in longing, rerun on loop.
You try not to hope. But the hope comes anyway. It always does. Soft and bright, a bruise you press on just to feel.
Then you get your next assignment.
The file is clean. Neat. Sanitized in that way TVA summaries always areâeuphemisms in place of grief, percentages instead of people. But you read between the lines. The divergence happened on the train. Or rather, didnât.
You read it twice. Three times. It doesnât change.
This Bucky Barnes didnât fall. The train held. The mission succeeded. Captain Carter rescued him and helped dismantle the remains of Hydraâs European cell before the war even ended. He was never captured. Never reprogrammed. Never dragged through a Hydra chamber like something to be melted down and reforged.
You try to imagine him without the weight.
You picture Bucky Barnes smiling easily, untethered to the guilt of fifty years of carnage he never chose. A man who still cracks his knuckles but not because they ache with remembered pain. One who walks into sunlight without flinching.
You wonder what that would be like.
So you go.
Of course you go.
You always do.
EARTH-838 | LONDON, 1944
Youâve never liked the long assignments.
Short ones are surgicalâget in, disrupt or observe, slip out before the timeline notices the echo of your footsteps. This one, though, is different. Your mission folder is three times thicker than usual. Paper-clipped pages in brittle brown envelopes. Dossiers printed on carbon-smudged letterhead. Photographs tucked inside, blurred by time and memory.
Youâre embedded with the 107th, slotted in as a specialist from Intelligence, the kind who shows up with forged credentials and a quiet knack for being in the right place just before things go wrong. Your cover holds. Mostly. They think youâre here to coordinate logistics for Hydra base strikes. Theyâre not entirely wrong.
The first time you see him again, heâs making a sarcastic remark about British rations and butterless toast. Heâs not in uniformâjust a pressed shirt with rolled sleeves and a cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers, a smear of grease on his wrist. He laughs when Howard Stark tosses a wrench and almost breaks a window.
Itâs different sound from what you've heard over the years.
But then Bucky Barnes notices you.
Not all at once. Not like in the stories people tell themselves after the factâlove at first glance, magnetic fate, sparks across a battlefield. No, it starts in pieces. A glance held a beat too long during mission briefings. A muttered thank you when you slip him a replacement knife requisition that definitely wasnât cleared. The way he starts lingering near your tent in the evenings, offering lazy conversation while the others clean weapons or sleep.
âYou always write that fast?â he asks once, elbow braced on the flap of the entrance like itâs casual, like he didnât cross half the camp just to talk to you.
You donât look up. âOnly when Iâm trying to drown out poorly played harmonica.â
He grins. âHey, Duganâs doing his best.â
You snort. âHis best sounds like a wounded mule.â
He laughs again, quieter this time. You feel it settle between your ribs like a warm coin. Itâs nothing. Just noise. You tell yourself that.
Weeks pass like that. Quiet orbit. You take longer walks to the mess hall because he always times his exit to meet you halfway. He asks questionsâabout where you're from (a place you name off a pre-approved list), what brought you to London (the war, obviously), if you believe in fate.
You lie when you can. You dodge when you must.
But not everything you say is false. You like coffee too bitter and books too sad. You write letters you never send. You donât sleep well. Youâve lost people.
He listens. He remembers. He starts showing up with extra coffee. Offers to walk you back to your quarters even though itâs technically against regulations. You start lingering in his doorway.
He never pushes.
And you hate itâhow much you want him to.
The first time he touches you, it's an accident. Your fingers brush as he passes you a pen. Your skin sparks. Itâs stupid, how much you feel it.
He notices.
"You ever get that sense," he says one night in the empty mess, voices low, "that youâve known someone longer than youâre supposed to?"
Your breath catches.
You laugh it off. "I get that about my dentist."
He grins. But his eyes stay on yours too long.
Youâre not supposed to fall in this one.Â
But God, itâs so easy. So familiar.
Bucky tells you about his family. His sister. The stoop of his childhood apartment and how he used to sneak Steve a flask when the nurses werenât looking. He draws out your laugh like itâs a map, like he's been trying to find it for years.
And all the while, you feel it coming.Â
One night, two months in, he walks you back and you donât stop at your door. You let the silence linger. The city is dark and rain-slicked, war planes humming overhead like ghosts.
"Youâre not like anyone Iâve met before," he says, leaning against the wall.
You smile sadly. "Youâve said that to a lot of girls, Sergeant."
London spills into the streets like a wound unstitchedâmen and women dancing in front of blown-out buildings, children painting flags onto brick walls, sailors kissing strangers with the urgency of borrowed time. The city doesnât sleep. Neither do you.
Youâve stayed longer than planned.
Your official timeline expired a couple of hours ago. But your timepadâs been blinking quietly in your coat pocket since sundown, like a secret youâre not quite ready to confess. For long-term infiltrations, the TVA grants a small window of flexibilityâtwo to three extra hours, soft margin. Enough to wrap up loose ends. Enough to say goodbye without saying it.
Bucky doesnât know. Heâs too busy laughingâreally laughingâface lit by the amber glow of the pub sign behind him, arm draped lazily around your shoulders. Heâs had two pints and a victory cigar, and youâve never seen him look so alive.Â
Heâs in his shirtsleeves again, collar open at the throat, hair mussed from the wind. He smells like tobacco and soap and something citrusy he mustâve stolen from Starkâs ration stash. His hand grazes your shoulder as you step outside the crowded pub and into the cool night air. Heâs warm, even in the London chill. Always warm.
âIâve been thinking,â he says, suddenly serious, voice low in your ear.
You turn, startled by the shift. âAbout?â
He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the cobblestone street, then back to you. The revelers blur behind youâdrunk joy and blurred music, a world gone soft at the edges.
âYou could come with me,â he says. "To New York. Brooklyn."
Your stomach drops.
âWeâve got peace now. Thereâs gonna be rebuilding. A hell of a lot of it. I know itâs chaos but⊠I donât know. I thought maybeâŠâ He trails off, then forces a laugh, too bright. âForget it. Itâs dumb.â
You step in close. The timepad at your hip vibrates againâEXIT NODE ACTIVE. TEMPORAL STABILITY REACHED. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. You ignore it.
âSay it,â you whisper.
âIâll get a job,â Bucky says.
His Brooklyn accent is thick with hope, slipping out between the cracks like sunlight through boarded windows. His voice is rough and low, but urgentâlike if he stops speaking for even a second, this moment might collapse under the weight of everything itâs not allowed to be.
âYouâre so⊠so fucking smart it gets me dizzy sometimes. I watch you in a room andâChrist, Iâve seen tacticians, Iâve seen war heroesâbut no one moves the way you do.â
Heâs closer now, just a breath away, like proximity might be enough to anchor you to this place.
âIâll get us a place of our own. A tiny walk-up with drafty windows and floors that creak every time you step wrong. The kind of place where no one knows our names, but weâll learn the neighborsâ. Iâll fix the heater when it breaks. Iâll learn to make your coffee the way you like itâtwo sugars, not too sweet, extra hot. Iâll write it down if I have to. You wonât even have to ask.â
He swallows, his voice breaking just a little.
âIâll make pancakes on Sundays, even if I suck at it. Iâll burn the first batch every damn week and pretend I meant to. Weâll fight about the dishes and who left the radio on. Iâll learn to fold the sheets the right way, your way. Iâll leave notes on the fridge. Iâll rub your feet when youâve had a long day, even if you pretend you donât want me to.â
His eyes are wet now, but he doesnât blink them away. He wants you to see.
âIâll build a life where you can rest,â he says, so softly it barely carries over the celebration in the street. âNo secrets. No war. Just mornings and bad coffee and a bed we donât have to leave unless we want to.â
His hand lifts, hovering like he wants to touch you but doesnât dare. Heâs unraveling. And heâs never been more sure of anything.
âYou walk around like you donât belong to anyone,â he whispers. âBut you belong somewhere. You belong with someone who sees you.â
His eyes search yours, bright and raw.
âDarling,â he breathes, âI just wantââ
You donât speak. You want to. You want to say yes so badly your teeth ache with it.
Instead, your hand reaches for himâcups his cheek, thumb brushing the scrape of stubble there. You lean in before you can stop yourself.
The kiss is molten.
Not soft, not chaste. Itâs everything you arenât supposed to want: greedy, aching, desperate. It tastes like smoke and honey and warâs aftermath. You can feel the imprint of his hands at your waist, grounding you, like he already knows youâre slipping.
You gasp against his mouth when he deepens the kiss, his hand moving to cradle the back of your neck like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he lets go. And youâyou clutch at his coat, fingers fisting in the fabric like itâs the only solid thing left in the world. The city roars around youâdrunken songs, laughter, heels on cobblestoneâbut none of it touches this moment. It belongs to you. To him.
He kisses like heâs starved for something he canât name.
Like every version of himself has been waiting for this.
Somehow, you make it back to his quartersâbarely remembering how. The door slams shut behind you and heâs on you again, mouth warm and insistent, hands trembling now as they trace your jaw, your hips, the shape of your spine like heâs mapping it to memory. You let him. You want to be remembered.
âTell me this is real,â he murmurs against your throat, breath hot. âTell me Iâm not dreaming you.â
You tip your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. âYouâre not dreaming.â
You pull his shirt free from his waistband, palms skimming over bare skin, warm and ridged with scars you recognize from dossiersâscars youâve imagined tracing with your mouth, with your hands, in every universe that told you not to.
Bucky's mouth finds the edge of your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss feels like a confession, like an apology, like a promise. "You're so fucking pretty," he moans into your skin, moving and moving and moving, until you feel his thigh part yours, giving you just the right amount of friction to drive you crazy.
Your shirt's off in turn, and all at once, he drifts down to your tits, cupping them with both palms and burying his face in them. For a moment, your brain short-circuitsâhe's groaning, tender kisses against your nipples and sucking, nipping at the swell of your breasts. "You taste so good, darling. God, I can taste you all day."
You pull on his hairâhard. "Bucky, please. Give me more."
"Ask and you shall receive."
You're rewarded with a beautiful view of him shedding the rest of his clothes off. You can'tâwon'tâlook away. It never ceases to amaze you, how pretty his cock is. You lick your lips as he gives it a stroke, slow and soft and positively ready for you.
Then Bucky leans forward, capturing your lips again with a certainty that makes your heart near burst out of your chest.Â
Your hand wraps around the base of his cock and you smile when he wrenches his head back, eyes shut in almost agony. Bucking against your hand, like he can't get enough of it. He says your name, and despite yourself, you grin before pulling yourself away from his kiss to lower your head, tongue swiping out to taste what leaks from him at the tip.
"Oh, god," His hands come to twist around your hair, the pull making your eyes water with something delicious, something filled with need. You keep going deeper, until he hits the back of your throat and you both moan. "You're so good to me. So, so good."
He's babbling now, as your lips stay wrapped around your cock and you're pressing the flat of your tongue against his veins, a hand stabilizing you underneath. "Sweetheart, you're perfect. I'm going toâoh, yes, right thereâgod, I'm gonna marry you. We're never gonna stop doing this. I'm never gonna get enough of you."
You take him there, all the way up, until he's almost to the edge and he has to ground his hands against your cheeks and pull you off. He looks down at you with that goddamned earnest look that makes you fall in love with him in the first place. "Notânot like this. I want to be inside you."
Of course, of course. "Of course, James."
He pushes you onto your back, and you can't help the giddy feeling in your chest, seeing how much of a mess you've made of him. His cock's shining with your spit and saliva, your wetness all over him. When Bucky sees where you're looking, he licks his lips. A preliminary swipe against your folds when you, very intentionally, thrust forward against his hips impatiently.
"So eager."
You glare at him, lips curling even as he takes both of your thighs until he's slotted between them. "There's no need to be a teaseâOh."
He sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, and you're moaning, jaw dropping as his cock disappears inside of you. You're so full. You've never been this full before and it makes you pant, sighing breathlessly, and when his thumb finds your clit, you whine and clench around him. Both of you moan in harmony.
His pace speeds up from there, hard and fast, and it's intensified by the way he looks at you. Eyes dissecting you carefully, trying to remember every expression, every second, every move that makes you keen further into his touch.Â
"Look at me, baby, please," Bucky growls and you do. "Look at me when you make me come."
You can't look away, feeling the stars gather up behind your eyes as your own orgasm catches up to youâfuck, it's nothing compared to how his release feels inside of you, the warmth, the way he feels so strong under your fingertips. His chest vibrating, mouth falling open in a prolonged, beautiful groan. He pushes himself deeper inside of you, until you feel his release slipping out of you onto the mattress.
