Reads Filth On The Daily

He does that again and again— rubbing the pads of his fingers against the soft, sensitive nerves of your g-spot— and it feels good, but not entirely satisfying. He keeps up the circles with his thumb. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperately trying to lure his fingers in deeper, begging to feel him fill you up. No such luck.

You pout at him and he pouts right back. Keeps crooking his fingers shallowly, coos a condescending “What, baby?” as if he doesn’t know you’re aching.

“Want more,” you breathe out. “Please.”

“Not yet, pretty girl.” He says with a shake of his head. He knows what you like— knows internal orgasms are your favorite, when he drives his fingers in nice and deep and sponges over your g-spot on the way. But that’s not the point. He has a goal. “Work with me. I want you to cum just like this— I know you can.”

Your pout turns into a full fledged scowl. Partly because he’s right— you can feel an orgasm building, can feel the arousal pooling in your belly despite the almost agonizingly empty feeling of your pulsing walls. Your start grinding down on his fingers rhythmically, chasing the pleasure. Still, you gripe. “Frank.”

He ignores your complaint as a smirk forms on his face. “There you go, princess. Fuck yourself on my fingers.” His eyes flit down to gaze appreciatively at your rolling hips. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Keep going. Take what I’m giving you like a good girl.”

You can’t hold back your moan with him talking to you like that. You keep rolling your hips, getting closer and closer despite feeling more and more empty. His grin widens. “That’s it. Cum for me.”

And you do. Pleasure spreads through you like fire catching and your eyes fall closed. Your pussy spasms wildly around his fingers, which never falter in their shallow movement, and bliss momentarily overcomes the acute need burning deep inside you. “Good girl.” Frank praises. You open your eyes.

“Frank.” It comes out breathless and weak, but it’s still undeniably reproachful.

“Jesus, baby.” Frank laughs, shaking his head in exasperation. “Only you could complain after I just made you cum twice.”

“I want—“

“More. I know.” He leans down for another kiss, his taunting grin connecting with your frown. “I’m gonna give you more, princess. Gotta trust me.”

He finally slips his fingers in deeper, and you swear you could cry with relief. Instead you just moan.

“Theeeere you go.” Frank coos. He adds a third finger, finally giving you that stretch you’ve been craving. “That better, sweetheart? You like that?”

“Yes,” you whimper. You rock your hips, urging his fingers in deeper. You moan when he drags them over all the tender spots deep inside you, letting the tips nudge against your cervix. “Oh my god, fuck, yes.”

Frank smirks. “Attagirl.”

He thrusts his fingers into you steadily, working you up agaun. You’re practically writhing against the mattress, fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The deep internal stimulation is so intense in the wake of two orgasms. You’re still so sensitive. “Frank, holy shit.”

“Shhh.” He soothes. The hand of the arm braced by your head reaches over to smooth a stray hair out of your face, then caresses your cheek. “I’ve got you. This is gonna be a big one, baby.”

Your head bobbles, and he nods along with you, furrowing his brows to mimic your frantic expression. “I know. Come on, pretty girl, you can do it. I’m giving you what you wanted, remember? Let go for me.”

Your back arches and you let out a long moan as you cum again. You clamp down around Frank’s fingers like a vice, and somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear a string of praises in his voice, but it’s far away, like you’re somewhere else. All your senses are overwhelmed by pleasure.

“Fuck, baby.” Frank’s saying when you finally start to come down enough to process your surroundings. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”

His thumb swipes away tears you hadn’t even realized you’d shed. You shiver, and jesus, your fucking teeth are almost clattering.

“Oh my god.” You murmur simply, voice shaky. Frank laughs. He looks somewhere between awed and cocky.

“It's not like he can fire you just from this,” said Whitaker. “Can he?”

Suddenly your pulse kicked up. Would he fire you? He was totally within his rights. This was the third time this week.

Santos rolled her eyes, leaning over to glare at Huckleberry. “Don't be a douche, of course he's not gonna fire her. She won't even get a warning. She'll get off lightly, she always does.”

“Hey!” you complained.

“It's true!”

You frowned. You didn't think so. When you made mistakes- which you did- they were met with the same firm reprimand, the same as anyone else. Except maybe Dr Robby moves on a little quicker with your mistakes than he does others.... but it was nothing to dwell on.

“Why am I even doing this?” you straightened up, looking to Whitaker. “You were on Merna duty!”

He paled (even more so then he already was) and stood as tall as he could, stuttering an excuse. “I-you- I turned my back for a second! How was I supposed to know she could get herself out of cuffs?”

“Well you should've known!”

“Yeah!” agreed Santos, really with any excuse to argue against him.

“Please don't make me tell him,” he begged, his wide eyes pulling at heart strings you really wished you didn't have.

“Yeah, we all know you're his favourite,” said Trinity.

It was a phrase that had been thrown around a fair amount. Either in a admiration about how much better he treated you then others or in disbelief of the biased he showed as the chief attending. At first it confused you but when they kept pushing you to be the one to tell Dr Robby things and taking the brunt for everyone's mistakes it started to annoy you.