You press a kiss to his forehead and let yourself fall asleep like thatâhim inside of you, tangled up in him.
The light is different when you wake up in the morning.
Soft, pale, almost shy. It seeps through the parted curtains like it doesnât want to intrude, spilling over the uneven floorboards and up the rumpled edge of the blanket half-draped across your hip.
His arm is still around you. Heavy in sleep. Warm. Bucky Barnes is still asleep.
You donât kiss him goodbye.
Instead, you whisper something he wonât hear. âI wish we had more time.â
And then you activate the timepad.
.
Time passes strangely in the TVA.
There are clocks, yes. Digital ones on walls, analog ones in desks, internal ones ticking behind your eyes. But none of them matter. Days donât pile up hereâthey just... repeat, under different names. Tuesday is a fiction. Sunday doesnât exist. Lunch breaks happen when the lights flicker just right, and sleep is what you do when your body gives out mid-report.
You stopped counting after the first month. You stopped pretending to count after the second.
Instead, you worked.
Harder than anyone. Longer than anyone. You took missions no one else wantedâscrubbing nexus events off apocalyptic wastelands, ghosting through centuries where empires rose and fell before youâd even finished breakfast. You volunteered for side branches, anomaly audits, recursive sync loops. Anything to keep moving.
It didnât go unnoticed.
A plaque went up in the Hall of Merit. "Agent of the Month." Your name, etched in fake gold. Mobius clapped you on the shoulder with a proud little smile. Brad brought you the worst celebratory cupcake youâve ever tasted. (Vanilla. Dry. Sprinkles like gravel.)
You smiled. You always smile.
You donât let yourself say what youâre really thinking.
That all of itâall the assignments, all the accolades, all the long nights pinning divergent strands back into placeâis just inertia. Just mass multiplied by pain. Because you know what happens when you stop moving.
And youâve tried. God, youâve tried.
You dodge his branches when you can. You pass them off to junior agents, citing temporal redundancy. You tell yourself itâs not cowardice if itâs protocol. You let yourself believe it, for a while.
Until the file lands on your desk.
CASE FILE: #2149-BE0
MISSION CLASS: Collapse Softpoint Reinforcement
LOCATION: Earth-2149 â Brooklyn, United States / Geneva, Switzerland
DATE: April 2018 (Post-Outbreak +1 Day)
ASSIGNED COVER: Civilian logistics runner, no official alignment, false survivor credentials
SUMMARY:
Objective is to reinforce critical softpoint during global collapse event: ensure Scott Lang, Peter Parker, and TâChalla successfully board Wakandan quinjet. This evacuation preserves three downstream nexus threads essential to limited multiversal salvage.
Do not interfere beyond softpoint parameters. Infected superhumans active.
You stare at it for a long time. You could say no. You should say no.
But your hand moves anyway. Signs the form. Accepts the mission.
No backup. No reassignment.
Just you.
EARTH-2149 | BROOKLYN, 2018 (+1 DAY POST-OUTBREAK)
Out of all the missions you've had so far, you think you hate this one the most. Which is saying something. Zombie apocalypse timelines are the worst.
The air reeks of ash and ozone. Youâre used to strange skies by now, but this one feels wrong in your bones. The light doesnât fall the way it shouldâtoo sharp at the edges, like the sunâs been split into shards and youâre walking through the aftermath.
You arrived forty hours ago. Standard infiltration and alignment. The assignment brief was brutal in its simplicity.
Bucky doesnât make it out of this timeline. He dies at Camp Lehigh. He buys them time.
And youâre supposed to let that happen.
Your first glimpse of him isnât cinematic. No slow reveal, no stirring strings. Just a sliver of profile through the cracked door of an old deli, combat boots pacing, rifle slung over his back, the metal arm glinting dull and scratched. Heâs talking to Parkerâlow and firm, the kind of voice meant to ground someone younger, more fragile.
When you step into the light, he turns toward you like he was already waiting. Eyes blue, shadowed. Jaw set. And there it is againâthat look. Recognition.
Your breath stutters. You donât say anything. You just nod, like youâve been here all along. Like youâre meant to be here.Â
You donât know if you can watch him die.
Not when youâve held versions of him in your arms, heard him laugh half-asleep beside a campfire, watched his hands shake after battle and pretended not to notice.
Peter introduces you. A name you chose at random from a TVA list. He doesnât flinch when Bucky says it aloud. But something shifts behind his eyesâquiet and soft and gone before it settles.
You get through the introductions. Kurt, smiling nervously. Sharon, bloody but unbowed. Okoye nods once at you, sharp and appraising. Happy makes a joke that doesnât quite land.
For the next two weeks, you stay with them.
You don't mean to get close to Bucky in this one. (You mean it this time. Seriously.) For the first couple of days, you try your best to stay away. You do your best to focus on the mission and he's⊠he's just another person in the crowd. You think that would make it easier, when heâwhen he eventuallyâYou can't even say it.
But it happens one morning, anywayâfog pooling low across the park, the air thick with that awful, metallic smell of rot. Youâre both on perimeter watch, standing on opposite ends of a shattered greenhouse. He catches you glancing toward the skyline, whatâs left of it, jagged teeth against the pale pink sky.
âPretty, isnât it?â he says, voice low, scratchy from disuse.
You blink from your thoughts. âIn a doomed, post-apocalyptic sort of way.â
He huffs a laugh. Almost smiles. âI was gonna say the same.â
Silence settles between you, but itâs a companionable thing. Not awkward. Not forced.
You speak first this time. âYou always this poetic?â
âOnly when Iâm tired. Or scared.â
You glance at him. âWhich is it now?â
He doesnât answer right away. Just shifts his weight, runs a hand through his hair, and says, âBoth.â
You donât touch. You donât need to. Itâs all there in the space between youâheavy with implication. Unspoken, but not unfelt.
You sleep on opposite ends of the same room. He never touches you. Never asks. But some nights you wake up to find his jacket draped over your legs. Once, during a particularly bad storm, he nudged a cracked thermos of lukewarm coffee toward you without a word.
He doesnât have to say anything. You feel it.
All of it.
And the worst partâthe most unbearableâis knowing itâs temporary. You feel the convergence approaching like a bruise beneath your ribs. Two days now, maybe three, before you lose him again. Before he dies. Before you vanish back into the timeline like a ghost leaving no fingerprints.
You try not to show it. You smile when Peter cracks a joke. You run drills with Sharon. You help Kurt fix a busted radio, even though itâs hopeless.
But every time you look at Bucky, your heart tightens in your chest like itâs trying to keep him there.
And then it's here.
The journey to Camp Lehigh was fucking gut-wrenching.
You've lost practically everyoneâSharon, Hope, Kurt, Happy, Okoye. It sits in you like a shard of ice. Not griefâthereâs no time for grief. Just weight. Just the bitter gravity of survival. The quinjet is prepped and waiting. The remaining survivorsâPeter, TâChalla, Langâs floating head in a jarâare already climbing aboard. Youâve done everything the mission brief demanded. You met the moment. You held the line.
Youâve done everything the mission brief saidâdown to the minute, the location, the final headcount. And you⊠youâre standing beside Bucky.
And still, youâre standing beside him.
Buckyâs chest rises and falls with the kind of steadiness that makes you ache. His metal arm glints in the firelight, streaked with ash and blood, fingers twitching in a rhythm you canât decipher. Thereâs soot on his cheek, a rip in his sleeve, and when he turns to you, thereâs something too clear in his eyes. Not fear. Not even pain.
Resolve.
You taste it in the back of your throat: the copper of a timeline ending.
âWe have to go,â you say softly, not to him, not really. Just to the air.
Bucky doesnât move.
He turns his head slightly, enough for you to see the hard line of his jaw. The wear around his eyes. Thereâs something about this version of himâfamiliar, but not calloused like the others. Still earnest enough to believe in sacrifice. Still sharp enough to choose it without flinching.
You hate that.
âIâll hold her off,â he says, and you feel something break, neat and irreversible, in your chest.
âNo,â you breathe. Too fast, too raw.
His brow furrows. âSomeone has to. You said it yourselfâif we donât get the jet off the ground, we lose everything.â
âThat doesnât mean it has to be you.â
He smiles, and itâs that same damn smile thatâs followed you across time. The one that says itâs already decided.
âI think it always was.â
You want to scream. You want to tell him heâs not disposable, not fated, not just a name on some cosmic itinerary that keeps getting torn out and rewritten. You want to confess that youâve met him over and over, and every time heâs left a bruise somewhere deeper.
But the timepad at your hip begins to beep.
MISSION END: T-MINUS 2 MINUTES
You ignore it.
âYouâll make it,â he says gently, like a goodbye.
âNo, I wonât,â you whisper. âNot really.â
Thereâs shouting near the quinjet ramp. Peter calling your name. Bruce waving you over. The others are loading in. You should be there. The moment is closing. The window is narrowing.
You donât move.
Instead, you step forward and press your hand to his cheek. Your skin is cold from the wind, but he leans into it anyway. His eyes flutter closed for half a secondâjust long enough for you to memorize it.
Then you kiss him.
Itâs not gentle. Itâs desperate. Greedy. A kiss that says remember me. Your hands fist in his jacket. His mouth moves against yours like itâs something heâs missed without knowing. You drink in every inch of himâthe scrape of stubble, the roughness of his palms against your back, the low sound he makes when you pull away.
âIâll find you again,â you say. It's a promise.
He nods once. His hand lingers at your waist for a breath longer than it should. Then he turns back towards Wanda.
You watch him go. You always watch him go.
The quinjet door hisses shut behind you. The engines roar to life. The pad at your side flashes, like some sick, fucking jokeâ
Mission Successful. Extraction in Progress.
You donât look back at the ground. Youâve learned that much, at least. Looking back doesnât stop the bleeding. But when the jet lifts, when the trees blur below and you canât see him anymoreâ
You swear something rips loose in you.
And this time, you donât think it will grow back.
.
Youâve seen him in snow.
In bloodied ice, in rusted Soviet hulls, in the shadow of burning quinjets and crumbling castles. Youâve seen him with death behind his eyes and guilt threaded into every line of his face. Youâve seen him careful, methodical. Kind in all the ways no one noticesâquiet in a world that demands noise. Someone who doesnât ask for gentleness, but gives it anyway.
And now youâve seen him in the dark, too. In 1602, under soot-smudged moons and flickering gaslights, a knife twirling between clever fingers. He hadnât known youânot really. Not as the woman whoâd held his gaze in a cryo chamber. Not as the silhouette slipping into the quinjet before he turned to face the Scarlet Witch. But heâd looked at you like he wanted to.
The thread stays taut between you, no matter the timeline.
So when you get the assignment to goâ
It doesnât land with ceremony. No formal debrief. Just a flicker on your desk monitor, a soft chime that cuts through the static hum of the TVAâs perpetual fluorescent haze. You almost miss it. You almost ignore it. Because everything still hurts.
The kind of hurt that doesn't pulseâit seeps. It rots. You move like youâre wearing someone elseâs body, like your own bones are too loud. You havenât been sleepingânot really.Â
You open the file with a numb hand. Just procedure, you tell yourself. Just another timeline. Until you see the numbers.
CASE FILE: #616-SV1
MISSION CLASS: Passive Observation
LOCATION: Bucharest, Romania
DATE: March 2016Â
ASSIGNED COVER: Independent tenant, upper flat
SUMMARY:
Subject Barnes, James B., presumed alive and in civilian hiding following HYDRA data exposure and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. Timeline approaching critical inflection. Target is not actively breaching; no temporal instability present. Assignment is preventative: monitor for signs of deviation or catalyst behavior.
Do not engage. No interference unless softpoint destabilization occurs.
You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. Itâs hard to tell.
Thereâs a reason TVA protocol avoids revisiting timelines. Too risky. Too messy. History isnât built for recursion. But thisâthis is a spiral. A closed loop. Like something unfinished trying to write its own end.
And now youâve been assigned to watch him again.
After all this time. After what you felt splinter through you like glass.
You should tell someone. Flag the conflict of interest. Recuse yourself.Â
You donât.
You close the file and begin packing for Bucharest.
EARTH-616 | BUCHAREST, 2016
You land in Bucharest in the dead quiet of early morning, the sky still purpled with sleep.Â
The city feels brittleâlike something trying very hard not to splinter. Your coverâs thin again: traveling contractor, repair work, nothing that draws attention. You rent a room across from a narrow building with stained windows and a faulty streetlamp that flickers at 2 a.m. every night like clockwork.
And you wait.
The first time you see him again, heâs carrying plums.
Youâre leaning on a railing, nursing coffee thatâs more soot than bean, watching the street in that not-watching way youâve perfected over decades. And there he is. Gray hoodie, boots worn to the stitching, a canvas bag slung across one shoulder.
He walks like someone trying to be smaller. Eyes down. Shoulders rounded. Every muscle still taut beneath the fabric, but pulled inward. Controlled.
You almost donât recognize him like this. Then he glances up. Brief. Casual.
But it slams into you anyway.
Because there it isâthat flicker. That impossible, unplaceable pull. Like gravity, but sideways. Like someone whispering your name in a language you forgot how to speak.
He doesnât stop. Doesnât linger. But you feel it. That taut little wire between your ribs goes taut again, humming faint and low.
Youâve seen him across centuries, across madness and ruins and impossible skies. And now, here he is, just... buying fruit.Â
You observe him for seven days. No contact. No breach.
Each morning, he walks the same path. Plums one day. Bread the next. He pauses at the corner every timeâchecks the shadows, the mirrors. Still sharp. Still trained. But dulled at the edges like heâs trying not to be. Like heâs tired of being a weapon, and doesnât quite know how to be anything else.
He never takes the same route home.
You map them all anyway.
Thereâs a rhythm to his caution. Itâs not paranoia. Itâs preservation. You know the difference. Youâve watched enough shattered timelines to recognize when someoneâs not trying to escape the worldâjust survive it.
And through it all, you pretend not to ache.
You keep the timepad dim, tucked under your coat like a second heart. The updates are clean. No deviations. No instability. Heâs not a threat. Not a spark.
Just a man. Still whole, somehow. Still holding.
But you find yourself watching anyway. Not for fractures or fault linesâbut for the quiet, ordinary proof that heâs still him. The way he double-checks his change at the fruit stall. The soft apology he gives a stray dog he nearly bumps with his boot. The habit of pausing in the stairwell, just long enough to listen for another pair of footsteps behind him. You memorize all of it like itâs going to disappear.
You donât. Of course you donât.
Until the night you lose him.
Itâs raining. Thin, indecisive drops that fall more like static than water. Youâre two streets behind, just enough distance to not spook him, when someone yells, and a car backfires, and you look away for a single goddamn second.
And heâs gone.
You circle three blocks. Then six. Nothing. Itâs half an hour later when you feel the grip.
Quick, precise. A hand closes over your arm and pulls you sidewaysâinto a narrow alley between buildings that still wear their war damage like it happened yesterday. The wall hits your spine. The air knocks out of you. And then heâs there.
Close. Too close.
Hood down. Eyes sharp. Rain slicking through his hair.
You donât move. Donât breathe.
Because heâs looking at you like heâs been waiting.
âYouâve been following me,â he says, voice low, rough. No heat in it. Just truth.
Your mouth opens. Closes.
He tilts his head, studying your face like heâs comparing it to something half-forgotten. Then he says, quiet, like a memory. âSiberia. 1955.â
The words gut you.
âI remember,â he says. âYou said my name.â
His name. That night. The way he shookâlike his own mind was something turning against him. The tremor in his breath. The metal arm pressed tight to his temple, like he could hold back whatever wave was cresting inside. And then your voice, just a whisper: Bucky.
And it worked.
He startled like the sound reached deeper than his programming. Like it found something still human.
You donât mean toâbut you reach up, slowly, and press your hand over his where it still grips your coat. His fingers tighten for a second. Then release.
You look at him. Really look.
The rain has soaked through everything, and heâs shivering. Not from cold. From memory. His breath ghosts in the narrow space between you, and his eyesâGod, his eyesâdonât look like a strangerâs.
It looks like home.
He takes a step back and mutters, âCome on.â
You follow him through back alleys and slick cobblestone streets to a squat building with iron balconies and doors that stick. His apartment is a few flights up, small and clean in the way that feels practicedâsurfaces scrubbed, not decorated. A cot, a kettle, a folded stack of shirts too neatly pressed. No photos. No noise.
He doesnât speak at first. Just watches you watch the space, like heâs trying to guess what youâll say.
âNot what you expected?â he asks eventually, voice rough.
You shake your head. âNo. Itâs exactly what I expected.â
He scoffs. Sits on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees. âHow do you know me?â
And you could lie. You could stall. But youâre tired of running out of time.
But youâre tired of running out of time. Siberia. The hold. The pulse. The kiss in 1602. The quinjet, the gaslight, the plague-soaked rooftops and the boy who lived because you were there. The mission you botched. The rules you broke. The dozens of timelines where he didnât make it. The handful where he almost did. The way it was always him. And when you finally stopâwhen the words have left you empty and open and rawâhe doesnât flinch.
He exhales, long and deliberate. His fingers twitch against his knee. Then he looks at youâreally looks, and you can feel the moment shift.
âWhen I saw you again,â he says, voice quieter now, but steadier, âon the street⊠it wasnât like remembering something. It was like finishing something.â
You blink. âFinishing?â
He nods, slowly. âYeah. Like⊠you know when youâve had a song stuck in your head for days? Not the lyricsâjust the feeling of it. The rhythm. The echo. And then one day it comes on the radio, and your chest justâunlocks. Like something you didnât know was broken gets put back together.â
He glances down at his hands, then back at you.
âThatâs what it felt like. Seeing you.â
You stay silent, afraid to interrupt the thread he's following.
âAt first I thought I was losing it,â he admits. âSome hallucination leftover from Hydra. A ghost memory I couldnât place. But then you moved, andâJesusâI knew it wasnât just in my head. The way you looked at me. Like you knew me. Like you werenât afraid of me.â
His jaw clenches, not from anger, but from something deeper. Held longer.
âIâve seen that look before,â he says. âFear. Disgust. Pity, sometimes. Iâm used to people stepping back. Or pretending they donât see me. But you⊠you didnât flinch. Not even in the alley. You looked at me like I wasââ He falters, and then tries again. âLike I was real. Like I had a name worth saying.â
Your chest aches.
He laughs, a short, unsteady breath. âGod, and hearing you say it againâBuckyâlike it was the first time all over. I donât know why that hit so hard. But it did. It felt like⊠like Iâd been underwater for years, and suddenly someone opened a window.â
You donât say anything.
Youâre still trying to breathe around the weight of him.
âI donât remember everything,â he says. âNot clearly. Flashes, maybe. Cold metal. Smoke. That lightâon your face, in that hallway. But I remember how I felt. I remember peace. For like⊠five seconds. It was the only thing that made sense.â
His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes.
âI think Iâve been looking for that feeling ever since.â
You don't answerânot with words. There's nothing left to say that would hold the weight this moment needs. So instead, you cross the small stretch of floor between you, slow and deliberate, and sink to your knees in front of him.
Your hand finds his, trembling with some emotion neither of you dares to name, and he lets out a soundâhalf-breath, half-confessionâas your fingers thread together.
âOkay?â you murmur.
He nods, once. But it's not enough. His hands rise, hesitant, then hungryâone brushing the curve of your cheek, the other settling at your waist like heâs still afraid you might vanish. Like if he touches you too hard, youâll be another dream, another phantom gone by morning.
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft, reverentâhis lips just ghosting yours, like he's asking permission. But the second you respond, the second you lean in and kiss him back with everything youâve carried through centuries of almosts, it shatters something in both of you.
He surges forward.
Kisses you again, deeper this time. More desperate.
Your back hits the wall with a muted thump, and suddenly his hands are everywhereâone splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your jaw. He kisses you like heâs starved for it, like heâs trying to map your mouth, your breath, the corners of your teeth. Like he's trying to memorize you from the inside out.
And thenâGodâhe breaks away just enough to kiss the line of your jaw. The soft spot beneath your ear. Your temple. Your forehead.
âYouâre real,â he breathes against your skin, almost like a prayer. âYouâre here.â
His lips trail lower, find the bend of your knee as you hitch your leg around his waist. He presses a kiss there too, slow and aching, like it means something. Like everything means something.
Youâre both breathing hard now, hands roaming, hearts pounding in rhythm too fast to be calm, too synchronized to be coincidence. He kisses your collarbone. The corner of your mouth. The space beneath your eye, where something like grief still lingers.
He's so gentle. Gentle all the way through until he manages to shove you to the bed, kissing his way down the column of your throat and then it shifts. His hands find their way inside your jeans and he gasps, shakily. "You're so wet, fuckâyou're so wet. For me?"
You nod, breathless.
It's another slow dance, as he rolls your jeans off, only to quickly find his way back like he can't stand to be parted from you. His fingers find your entrance, the rough pads of them swiftly finding your entrance and spreading the heat, the wetness around, like he's playing with his meal.Â
Then Bucky brings his mouth, that beautiful, beautiful mouth, to your cunt to replace his fingers and you swear you may have just died. He's soâhe's so passionate, devouring you with a hunger until your spine's arching off the bed, your hands tangling in his soft brown hair. He doesn't stop licking and sucking.
"Bucky, pleaseâoh god, please, don't stop."
You get closer and closer to the edge, hips rutting against his jaw. You feel everything so, so deeply. The way his stubble leaves goosebumps in its wake, his hands digging into your thighs to keep you in placeâand then, he slides a finger back inside you as he hums, satisfied with the moans he's wrenched out of you.
It's like coming home. Your orgasm's like a strike of lightning, crying out as you release, close to tears as he laps up the rest of your orgasm.
When he finally stands to start taking off his clothes, you've been reduced to nothing more than a boneless heap on his bed. Your knees are wobbling slightly, but you force yourself to get up anyway, helping him shed the rest. "I'mâhere. Let me help."
Bucky smiles. Softly.
"You're so sweet. You're too good for me."Â
You think you lose another shred of your sanity.
The look in your eyes lights something up in him. He joins you back on the bed and you can feel him, the weight of him, and it's all so familiar. He rests heavy on your thigh and your heart feels like it's about to come out of your chest.
"Bucky, please."
His cock slips inside of you, with a gasp and a groan, and suddenly, Bucky's locking his hands with yours. "Promise me you'll stay."
It's almost overwhelming, but he keeps you grounded. There's just so much of him. There's his teeth on your neck, the burn of his stubble on your collarbones, the way he sucks off marks against your skin and looms over you, like he never wants you to leave him again. His strength is addicting, the way he pushes you so close to breaking.Â
He says your name again. "Promise me."
You tell yourselfâyou're never letting him go again. You wrap your arms around him like something fierce, kissing him as he thrusts deeply, hitting the spot that makes stars light up behind your eyes. "BuckyâfuckâIâ"
Your name falls from his lips with a groan. "Sweetheart, I'mâ"
"Me too," You nod, whining when his pace quickens and itâyou don't mean to, but it makes you clench around him. "Let go for me. It's okay."
Bucky looks at you, his grip around your hands tightening, and suddenly, it's a rolling wave of pleasure, over and over and over until you're trembling. You can feel him, his warmth, so fucking much of it, it's addicting. He's still groaning, hips thrusting, like he's trying to carve a home out of you.
Youâre not sure how long you stay like thatâtwined together in the stillness, forehead pressed to his, breath shared in the hush of a room that suddenly feels too charged, too fragile to last.
You donât want to break it. But you have to.
âBucky,â you whisper, your voice threading through the quiet like a thread pulled taut. âTheyâre going to try to take me away.â
His eyes snap open. âWhat?â
You rest your hand against his chest, feel the beat of his heart stutter beneath your palm. âThe TVA. They monitor softpoint drift. Iâve pushed too many lines. Stayed too long. Thisââ You gesture softly between you, ââthis isnât sanctioned.â
He stares at you like he wants to argue. But he doesnât. Because he knows youâre not wrong.
âLet them try,â he mutters, jaw tight. His hands tighten where they rest on your waist, grounding. Possessive in the way a storm anchors to the sea. âI wonât let them.â
You smileâsad, crooked, fond. âYou might not get a choice. But I will. I always find a way back.â
He swallows hard. âYou promise?â
You nod. Press your lips to his againâgentle this time, slow and deliberate, like sealing a vow with your breath. Then you whisper against his mouth:
âIâll come back. I always come back.â
His eyes close for half a second. And when they open again, theyâre full of something wild. Unspoken. Undeniable.
âNext time,â you say, voice shaking with certainty, ânext time Iâll stay.â
THE NULL SECTOR | TVA DETENTION LOOP C-9
You broke protocol.Â
Not for the mission. Not for the stabilization of a softpoint. For him. For a man with a haunted gaze and a heartbeat you should never have memorized.
And the TVA caught up to you.
They always do.
They didnât drag you out of the field. There was no team of Minutemen, no sirens or threat display. Just a pulse through your timepad, a freeze-frame of motionâand then static. You never even got to say goodbye. Just watched as his apartment in Bucharest faded from view. The world around you disassembled. You didnât fall through time; it collapsed around you.
And then: nothing.
But nothing wasnât quiet.
Nothing was the absence of coordinates. A place with no variance, no measurement, no entropy. A sealed chamber of cognitive suspensionâstandard punishment for agents who breach emotional integrity clauses.
They called it ânullspaceâ in the manual. But that word doesnât tell the whole story.
Sometimes you remembered his voice. Sometimes you forgot your own. Time didnât move here. Not in any way that mattered. You floated in itâbodiless, unraveling, stitched together by a thousand what-ifs that all ended in silence. At first, you tried to count days. Then heartbeats. Then regrets.
You stopped when you couldnât tell which were yours and which belonged to the lives youâd watched but never lived.
You thought of his hand on your back. His voice rasping low when he asked you to stay. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiledânot every Bucky, but that Bucky. The one who knew without knowing. The one who held out hope like it was a knife and an offering both.
Maybe theyâd left you there forever.
But something changed.
When the light shifts again, itâs not like waking.
Itâs like surfacingâlike clawing your way out of a dream that was also a coffin. You blink against it, vision blurred and lungs tight with the phantom taste of ozone.
The TVA fell, you realize. Or maybe it evolved. The pruning stopped. The sacred timeline shattered. The multiverse stretched open like a wound and youâlike so many othersâwere set loose without fanfare.
Just a blinking cursor on a timepad.
Youâre on a bench. Clean metal. White walls. No restraints. Just a single timepad laid neatly on the seat beside you, like itâs been waiting.
You reach for it cautiously. No alerts. No directives. No timeline embedded. The screen flashes once and then settles.
âWelcome back, Agent.â
âStatus: Cleared.â
âAssignment Log: Vacated.â
You sit in the silence that follows, your fingers trembling.
âYou are free to go.â
Theyâve never said that before.
There's no debrief. No memory wipe. No analyst knocking at your door to escort you back to a cubicle and a world of recycled coffee and unread reports. Just⊠release.
It doesnât feel real. Then you notice the neatly packaged case file.
When you wrench it open, your eyes gaze upon a few simple words. Your name. Not your alias. Not your designation. Your name. Next to a birthplace.
Earth-616. Brooklyn.
And suddenly that dream⊠that dream you've always had isnât a metaphor. It isnât psychic bleed or misaligned memory. Itâs real.
The stoop. The red-brick building. The muffled laughter on the wind. It wasnât timeline residue.
It was home.
You see it all now: the way the sun hit the side of that building in the dreamâyour building. The stairs you mustâve climbed a thousand times before the TVA unmade you. The shadow rounding the corner wasnât just any figure. It was him. That version of him. Bucky Barnes in his sergeant uniform, calling for you before you could catch up.
And you never did. Until now.
The words fall into your chest like stones. Every suppressed instinct, every redacted name, every unexplainable ache when Bucky looked at you like you were someone heâd loved in a dreamâall of it clicks into place.
You were never a ghost in the machine. You were a person. You were his.
You stare back at the screen of your timepad. At the quiet, singular prompt at the bottom:
âINPUT COORDINATES.â
Your breath shakes.
For the first time in your life, thereâs no mission waiting. No protocol. No watchers behind two-way glass. Just the choice you were never allowed to make.
You donât hesitate.
EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026
You're not sure when you first fell in love with him. Maybe it was the 1940s, maybe it was in 1602, maybe it was earlier than language and names.Â
But youâve always been sure about how he looks in silhouetteâhow his shoulders hunch slightly when heâs thinking, how his hands twitch when heâs fighting the urge to reach for something he knows heâs not allowed to want.
And maybe thatâs why you keep searching for him in the in-betweens.Â
In lives that never finished writing themselves, in branch timelines that evaporated before they touched soil. You comb through the TVA archives like a woman possessedânot for intel, not even for closure, but for slivers. A timestamp where his name is scribbled in the corner. A blurry photo of someone with his gait. An anonymous field report that ends with, âtarget disappeared into snow.â
Everywhere, he disappears. And still, you follow.
You love Bucky Barnes the way fire loves oxygen: recklessly, instinctively. Not just for who he is now, but for every life he never got to live.Â
For the kid in Brooklyn who dragged Steve out of alley fights, for the soldier who fell off a train and was turned into a ghost, for the man who woke up decades later in Wakanda with a name that felt too big for his mouth. You love him for the quiet moments the world didnât seeâchopping wood in the forest, feeding stray cats on apartment balconies, the way his thumb brushes over his dog tags when he thinks no oneâs watching.
Bucky, who made you laugh over terrible coffee in a mess hall in 1943. The one who handed you a damp handkerchief in a zombie-scarred train depot, saying nothing as you wiped blood off your hands. The one in 1602 who watched you from beneath a soot-black hood, eyes squinting through torchlight, and still let you pass.
You remember something he once saidâmaybe it was in 1955, maybe in 2016, maybe in a fever dream. âPeople like us⊠we donât get soft landings.â And you think thatâs the tragedy of it.Â
He has always been built to break. And youâyou keep getting assigned to the wreckage.
Thereâs a concept you came across once, while embedded in a minor deviation out of Seoul, 1957. Not part of the assignmentâjust a detail on a bookstore receipt someone left behind.
In-yun. Fate through friction. The belief that even a passing graze between strangers means your souls have already brushed, thousands of times before.
Itâs nonsense, by TVA standards. Sentiment dressed up as spiritual determinism. No measurable coefficient. No supporting data. But you havenât stopped thinking about it since.
Youâve crossed paths with James Buchanan Barnes in more than a hundred timelines. Youâve logged the hours, cataloged the events, archived the footage. On paper, itâs coincidence. Strategic convergence. The mathematics of softpoints aligning with the gravitational pull of significant individuals. He is, after all, a heavily-indexed Variable.
But paper doesnât account for the way he looks at youâeach time new, each time the same. Like he recognizes your silence before you speak. Like your presence reads to him not as anomaly, but inevitability.
He's not supposed to remember you. He canât. And still, he always sees you.
Thatâs the part that undoes you.
You ache because in every timeline, you find him. In every universe, you lose him.
But you thinkâno, you knowâif you had to live and comb through thousands more universes just to stand in front of him again, in the year 2026, youâd do it. Youâd do it a thousand more.
Because even if all he says is, âTook you long enough,â youâd still believe it was worth the wait.
EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026
The year is 2026. This Earth breathes uneasily in peacetime. Starkâs foundation has pivoted to disaster relief and neural rehabilitation tech. Wakanda opens its fourth embassyâthis one in Seoul. Post-Blip survivor benefits have just passed preliminary legislation in three states. And James Buchanan Barnesâformer assassin, occasional Avengerâhas just won his election for the U.S. House of Representatives.
Redistricting helped. So did the veteransâ vote. So did the way he looked people in the eye when he told them he remembered what it was like to be used, to be weaponized, to be hollowed out and told to smile for the cameras. But mostly, it was him. The myth re-forged as man.
You find him at the VA in Brooklyn. Technically off-duty, technically supposed to be celebrating. But of course heâs here. Rolling up shirt sleeves to take constituent questions. Translating bureaucratic-speak into something that feels like compassion. He looks like a U.S. History textbook illustrationâwhite dress shirt, tie slightly loosened, blazer draped over the back of a chair.Â
And somehow still the same soul youâve met in a hundred different guises. The same gravity. The same ache. Like no matter the universe, heâs always trying to make something right.
You step into the lobby, boot heels echoing on tile, and the gravity of him pulls you forward before youâve fully decided to be brave.
Heâs facing away, head slightly bowed in conversation with a nurse, his hair still too long for Washington norms, tucked neatly behind his ears. The sight of him hits low in your stomachâfamiliar and wild, as always. The sound of his laugh, rare and rumbling, sends a tremor through your ribs.
âExcuse me,â you say, steadying your voice like itâs just another assignment. âIâm a deeply concerned constituent, and Iâd like to register a complaint about your policies.â
He turns.
And the moment lands like gravity reasserting itself.
His eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then go soft in that way only youâve ever seenâlike heâs witnessing a miracle he doesnât trust yet. He doesnât say your name. Doesnât need to.
You only just open your mouth to say something else when heâs already in front of you. And thenâ
He kisses you.
Not tentative. Not questioning. Just real. Like this has always been the ending he was holding out for. His hand cups the back of your neck like he thinks you might vanish again if he doesnât keep contact. You let yourself press into itâmouth to mouth, memory to body. The weight of the years falling off both your shoulders.
You pull back, breathless. Smiling.
âYou came back,â he says, wonder tucked beneath the rasp of his voice. âYou came back.â
Your hands are on his chest now, smoothing fabric just to touch him, to confirm heâs real. âTook me long enough,â you echo, and his smile breaks wide and unguarded, rare and all for you.
Then he stills, just a little.
âYou staying?â he asks.
You donât hesitate.
âYes.â
And that, his laugh, short and disbelieving, his forehead pressed briefly to yours like a prayer, is the softest landing either of you has ever known.
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oh, it's hard to leave you (when i get you everywhere!)
pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x pr manager!reader
summary: you tweet one (1) mildly unhinged critique of congressman james buchanan barnesâ pr strategyâsomething about ghosting the press and weaponizing cheekbonesâand three hours later heâs in your dms asking if you want a job. now you manage his social media, his public image, and occasionally his existential spirals. heâs got a metal arm, a rescue cat named alpine, and the digital instincts of a dad trying to facetime from the tv remote. somehow, against all odds, heâs good. earnest. dangerously hot. you're so screwed.
word count: 10.6k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, soft dom!bucky, sloppy make-out sesh for the win, fingering, oral (f!receiving), face riding, praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, size kink, creampie, use of pet names like sweetheart and pretty baby, unprecedented levels of yearning, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unhinged tweets
You donât mean to go viral.
You really donât. Itâs not a bit or a career move or a desperate plea to the algorithm gods. Itâs just that you were in line for coffee at 8:47 a.m., hungover from exactly one and a half spicy margaritas (because you're a real adult now and your liver hates you), and the man in front of you was vaping indoors. You needed to direct your rage somewhere. That somewhere happened to be Twitter.
Well. That and the soft target of Rep. James B. Barnes.
Your actual tweet really isn't that scathing, in your opinion:
âNot to be rude before 9 a.m., but Rep. James B. Barnes has the digital strategy of a man who thinks âradio silenceâ is the same as âmessaging control.â Ghosting the press isn't mysterious, it's lazy. And the Instagram? Sir, it's giving retired uncle who discovered portrait mode last week. You're hot, sureâbut public goodwill isnât built on brooding black-and-white cat photos and the occasional quote that reads like it was ripped from a thirteen year old's diary. Hire literally anyone.â
You hit post, tuck your phone away, and move on with your morning, which includes trying not to scream during a client call where a fitness influencer earnestly asks if she should âlean into a divorce arc.â
By the time you check Twitter again, itâs⊠carnage. In the good way.
The notifications are stacked like an avalanche. A dozen quote tweets, then a hundred, then you stop counting because your phone is hot to the touch and your Slack has stopped functioning. Youâre about to text your best friend when you see it:
@RepBarnes:
Noted. Would you like to try fixing it?
You stare. Blink. Blink again. Surely not.
Surely the Winter Soldier, now U.S. House Representative for New Yorkâs 9th Congressional District, is not quote-tweeting you like this is a casual Tuesday.
Surely the man who once jumped off a highway overpass and punched a terrorist in the face is not lurking on Twitter Dot Com past midnight, scrolling his name like a sad girl with an ex-boyfriend playlist.
You reread it.Â
Then again. And again. Your fingers are shaking a little, like youâve had three too many shots of espresso, whichâfineâyou have.
Youâre halfway through an existential crisis about how a minor PR manager can possibly be noticed by a former Avenger turned Congressman when your phone starts vibrating off the desk. Nina texts you first:
NINA
DUDE
DUDE
HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE
do you think he read your pinned tweet where you said youâd marry Thor in a Walgreens parking lot???
You donât answer. Youâre too busy spiraling. Because now your professional website is getting hits. And your LinkedIn. And, insult to injury, your ancient Tumblr blog from college, where you once posted a 2,000-word thinkpiece on how Steve Rogers is a metaphor for millennial burnout. You know this because someone found it and tagged you with a screenshot.
Youâre spiraling when your phone pings again.
This time itâs not public.
@RepBarnes has sent you a direct message.
If youâre interested, I could use someone like you.
NY/DC split. Health benefits included.
Let me know.
You read it once. Then again. Then walk away from your desk, lie down on your kitchen floor, and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It does not. It has a water stain from your upstairs neighborâs failed attempt at DIY plumbing. You feel that deeply.
You, who spent three years post-grad slowly circling the corporate America drainâclutching your Communications degree like itâs a winning lottery ticket while negotiating brand partnerships for YouTubers who think âmillennialâ means âanyone over 26ââhave just been headhunted by Bucky Barnes.
You should probably be flattered. Or terrified. Or calling your mom. Instead, you fire off the only response that makes sense:
are u joking?
His reply comes five minutes later.
No.
Youâre good.
And Iâm very tired of people telling me to post more cat content.
You stare at your screen.
You should absolutely say no. This is clearly a trap. At best, a weird stunt. At worst, the kind of surreal pivot that leads to you being mentioned in Politico under âquestionable staffing decisions.â
But also⊠your rent just went up. Again. Your clients are spiraling. You havenât had health insurance that covers dental since 2021.
And Bucky Barnes wants to hire you?
You exhale. Then type,
i'll clear my schedule. when and where?
A beat.
Meet me in D.C.
Iâll have coffee. You bring strategy.
You stare at that last part andâGod help youâyou start to grin.
You're pretty sure youâve just accepted a job from the Winter Soldier.
.
Once upon a time, you had hopes.
Real, annoying ones. Back when you still believed in upward mobility and the promise of networking events with warm chardonnay. You were going to climb the ranks. Not to the top, necessarilyâyou were realistic, not delusionalâbut to a place with an actual title. "Director" maybe, or "Head of Strategy." Something crisp and important-sounding that could be printed on business cards without irony. Youâd wear smart blazers and carry a leather tote that didnât smell like stale granola bars. Youâd have power lunches.
Instead, youâre three years out of grad school with an inbox full of âcircling backâs, a calendar that reads like a sacrificial offering to the content gods, and a job that involves convincing lifestyle micro-influencers to stop posting QAnon-adjacent smoothie recipes.
You had dreams. Now you have bills.
Which is why the Bucky Barnes situation feels less like a win and more like a symptom. A brain glitch, maybe. You refresh your inbox. Again. Youâve been doing that for the last hour and a half. The DM is still there, as if it might disappear if you blink too hard.
You open a Google Doc. Title it âProject: Barnes?â with the tentative, quizzical punctuation of someone who is very much not okay.Â
And then, like any self-respecting PR person who has just been contacted by a former war hero turned sitting U.S. Representative, you type the most professional research query you can think of:
bucky barnes political platform site:gov
Then:
bucky barnes cat
And then, after five minutes of increasingly weird search results, you cave:
bucky barnes shirtless
For research purposes, obviously. To understand the optics. You are nothing if not committed to analyzing the full spectrum of a person's public persona.
(Also, look. Itâs not your fault that James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly, distractingly attractive in a way that should be a federal offense. The man has the bone structure of a war-weary marble statue. The jawline of a vintage cologne ad. And donât even get started on the armâthe armâbecause thatâs a whole separate thesis.)
Itâs Wakandan tech, sleek and black with gold accents that catch the light like something out of myth. Youâve seen pictures of him at press conferences, sleeves pushed up, glinting like some kind of tactical Greek god. It is, objectively, an optics goldmine. Which makes it even more baffling that his current social strategy is âpost like a cryptid and hope people like based on vibes.â
You learn that heâs been in Congress for just under six months. That he ran on a progressive platform with a heavy emphasis on veteran care, climate resilience, and âactually listening to the people,â which, yes, is vagueâbut less vague than the average politician, so thatâs something. You find clips from a debate where he tells a super PAC-backed opponent, with all the calm menace of a man who once fought a Nazi on top of a train, âI didnât survive a handful of wars to let people like you sell this country for parts.â
Itâs not fair. He shouldnât be allowed to be hot and principled and grumpy in a compelling way. Thatâs too many character traits. Youâre fairly certain it violates some kind of congressional ethics code.
You click out of the tab. Open another.Â
Watch a video of him dodging a question on CNN with a non-answer so blunt it circles back around to being honest. He has a dry, clipped delivery. A little awkward. A little old. Not in a cringey, old-man wayâbut like he hasnât quite caught up with the TikTokification of discourse.Â
You hate how much you want to fix it.
Your fingers twitch. You scroll through his feed. Itâs mostly retweets of policy initiatives, local labor union updates, and cat picturesâgrainy, candid shots of a very fluffy white feline with the disdainful elegance of old money and the personal boundaries of a cryptid. Sheâs usually perched somewhere she shouldnât be: on top of his kitchen cabinets, wedged behind a stack of legislative binders, once half-asleep inside his empty duffel bag. Once in a while, he posts a weirdly poetic thought. Like:
Not all roads lead to war. But I remember the ones that did.
You stare at it.
It has thirty-two retweets, all from mutuals you know to be deeply online. One has responded âwhoâs running this account and do they need therapy.â Another has written simply: âsir.â
You breathe out a laugh.
You should be panicking. Or preparing. Or calling someone smarter than you. But instead youâre refreshing his feed and scrolling like a girl with a crush.Â
Whichâno. Nope. Absolutely not. This is research. Professional curiosity. Intellectual rigor.
You check your calendar. Nothing but a call at four with your client who wants to rebrand herself as an âedible wellness guruâ and refuses to define what that means. You sigh. Close the tab.
Then reopen it. One more scroll for the road.
In one photo, his cat is curled up in Buckyâs lap, a fluffy white loaf of judgement and chaos, her paw resting on his vibranium arm like she owns both it and the man itâs attached to. The caption reads:
She snored through my security briefing. I wish I could too.
Jesus Christ, you think. Iâm in trouble.
.
You spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking everything.
Your research doc is now twenty pages long. Youâve compiled notes on his legislative record, his key voting blocs, public sentiment analysis, andâbecause you are fundamentally brokenâa list of his most viral thirst tweets. Thereâs one that simply reads âhe could kill me and Iâd say thank you.â You are not proud to admit it made you snort.
You board the train to D.C. with your headphones in, your anxiety clutched to your chest like a carry-on, and your very best business casual. You donât even read on the train. You just sit there and wonder what the hell youâre doing.
By the time you arrive, youâre exhausted from spiraling.
The coffee shop is in Capitol Hillâof course it is. Quiet and wood-paneled, with the kind of soft lighting that makes everyone look like theyâre about to confess something.Â
Youâre early. Heâs not there yet. You order a black coffee and a croissant you wonât eat and choose the table in the back, where you can see the door.
Five minutes later, he walks in.
And yes, fine. It is a little cinematic.
James Buchanan Barnes in the flesh is not the brooding, hyper-composed figure from press photos. Heâs rougher around the edges in person, like someone who never quite got used to peacetime. His hair is slicked back but starting to come undone at the edges. The navy suit jacket heâs wearing is slightly creased, like heâs been rolling up the sleeves and taking it off and putting it back on all morning. No tie. Just the white collar of his shirt open at the throat, exposing the soft brush of stubble across his neck and jaw.
God. This is so unfair.
His eyes land on you and something flickersârecognition, maybe, or skepticism. You canât tell.
He walks over. You stand too quickly. Your chair makes a horrible screech.
âHi,â you say, thenâbecause youâre flustered and your brain is full of staticââI almost didnât recognize you without the strategically vague tweets.â
His brow lifts, just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls. Could be amusement. Could be confusion.
âYou came,â he says, as if the possibility you wouldnât had been very real.
âOf course,â you reply, forcing a half-smile. âI go where the digital crises call.â
âI figured,â you offer, âweâd start with a social audit. Clarify some core messaging, maybe put together a soft content strategy for the next two weeks. Weâll do a tone reset, pull the last six months of analytics, identify whatâs actually landingâbecause no offense, but your engagement rates are being carried by your cat.â
A pause.
âI mean, I get it. Sheâs adorable. But still.â
He huffs something that could be a laugh, if it werenât so dry. Then leans back slightly, the line between his brows easing as he studies you.
Then he says, slowly, like heâs still feeling out the words: âYou actually know what youâre talking about.â
And you blink. âYou thought I didnât?â
He shrugs, glancing out the window for a beat before returning to you. âI kind of thought you were⊠just someone online. Making noise.â
You sip your coffee. âI mean. I am. But I also have a masterâs in communication strategy and ten thousand hours of dealing with manchildren who think posting a thirst trap is a branding pivot.â
His mouth twitches. âSounds promising.â
You smile. Tight. âSo. What exactly do you really need help with?â
And just like thatâyouâre in it.
You expect him to start with a question. Or a joke. Or maybe something awkward and vaguely threatening, like âhow do you know so much about me?â (You donât. You just have Wi-Fi and a dangerous relationship with your search bar.)
But instead, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and says, âItâs just not working.â
You blink. âYouâll have to be more specific. Whatâs not working?â
âMy comms strategy. My messaging. All of it.â
He sounds vaguely exasperated, but not angry. Just tired. You get the sense thatâs his baseline. He gestures with one hand, the movement sharp and utilitarian. âIâm supposed to be building a digital presence that connects with people. Makes them trust me. Instead Iâm getting tagged in memes about how hot I am.â
You nod, solemn. âTo be fair, you do look like that.â
He doesnât laugh, but he quirks an eyebrow like heâs maybe a little impressed you said it. âThanks.â
You swallow the lump in your throat with a sip of coffee. Itâs going lukewarm. âSo what was the issue? Your team too old school? Too hands-off?â
He gives you a look thatâs equal parts apology and confession. âI donât really have a team.â
You blink again. âYou⊠donât have a team.â
âOne guy. Used to run PR for a congressman from Montana. Thought hiring someone low-profile would keep things clean.â
You squint. âYouâre a former Avenger. Thereâs no such thing as clean.â
âYeah,â he says. âStarting to notice that.â
You press your fingers to your temples. âOkay. So let me get this straight. You have no digital strategy lead, no content calendar, no brand consultant, and youâre navigating one of the most publicly scrutinized jobs in America with a guy whose last success story was getting a local paper to stop calling his boss âthe Beef Tariff Czar.ââ
He shifts. Slightly. Doesnât deny it.
You put your coffee down. Carefully. Deliberately. Then say, as diplomatically as you can:
âWith all due respect, Mr. Barnesâthis is a disaster.â
He meets your eyes. Dead-on. âThatâs why I messaged you.â
Itâs almost⊠earnest. That quiet, unflinching way he says it. Like he knows just how far in over his head he is. Like he doesnât enjoy asking for help, but heâs smart enough to do it anyway.Â
That, more than anything, is what knocks you sideways.
Because the guy sitting across from you does not radiate âcompetent politician.â Heâs stiff in the way people are when theyâre always anticipating a fight. He looks like someone whoâs only recently stopped treating doorknobs like potential traps.Â
But he also looks at you like heâs listening. Like he wants to get this right, even if he doesnât know how.
And you hate how that pulls at you.
You fold your hands. Steady your tone. âIf I take this job, Iâm not just managing your Twitter. Iâll need full accessâmessaging, public statements, policy framing. Youâll have to be okay with me pushing back. Hard.â
He nods. âUnderstood.â
âAnd Iâll need to redo everything your current guyâs done.â
âI was hoping you would.â
You raise an eyebrow. âIncluding the website that looks like it was designed in 2007?â
A ghost of a smirk. âI designed that one myself.â
âOf course you did.â
A beat. Thenâquietly, without the usual edge. âI didnât expect to win. When I ran. It wasnât about the campaign. I just thought⊠if I could stand up, maybe someone else would too.â
Itâs not a speech. Itâs not even polished. But it hits.
You sit with it for a second. Then say, âThatâs the part people need to hear.â
He frowns. âWhat, the not-expecting-to-win part?â
âNo. The rest. The standing up.â You pause. âYou want to help. And thatâs rare. Itâs worth something. We can build on that.â
Thereâs a shift then, subtle but real. He straightens a little. Like your words have landed somewhere deep. Like maybeâmaybeâyouâre the first person whoâs said that in a while.
You donât say anything else. Neither does he.
But somethingâs settled between you. A quiet, unspoken agreement.
Youâre in. Actually.
God help you.
.
Your first day working for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes begins with a minor existential crisis and a yogurt you eat standing up.
Capitol Hill is less glamorous than it looks on TV. A lot more beige. A lot more linoleum. Everything smells like government-grade carpet and desperation. You get stopped at security twice. First because of your laptop. Then because you muttered âkill meâ under your breath in line and a very serious-looking man with an earpiece asked if you were making a threat.
Youâre not. But itâs touch and go.
Buckyâs office is on the third floor of the Cannon Building. Itâs functional in the same way a DMV is functionalâtechnically operating, but held together by anxiety and one overworked assistant. The plaque outside his door reads:
REP. JAMES BARNES
New Yorkâs 9th District
Inside, itâs⊠chaos.
Not loud chaos. Weird chaos. Subtle. Like someone tried to copy a normal congressional office from memory but forgot a few key details. Thereâs a framed photo of Brooklyn from the â40s. A desk with approximately forty-nine paperweightsâno papers, just the weights. A bowl of wrapped Wertherâs Originals. You are immediately suspicious.
Before you can process that, Bucky appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie in hand like he hasnât figured out if heâs putting it on or strangling it.
âYou made it,â he says. Deadpan.
âNo thanks to Homeland Security,â you mutter, stepping inside.
He gives you the tour, if you can call it that.Â
Thereâs the bullpen (three desks, one of which has a sword leaning against it for reasons no one explains), a coffee station with a âdonât drink this, itâs poisonâ Post-it, and his actual office, which is larger than you expected and somehow still incredibly bare.
You spot a half-empty bookcase, a red file folder labeled âCRISIS?â and a punching bag tucked behind the door.
âIs that for stress relief or intimidation purposes?â you ask, pointing at the bag.
âYes,â he replies.
The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions, vague directives, and increasingly unhinged email threads. His comms inbox is a minefield.Â
You get a badge, a desk, and a monitor that still has a Post-it from your predecessor that just says, Good luck, youâre gonna need it. You also learn that the thermostat in the office only has two settings: Arctic Military Base and Surface of the Sun.
By the end of your first day, your inbox has refreshed for the fifth time and youâve flagged three crisis-adjacent threadsâone involving a scheduling mix-up, one involving a meme account, and one involving a conspiracy theory about cyborgs in Congress.
Maybe, just maybe, this job might be more than you bargained for.
The next week is only slightly less chaotic.
Yourâwell, his, technicallyâfirst press briefing is scheduled for 2 p.m. sharp, but by 1:17 youâre already mentally preparing the post-mortem. Youâve seen the rehearsal footage, such as it wasâhim standing in front of his desk, arms crossed like a bouncer, muttering responses like they physically pained him.
When you gently suggested he try smiling, he looked at you like youâd asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.
âWhat does that mean,â you whisper, but sheâs already gone.
Youâre standing behind the curtain in a room that smells like too many folding chairs and not enough trust in government when he walks in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. No tie today. He says it feels like a leash. His sleeves are rolled with military precision, though. His hairâs slicked back. He looks more like a man going to war than one about to deliver a ten-minute statement on infrastructure funding.
âYou ready?â you ask, clipboard clutched like a lifeline.
âNo,â he says. âBut Iâll do it anyway.â
You almost smile.
The press corps is already seated, eyes trained, pens poised. He walks out with the focus of someone trained to enter dangerous rooms. You can see the shift in himâquiet alertness, head high, every movement efficient. Thereâs still something a little stiff in the way he grips the podium, like he doesnât fully trust it not to fall apart under his hands.
Then he starts to speak.
And damn.
Okay.
You hadnât expected this.
Itâs not polished. He stumbles over a couple phrases. Uses âainâtâ once. Drops a note card and mutters âshitâ under his breath into a hot mic.
But he knows his stuff. Not just the numbers. Not just the bill. The context. The human angle. He tells a story about the neighborhood he grew up in, back when it still had corner shops and streetcar tracks. Talks about a single mom who wrote in last week about her buildingâs pipes freezing every winter. Doesnât make promisesâjust outlines what heâs doing and what he wonât let happen again.
And itâs good.
Itâs honest.
He doesnât charm the press. He earns them.
You see it in the way pens pause halfway through notes. Phones lowered. Eyebrows raised. Thereâs a momentâa beat in the middle of a sentenceâwhere he talks about reconstruction efforts in Red Hook and says, âWe donât need heroes. We need decent plumbing and warm classrooms,â and it lands like a punch.
You feel it, too.
By the end, theyâre asking thoughtful questions. Real ones. He handles them with a dry kind of grace. Doesnât deflect. Doesnât lie. Says âI donât knowâ more than once, but follows it with âIâll find out.â
When itâs over, he steps backstage, exhales slowly, and immediately unbuttons the top of his shirt like itâs a reward.
You hand him a bottle of water.
He takes it with a nod and says, âWell?â
You blink. âYou were⊠actually incredible?â
He raises an eyebrow. âThat so shocking?â
âYes!â you blurt, then soften. âI mean. A little. Youâre not exactly a poster child for press-friendly vibes.â
He leans against the wall, sipping. âYeah, well. Iâm not a fan of the stage.â
âBut you like the mission.â
He looks at you. And for once, doesnât deflect.
âI like helping people. I like when things are fair. And if this is what I gotta do to make that happenâŠâ He shrugs. âThen I do it.â
You file that away. Noted: Bucky Barnes does not enjoy politics, but he endures them for the sake of something bigger.
âDonât judge,â he says, catching your expression. âI like raisins.â
âOf course you do,â you mutter. âYou probably eat Bran Flakes and think theyâre spicy.â
He gives you a look over the rim of his cup. âDidnât realize I hired a bully.â
You grin. âNot a bully. Just aggressively helpful.â
He snorts. And you sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his first real public win, watching him pull the napkin apart like it personally wronged him. There's something calming about itâlike youâre both still wound a little tight, but not as tight as before.Â
You let the silence stretch a beat longer before speaking. âCan I ask you something?â
He glances at you. Shrugs. âYouâve already asked me worse.â
You huff a soft laugh. âFair.â
He waits.
You roll your cup between your palms. âWhyâd you hire me?â
Thereâs a pause. Not the kind that makes you nervousâjust one that feels like heâs actually going to answer. Eventually. When the words are ready.
When he does speak, his voice is low, deliberate. âYou were honest.â
You blink. âAbout what?â
âThat tweet,â he says. âAbout me ghosting the press. Most people either kiss my ass or assume Iâm gonna punch them in the face. You didnât do either.â
You snort. âI did call you hot, though.â
A small tug at the corner of his mouth. âYeah. That, too.â
Then, quieter, âYou said what everyone else was thinking. But you said it like it wasnât personal. Just... necessary.â
You donât speak. Youâre not sure heâs done.
âIâve had a lot of people tell me who I am. What Iâm supposed to be. Some of them were wrong. Some werenât. Doesnât mean I liked hearing it.â
His fingers tap against the cup once. Twice. âBut you were right. I didnât have a handle on any of this. The job, the people watching, the way it all gets twisted. You called it out.â
âAnd that worked in my favor?â you ask, half-joking.
His gaze flickers to yours. âYou didnât lie to me. That means something.â
It lands heavier than expected.
You look down at your lap. Then, after a second: âI thought you were gonna say it was because I tweeted about your cat.â
He huffs. âThat helped.â
You smile, and when you glance back up, heâs watching you. Not like heâs searching for something. More like heâs found something and isnât sure what to do with it.
âI could tell that you'd keep me grounded,â he says.
Itâs simple. Uncomplicated. But your chest goes tight anyway.
âThanks,â you say softly.
âDonât get used to the compliments,â he mutters, sipping from his long-cold coffee. âIâve got a reputation to maintain.â
You nudge his shoulder. âYou mean the mysterious, broody one?â
He arches a brow. âBetter than ex-assassin with a PR manager.â
âHey,â you say, mock offended. âI'm rebranding you.â
And this time, his smile is smallâbut real. The kind that says youâre staying.
.
Briefings, memos, social strategy calls take up the next month. You update his official bio, overhaul his campaign site, start a new newsletter format that doesnât look like it was designed in the throes of dial-up internet. You start drafting tweets in his voice, but youâre surprised at how often he wants to write them himself.
Sometimes he sends them to you first, via email, labeled âdraft?â and rarely punctuated.
The kids who emailed about lunch debt were right.
They shouldnât have to be the ones fixing it.
You write back:
itâs missing caps and grammar and polish
âŠitâs also perfect. i hate you a little
He replies ten minutes later:
Good.
Keep hating me.
Makes your edits stronger.
You start seeing him more. At first, itâs meetings. Then lunch breaks. Then youâre just⊠there.Â
One Thursday, around 6:45 p.m., youâre still at the office. Your laptopâs overheating. Your shoulders ache from the stress of trying to politely tell a PAC liaison that no, Bucky will not be attending the âPatriots for Policyâ fundraiser, and no, their âStar-Spangled Selfie Stationâ is not an appealing incentive.
You lean back in your chair, eyes closed, and say out loud, âIf one more intern sends me a Google Doc titled âshitposts to own the opposition,â Iâm going to walk into traffic.â
âThat bad, huh?â comes Buckyâs voice from the doorway.
You open one eye. Heâs holding two cups of coffee. Itâs late. His sleeves are rolled againâhe does that a lot, like heâs always preparing to do something with his hands. He sets a cup on your desk.
âItâs decaf,â he says. âIâm not trying to kill you.â
You sit up. âDecaf? Wow. You are learning.â
He doesnât smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. âBaby steps.â
You sip. Itâs good. And quiet stretches out between you. The lights overhead buzz faintly. Someoneâs laughing two rooms over. The city is folding in on itself outside, another dayâs worth of bad traffic and moral compromises settling over D.C. like a weighted blanket.
.
Another few months pass in a rhythm that starts to feel dangerously like routine.
He insists on responding to every constituent letter about veteransâ benefits himself, even the ones written in glitter gel pen. One morning you find him on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of envelopes, Alpine curled up on a pile marked âurgent.â
âJust scanning,â he says, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. âShe likes the important stuff.â
You start to learn things about him. Little things, dropped like breadcrumbs.
He hates cilantro. Keeps a dog-eared copy of All the Kingâs Men on his desk. Organizes his paperwork with military precision but leaves mugs half-finished all over the office. Heâs still learning to take a break during the day. Sometimes he doesnât.
One evening, while youâre both trying to pick a header image for the new landing page (he hates stock photos, insists they feel like âhollow propagandaâ), he mutters, âI used to think if I could just disappear, Iâd stop hurting people.â
You freeze. âAnd now?â
He doesnât look away from the screen. âNow Iâm trying to build something instead.â
Your throat tightens. You change the subject. You always do.
The tension between you simmers. Unspoken, unnamed. He starts saying your name more often. You start noticing when he does.
He always says it like it matters.
One Friday, he brings you a donut. Doesnât mention it. Just leaves it on your desk and walks away like a man who doesnât realize small gestures are dangerous.
You stare at it for a full minute before a staffer walks by, clocks the look on your face, and mutters, âOh, youâre gone-gone.â
You pretend not to hear her.
One night, you find yourselves outside a community rec center after a Q&A event, both of you too wired to go home. You walk a few blocks together, hands brushing once. Neither of you acknowledges it.
âYou ever think about leaving?â you ask, staring up at the streetlight.
âSometimes,â he says. âThen I remember I already ran for almost fifty years.â
You laugh. He looks over, soft.
And then, quietly, âNot sure Iâd want to go anywhere without you anyway.â
You blink. âYou mean⊠as staff?â
He hums, like heâs choosing not to answer that.
He looks at you too long sometimes. Like heâs memorizing you. You assume itâs habitâold instincts. Soldierâs reflex. You donât let yourself think about what else it could be.
Because it canât be. Heâs your boss. Youâre his PR handler. This is all fine. Normal. Entirely professional, except for when he looks at you like that.
Which is how it buildsâslow, steady, suffocating.
Until one night heâs sitting too close. Youâre laughing too hard. His hand brushes your knee, and he doesnât move it. And you still donât realize.
Not really.
.
Itâs a Tuesday night.
Wellâtechnically Wednesday. 1:12 a.m., according to your phone. Your apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop and the soft blue from the streetlamp outside your window. You should be sleeping. Instead, youâre re-reading policy notes and trying not to think about the email from your landlord marked âurgent.â
The city is quiet, but your mind is loud.
Your phone buzzes.
BUCKY
Are you awake
No punctuation. Of course. You stare at it. Itâs not like him to text unpromptedâespecially not at this hour. You wonder for a second if itâs a mistake. Or if somethingâs wrong.
You call him.
It only rings once.
âHey,â he says, voice rough with sleep or something that isnât quite.
âYou okay?â you ask, softly.
A pause. âYeah. Just⊠couldnât sleep.â
You settle back against your pillows. âBad dream?â
He doesnât answer right away.
Then, quietly. âMore like a bad memory.â
You let the silence stretch, but you donât fill it. Youâve learned that about himâheâs not afraid of quiet. He just doesnât always know what to do with it. You hear a faint rustle, like heâs sitting down, maybe at his kitchen table. Maybe the couch. Maybe the floor. Heâs the kind of guy who sits on the floor without thinking about it.
âYou want to talk about it?â you ask.
âNot really.â
You nod, even though he canât see it. âOkay.â
A breath. Then, with a strange kind of gentleness: âYou ever feel like youâre⊠still in the middle of something, but everyone else thinks youâre past it?â
You exhale, slow. âYeah. All the time.â
Another pause. And then: âI thought when the shield went to Sam, that was it. That was my end point. Like Iâd done my part and now I could just⊠blend into the wallpaper. Fix things. Be useful. Pay back some debt I canât ever really name.â
He exhales.
âBut I still wake up and feel like Iâm waiting for orders.â
Your throat tightens.
âIâm not a soldier anymore,â he says, like heâs trying to convince himself. âI know that. But sometimes it feels like I lost the war and no one told me.â
You sit with that. Itâs a kind of grief, what heâs saying. The loss of purpose. Of identity. You think about what it means to carry history in your body. To be made of violence and guilt and memory, and still try to build something from it.
âYouâre not wallpaper,â you say. âAnd youâre not a soldier. Not unless you decide to be.â
A faint, surprised sound. âYou think I can just choose who I am now?â
âI think thatâs what healing is,â you say. âItâs not forgetting. Itâs choosing who you are in spite of it.â
Itâs quiet again. But softer, this time.
âThank you,â he says, and he means it.
Thereâs a beat.
Then he says, âYou want to come over?â
Your heart stumbles. âNow?â
âI justâŠâ he trails off. âI donât want to be alone.â
You hesitate. Not because you donât want to. You do. Too much, maybe.
âIâm in sweatpants,â you warn.
âI donât care,â he says. âIâm in worse.â
.
Which isânot fair.
Heâs in flannel pants and a faded Brooklyn Public Library tee, hair damp like he just stepped out of a shower, like this isnât his worst week in office or the worst day in months. He looks too human. Too close. Not like Congressman Barnes, not like the Winter Soldierâjust like a man who lives here. Alone.
âHi,â you say, because youâre a coward with a communication degree.
âHey,â he replies, voice low.
He steps back. You step in.
You move past him. He doesnât touch you, but he lingers close as you settle onto his couch. Thereâs a record playing low in the backgroundâsomething instrumental. Maybe jazz. Maybe something older. He sits next to you. Not quite touching, but near enough that you feel it.
Neither of you says much at first.
You sip the tea he makes you. Let your shoulders drop. And after a while, youâre both leaning back, side by side, staring at the ceiling like maybe itâll explain something.
âI donât let people in here much,â he says, out of nowhere.
You glance at him. âWhy not?â
He shrugs. âUsed to be a habit. Kept things safe. Controlled.â
âAnd now?â
He looks at you. Really looks. Like heâs cataloguing something important.
âI trust you."
The silence sharpens.
You feel itâsomewhere between your chest and your breath and the skin of your palms, warm where they rest against your knees.
He turns toward you, like heâs going to say something. His thigh brushes yours. Your heart skips.
You say his name. Soft.
âBucky.â
He leans in. Slow. So slow it hurts. His eyes flicker to your mouth.
And thenâ
He stops.
Youâre close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
Close enough to break.
But he doesnât kiss you.
He just sits there, tension in his jaw, fingers curling against his leg like heâs holding himself back.
âI donât want to mess this up,â he says, barely a whisper.
You nod. You understand.
.
You donât sleep well that night. You don't even know how you got home.
Not because anything happenedâand maybe thatâs the problem. Something almost did. Something close enough to taste. But close doesnât keep you up at night. Hope does. Ambiguity. The memory of his breath near your cheek, the exact second he pulled away, and the way your name sounded in his mouth just before it.
You wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender detergent and stress. Your shoulder aches from the way you curled in on yourself, as if pretending sleep would solve the question of him.
It hasnât.
So you do what you always do: you compartmentalize. Ruthlessly. Viciously. Like a goddamn professional.
You slap concealer under your eyes, burn your tongue on gas station coffee, and tell yourself that youâre not thinking about Bucky Barnes. You are not thinking about how he almost kissed you. How his hand hovered at your knee like a promise he wasnât ready to make. How you wanted him to make it.
No. Youâre thinking about agenda items. Press follow-ups. Intern drama. Your inbox, which has gone feral overnight.
Youâre halfway through drafting a media roundup from your phone when your car buzzes with an intern's name.
You answer on instinct. âHey. Yeah, Iâm on my way inââ
âHave you seen the op-ed?â they cuts in.
Your fingers still on the steering wheel.
âIâwhat?â
They don't wait. âIâm sending it now. Check your messages.â
You pull into a spot on the shoulder, the coffee cup sloshing as you brake. Your phone dings.
The link stares back at you. Your thumb hovers.
You already know itâs going to be bad. You can feel it in their voice. In the silence after their breath. You tap anyway.
And there it is.
Is the Winter Soldier Still Lurking Beneath Congressman Barnes?
Itâs from a major outlet. Not a fringe blog, not some anonymous account online. Itâs written by a seasoned journalist, someone whoâs covered politics for two decades. The tone is surgically polite. It doesnât outright accuse him of anything, but the subtext is razor-sharp: can a man with his past truly be trusted with power?
Thereâs a pull quote in bold, center-page:
âA reformed weapon is still a weapon. No amount of legislation can erase that history.â
The rest of the article is worse.
It dredges everything. Not just his Hydra years, but the killings. The photo evidence. The old footage. The Wakandan reprogramming is mentionedâbriefly, half a paragraph, like itâs a footnote in a larger narrative of violence.
The author's polite language makes it more brutal. Less a hit piece and more⊠a thesis. Something cold. Inarguable.
You call him. He doesnât answer.
You call again. Still nothing.
So you go to his apartment.
Bucky answers the door in that old gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that could belong to any decade. His hairâs half-tied, his mouth set. No smile, but no walls up either. His eyes are dark. Tired in a way that goes bone-deep.
He steps aside and lets you in. You donât say anything about how he looks. You just take off your coat, make yourself at home, and sit down at the kitchen table.
The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. Alpine is curled on the armrest of the couch like sheâs keeping watch.Â
âI didnât read it,â he says eventually. âDidnât need to.â
âItâs bad.â
He nods.
He doesnât sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, head bowed like heâs waiting for a verdict.
âYouâve been through worse,â you say. âThis isâpolitics. Itâs dirty.â
âItâs not about politics,â he replies, voice flat. âItâs about who I used to be.â
He says it like a fact. Not even bitterâjust exhausted.
âI spent so long trying to fix things,â he continues. âMake it right. Every day, I get up and try to be something new. Someone new. And it doesnât matter. All it takes is one article, one photo, and suddenly Iâm the fucking Winter Soldier again.â
His fists are clenched now. You can see the tension in his frame, the way heâs holding himself together like itâs a full-time job.
âThey didnât say anything that isnât true,â he adds. âThatâs the worst part.â
You stand. Cross to him slowly. Carefully. He watches you with that guarded look he gets when heâs bracing for a hit thatâs already landed.
âThey used the truth to tell a lie,â you say. âYouâre not that person anymore.â
âThen why does everyone keep seeing him?â His voice cracks on the last word. It shatters something in you.
You donât know what to say. Not right away. Because itâs not your job to fix what was done to him.
But maybe itâs your job to remind him whatâs changed.
So you touch his arm. The metal one. He flinchesâbut only for a second.
âYou said you didnât read it,â you say gently. âSo you didnât see the comments.â
His brow furrows.
âThousands of people,â you say. âCalling it a smear job. Defending you. Saying they trust you more than half the people in office. Veterans. Civilians. Kids who look up to you. People who believe in second chances because of you.â
You feel the shift before you see it. His shoulders slacken, just slightly.
âYouâre allowed to be upset,â you add. âYouâre allowed to be angry. But youâre not alone in this.â
He looks at you then. Really looks. And whatever wall he was holding upâwhatever mask he puts on for C-SPAN and strategy meetingsâit drops.
His voice is rough when he finally says, âCan you stay?â
âYeah,â you say. âOf course."
You stay right where you areâyour hand still resting on metal that hums faintly beneath your fingers, warm from him. Heâs quiet, but not calm. Not really. Thereâs tension in the way he breathes, in the slight tremor running down his arm. Like his body still remembers how to brace for impact, even when itâs just words.
Minutes pass like that. Long enough for the quiet to settle around you. For Alpine to leap silently onto the sill and stare out like sheâs keeping watch for both of you.
Then he shiftsâjust slightlyâand the couch creaks under the movement. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The line of his spine curved like itâs bearing more than just his weight.
âBucky,â you say, tone softening. âTalk to me.â
Heâs not looking at you. His gaze is on the floor. Like if he meets your eyes, itâll all unravel.
âI say or do one wrong thing,â he says, âand suddenly Iâm a threat again.â
That last part is barely above a whisper.
You pause. Let the silence stretch.
âHey,â you say, carefully. âYouâre not a threat. Youâre a congressman.â
He lets out a dry laugh. âThat doesnât mean anything.â
âI donât know how to do this without screwing it up,â he says.
âThen let me help,â you say. âThatâs what Iâve been trying to do, Bucky. Every day.â
Thatâs when his eyes meet yoursâreally meet them.
âYou always come when I need you,â he says.
Itâs a simple sentence.
But it lands like a match dropped in a dry field.
You stare at him. His face. The way his hairâs falling loose at the front. The soft curve of his mouth, the line between his brows, the glow of his vibranium arm in the lamplightâgold against black against skin.
You stand, like youâre going to fetch water or pace or do something, but you donât make it far. Youâre near his bookshelfâheâs got a handful of novels, mostly well-worn, a few classics. One spine is cracked down the middle. Anotherâs bent in half. You reach for one, just to touch something, ground yourself.
âYou read a lot,â you say, just to fill the space. Just to breathe.
âYeah,â Bucky murmurs, and the sound of his voiceâthat low rasp, Brooklyn tugging at the edgesârakes down your spine. âHelps. When my headâs loud.â
âWhatâs your favorite?â
Thereâs a pause.
Then, quietly: âYou.â
You blink.
âYou,â he says slowly, âyou walk into my life and itâs like someone hit the off switch on the noise. Like thereâs finally room to think again. To want things.â
Your throat goes tight.
He swallows. You hear it. Feel it.
âI didnât mean toââ he stops, drags a hand through his hair, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. âI didnât plan on hiring you. Thought if I kept it distant, maybe I wouldnâtâŠâ
You glance over your shoulder. Heâs watching the floor like it holds answers. His jaw is tight, that line above his brow catching the lamplight. Heâs flushed high on the cheeks. His hair is curling a little from the heat of the day. It softens him.
You canât stop looking.
âWouldnât what?â you ask.
âWouldnât get attached.â
The words fall out of him, too quick, too raw. His accent thickens when heâs like thisâunguarded, unraveling.
He looks up at you then. And you swearâswearâyouâve never seen anyone look more exposed.
âI think about you,â he says, voice hoarse. âAll the damn time. Your voice. The way you talk when youâre excited. The way you wrinkle your nose when you read something stupid. And I tryâbelieve me, I tryânot to want any of it. Because you work with me. And youâre good. And I donât want to drag you down with my shit.â
âBuckyââ you start, but it breaks apart in your throat.
âBut you just kept coming. And youâre kind. And smart. And funny in a way that makes me feel like Iâve been asleep for years. And now I sit in meetings half-listening because Iâm wondering if youâre cold. Or if you ate. Or if you still think Iâm some idiot with a shiny arm and bad instincts.â
Youâre already turning. Reaching for him.
His eyes are so blue. Tired. Beautiful. Like storm glass worn smooth.
And his mouthâGod, his mouthâis parted, breathing shallow, like heâs already halfway to ruin.
âI donât know how to stop,â he whispers.
You donât want him to.
So you close the space, press your mouth to his like itâs the only thing that makes sense anymore.
He answers in kind. Gentle at firstâso carefulâbut then hungrier, hands finally finding you, clutching like maybe youâre real after all. Like maybe he gets to keep you.
His hands find your waist, one warm, one cool. He breathes you in like itâs the first breath after surfacing. You hold onto him, to the solidness of him, to the truth in everything he just said.
When you part, you rest your forehead against his, breathless.
âI didnât plan on you either,â you murmur. âBut I want this too.â
He opens his eyes. And thereâs something thereâtentative, but real. Hope, maybe.
You kiss him again, slow and sure, and this time, you donât stop.
The kiss deepens, and you feel it â the tension of months unspooling all at once. The press briefings, the late-night calls, the shared silences. Itâs in the way his mouth moves against yours, all reverence and restraint barely holding.
Then restraint snaps.
ââHe groans into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. One hand slides to your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of reverence that borders on desperate. You gasp when your back hits the edge of the bookshelf, books shifting and thudding behind you. His body presses close, firm and solid, muscle molded to muscle.
You donât breathe. You inhale himâhis scent, his heat, the way his tongue strokes into your mouth like heâs trying to stake a claim.
Your hands are greedy, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt before they slip under, dragging over warm skin and the defined ridges of his back. He shudders, hips pressing forward, and the answering moan that slips from your mouth is embarrassingly loud.
His mouth moves to your throat, hot and open, tongue dragging over the place your pulse stutters wildly. He kisses there once, then again, a third time just to hear the way your breath catches.
The shelves dig into your back, but you donât care. His mouth is on your throat now, slow, deliberate, like heâs trying to memorize the shape of your pulse.
âBucky,â you whisper.
His breath stutters. His forehead rests against your jaw for a second, and his voice is rough when he speaks.
âYou have no idea,â he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. âHow long Iâve wanted this.â
Your breath catches. Your hands grip his hoodie like youâre afraid the floor might drop out. Thereâs a pauseâsomething delicate in the airâand then you say, just to ground yourself:
âWow. That almost sounded like a line.â
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised. And thenâfinallyâa real smile. Crooked. Devastating.
âYou think I say that to everyone I push against my bookshelf?â
You grin. âI donât know, Barnes. Youâve got a lot of books. Could be a whole system.â
He laughs. Really laughs. And then kisses you again, harder this time, a groan low in his throat when your hands slip under the hem of his sweatshirt. Skin meets skin and he makes a sound that short-circuits your brain.
Somehow, you make it upstairs.
Itâs clumsy and desperate in the best way. A trail of clothing, soft gasps, hands mapping territory thatâs been off-limits for far too long. He kisses you like youâre something precious and half-forbidden, and you can feel it in every press of his mouth, every whispered praise against your skin.
"Sweetheart, you're killing me," he groans while pressing those lips, those fucking lips, against your collarbone. "Need you to tell me this isnât a dream.â
By the time you hit the bedroom, youâre breathless. Dizzy. Grinning like an idiot.
And Bucky?
Heâs looking at you like heâs just figured out the worldâs best-kept secret.
You barely hit the mattress before heâs on you again, mouth dragging down your neck, hands urgent but careful. Like heâs cataloguing every inch of you, filing it away somewhere behind all the noise. His vibranium hand slips beneath your shirt, cool at first but quick to warm against your skin, gliding up your ribcage with reverence that makes you shiver.
âYou okay?â he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.
You nod, maybe too fast. âYeah. Justâprocessing.â
He freezes. âProcessing what?â
âThat I used to mock your social media presence,â you whisper, grinning up at him. âAnd now Iâm about to get railed by the human embodiment of a Roman statue.â
His laugh is choked and surprised. âJesus.â
âWhat? You set yourself up for that.â
He drops a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, then your neck, then lowerâhis stubble scraping just enough to make your breath catch. âRemind me to fire you later.â
âYou canât afford me.â
âNot true,â he says, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh, warm and sure. âYouâre already here.â
You open your mouth for a reply, but then his mouth is on you againâtongue tracing a line down your collarbone, fingers tugging at your waistband like heâs been waiting forever.
âTell me if anythingâs too much,â he says, voice low and serious at your ear. âOr if Iââ
âYouâre not,â you breathe. âYouâre perfect.â
That earns you another groan, and then heâs kissing you again, deeper, tongue sliding against yours with filthy precision. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, thighs bracketing his hips like you were built for this. Built for him.
Clothes disappear in pieces. His sweatshirt, your shirt, the rest in a tangle neither of you cares enough to untangle. And then itâs just skin. Heat. The stretch of him over you, under you, hands braced, mouth hot on your jaw, your throat, your chest. He takes his time.Â
"Bucky," You whisper, searching for the right words. "I want you inside me. Please."
He pushes out a sound akin to pain between his teeth. "Getting there." So impatient, goes unsaid.
The moment his hand falls in between your legs, digging past soft cotton and lace, where you're dripping and soft and needy for him, you don't think you'll ever, ever have enough of him. He's slow, at first, just bordering on exploratory. Stroking the pads of his fingers through your wetness until he finds your clitâoh, fuckâand goes to town, making you moan and clench around nothing.
"There you go. That's it," He coos. "You're doing so good."
You close your eyes, his hand pressing in deeper, harder, finding just the right rhythm to drive you insane, switching between your clit and your entrance until you're going mad. Then you hear him spit, the sound obscene and dripping against your skinâthen, a slap. "Oh my god," You murmur. "Oh, fuck."
"You're so wet," His brows furrow, like he can hardly believe it. Acting like he's not sinking his fingers inside of you, stretching you open with one, two fingers. "Soaked. Like I knew you would be, god. You're so tight and IâI bet you'd feel better around myâ"
He hits a spot that makes you keen, fast and rough and fucking you open. "Yes, yes, oh my god, pleaseâ"
"There?" His breath fans across your cheek. "Right there, huh?"
You nod, delirious and breathless and you black out the rest of the world, lost in the way he looks at you like you're the best damn thing in the world. You clench once, twice around his fingers until you're at the brink andâ
Come on my fingers, come on, sweetheart.
And who were you to resist?
For a moment, you just lay in the aftershocks, his fingers granting you enough mercy to slip out. You think that maybe he'll give you a break, maybe just for once second, but then his whole body shifts downwards, momentarily leaving you confused, and then his breath fans across your thighsâ"Just want a taste."
Those four words cause something in you to snap.
His mouth is sloppy and hot and wet, more focused on cleaning you up and licking up the remnants of your orgasm, leaving your clit sorely, sorely alone in a way that's too purposeful. In a way that has you bucking against the soft stubble of his face, desperate for any kind of stimulation.Â
It doesn't even seem like he's doing it for you, it's like he's doing it for himself. But then you beg and whine, the words reverberating in your throat, "Bucky, pleaseâhigher, please, baby, I need youâ"
A graze of his teeth and a sharp, tugging suck around your clit then and you cum again. Shaking and sighing and falling apart in his mouth.
When you look down, you can see just how much of a mess you've made, his face glistening with you, even in the dark. And he's looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, like you've just given him the whole entire world.
"Do youâdo you think you can take more?" His eyes look at you, filled with concern, and that's all you need for your legs to start waking up again. "I didn'tâI dind't bring a condom and Iâ"
"I'm clean and I'm on the pill," You smile, lopsided and silly until he's mirroring yours, like he didn't just wrench the two best orgasms of your life out of you. Like he's not about to do it again. Just the way you like it. "And I want you to cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Shut up and get over here."
Bucky clucks his tongue, ever the dutiful man. "Yes, ma'am."
There's a momentâand then he's slotting the head of his cock into your entrance and you try not to be overwhelmed. He's hard and heavy and thick in a way you've never really experienced before, and for a minute, your brain short-circuits, in disbelief. You're doing this. You're really doing this. And suddenly, his cock goes all the way inside you with a pained groan.
His first thrust against you is messy, his hands having to spread your legs wide until you're arching against him. "Jesus, you're soâtight."
Then he's thrusting back in, his hands solid and heavy against your hips, not necessarily like a hammer, but in a way that makes your eyes roll back, slow and steady that you can feel every vein on his cock, lighting you up and finding places that not even your vibrator's been able to reach before. It's mind-numbing, it's relentless, it's perfect.
"Good girl," He whispers, pressing kisses up your neck to soothe the pressure of him inside you. "Taking me so well."
And then, like a reward, his vibranium hand leaves its place on your hip and starts caressing your clit, large fingers made impossibly gentle and finding a rhythm that parallels the way he ruts inside you.
"You're so good to me, so sweet," His words land like a sucker punch, and it makes you clench tighter, his pace faltering just the slightest bit. But he keeps going. "Always looking at me like that, don't know what you do to me, don't know how I can go without this. So much better than my dreams. Fuck."
"Can you come again for me? Pretty baby, can you do it again?"
It takes a harsh, rough swipe against your clit until you arch off the bed, eyes clenched shut and mouth wrenched open in a whine, and you bear down, coming for the third time that night.
And he's right there behind you, it doesn't take long before he speeds up, getting more frantic and desperate, and ohâhe's shoving himself inside you as deep as he can go and you can feel him pulse, achingâ"God, I love you. I love you so much, take it all for me."
You collapse underneath him, spent and so, so full. So perfect.
.
You go viral again.
Not for a tweet this time, but for a thirty-second clip someone posted from a town hall two weeks laterâBucky leaning in to answer a kidâs question about public transit, earnest as ever, saying something about âfreedom meaning more than just car ownership,â with Alpine meowing in the background because sheâd escaped her carrier under the table.
The quote is fine. Thoughtful, even. But itâs the look he gives you afterwardâoff-camera, off-script, soft in a way that has no business being softâthat turns the internet into a firestorm.
The caption?
sir. control yourself. your pr manager is right there.
You wake up to three missed calls, four texts from Nina (two of which are just screaming emojis), and one from your mom:
call me when youâre up
You do. Because you are a good daughter, even when half-asleep and mostly buried in a manâs too-soft duvet that smells like cedar and coffee and very recent sex.
âMorning,â your mom says, casual, like she didnât text you three times in a row at 6:13 a.m. âHowâs the job?â
You blink. âTheâjob?â
âYes, the job,â she says, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âThe one you got after insulting a congressman on the internet.â
You glance over at said congressman, currently shuffling out of the bathroom shirtless and towel-damp, rubbing his head with one hand while Alpine chirps at his feet like she owns him. Which she does.
âUh,â you say, eloquently. âItâs going⊠well.â
âGood,â your mom replies. âYou should call your aunt. She saw him on TV and keeps asking if heâs single.â
âMom.â
In the background, a faint beeping. âGotta go. Someoneâs coding. Love you!â
The line goes dead.
You flop back into the pillows, groaning into Buckyâs comforter like it can absorb your entire soul.
âEverything okay?â he asks, voice still rough with sleep.
âYeah. My mom thinks weâre married now.â
He raises an eyebrow. âWeâre not?â
You shoot him a look. He grins.
Then, like itâs nothing: âWhat are you up to today?â
Technically, heâs your boss. A sitting congressman. You manage his image, his agenda, his occasional tendency to go off-script and say things like âburn it all down and start overâ to a room full of journalists.
But now heâs shirtless in grey sweatpants, handing you coffee with Alpine perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and asking you to stay.
Not just for breakfast. For the day. Maybe longer. Maybe always.
It shouldnât hit you like it does. But it does.
âYouâre assuming I can concentrate,â you say, taking the mug like itâs a peace offering. âIn your bed. With you. Shirtless. Existing.â
He smilesâthat rare, lopsided thing he gives you when heâs caught somewhere between amusement and something gentler. âYouâve worked through worse.â
âTrue,â you mutter. âOnce wrote an op-ed from a TikTok house while one of my clients sobbed over a brand deal and a frat boy tried to deep-fry a toaster.â
âSee?â He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple like itâs just another part of your morning routine. âYouâll be fine.â
You look at him. At the man with a metal arm, a rescue cat, and a city full of people who expect him to change the world.
And heâs looking at you like youâre the thing that matters.
You exhale. âYouâre lucky I believe in workplace flexibility.â
âIs that what this is?â he says, already walking toward the kitchen, voice full of barely contained laughter. âWorkplace flexibility?â
You grin into your mug.
God help you, youâre in so deep.
You open your laptop from the warmth of his bed. Bucky pads away, Alpine trailing behind him like a tiny, loyal shadow. You draft emails. Sip coffee. Watch sunlight crawl across his floors. Like this was always where you were meant to be.