“You know what- that's it!” you pushed yourself off the counter, allowing Santos and Whitaker to huddle together. “I'll tell him. I'll tell him I lost Merna and you will see that he doesn't treat me any different to how he treats the two of you!”

Santos scoffed. “Pssht. Yeah right.”

“Yeah, and then- and then-” you tried to think quick. What was in it for you? You get told off by your attending? It wasn't very appealing. You may as well get something out of it. “Then you owe me twenty dollars, each!”

Whitaker didn't seem to like those chances.

“Deal!” said Santos. “But when he doesn't fault you those forty dollars are coming our way.”

“Fine!”

Santos looked beyond your shoulder, brows raised. “No time like the present.”

You followed her gaze.

Dana had walked away from Robby, spotting the three of you. Her eyes narrowed, her fingers pointing out as if she knew you lot were up to something. Or she smelled a bet and wanted in on a chance to win some money. But with Dana back behind her post it left Robby free, head bowed over a chart.

You sucked in a deep breath, thinking of how you could put it. Break it slow. Tell him all at once. Say it with care or like it was nothing.

“Doctor Robby?”

He spared a quick glance, a soft up turn to his lips that tilted into his cheeks. “There she is! I was just coming to find you.”

Oh shit. He must have seen the vacant wheelchair that was practically always reserved for Merna.

“You were?”

“Yeah. Got a seventeen year old boy, screwdriver in the right knee, lodged between the soft tissues of the anterior, you want in?”

“Er yeah,” you couldn't even think of the trauma case, not till you had your wallet stuffed with forty dollars, your shower was leaking and would soon be out of it. You'd like to get it fixed so you could stop getting to the hospital early just to shower. “Can I talk to you first?”

Robby tilted his glasses down in a way that heated your body like it was a summers day in the ED. “This sounds serious?”

“No. Well- yes. Um... I don't know how to say this-”

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?” he asked, straightening.

“Yes, I'm fine. Um... we lost Merna!” you said, quickly. It was just ripping off a band aid.

Robby deflated down onto the bed that lingered in the corridor. It was there to catch him. “Oh god.”

You wondered why he seemed more upset then angry, before you realised your poor choice of words for a hospital. “Oh no! Sorry! She's alive! I think, sorry, poor choice of words. I meant she's lost. She- well, I turned my back for a second and she was gone. Got out off her restraints like some damn Houdini. But... yeah, um, I don't- I don't know where she is.”

Robby exhaled. “Oh, geez, you got me.” His face was red but his grin large like you had just shared a joke.

You dared to look back at Santos who made a cash grabbing move. You turned back to Robby. “I really didn't mean to, I'm so sorry, you must be angry.”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “You know Merna: she stays around till she gets bored, she makes her great escape and always winds her way back here. Ten bucks says she'll be back by the end of our shift.”

All you needed was a popped vein, a strain in the arm, to have him stand over you red in the face and not with humour.

“Oh no,” you chuckled, hiding the disappointment. “I'm not a betting person.”

He hummed, pushing himself up. He nudged you as he passed but his arm stayed close, lingering. “C'mon, we'll go see that kid.”

As he led you past Santos and Whitaker they waited for an answer.

You sighed. “The money's in my bag.”

“Daddy's favourite,” Santos coughed.

Dr Robby hesitated in his step. “You say something, Doctor Santos?”

“Nothing!” you said quickly, marching ahead. “Nothing, she said nothing!”

For the rest of the day Robby fluttered around your orbit. He kept you on the seventeen year old case, checking in every now and then by popping in his head and standing at the back, arms- large- folded over his chest.

If a trauma came in he called you over first. When he asked a question to the room (mumbling the 'this is a teaching hospital') his eyes found yours first then anyone else. You knew the answers half the time but kept eyes out on Santos who's mouth was frozen in the curl of a smirk.

All the while you thought about the charting you had to do and the shower you now couldn't get repaired.

“How's daddy's favourite Pittling?” Santos snuck up behind you as you charted.

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Why?”

“It's incredibly un-professional.”

“So's the way you oggle Doctor Robby.”

You mouth fell agape. “I do not oggle-” your voice carried across the ED and she spotted Perlah and Princess ready to lap up at any noise of gossip. You whispered. “I do not oggle Doctor Robby.”

“It's fine if you do,” she shrugged. “Sometimes I struggle to take my eyes off of Garcia.”

“Ew.”

“It's not ew,” said Santos.

It wasn't ew. You were happy for your friend even if you thought she deserved someone who could give her their whole heart. But you didn't want to think about Robby in the light Trinity thought of Garcia.

If you let the flood of want and admiration you felt for Robby into your head it might never leave. You were here to be a doctor, not to create a love with a man so emotionally unavailable you'd been warned off so many times.

“It's a tough job, it's natural to build that kind of connection.”

“Oh, are we still talking about this?” you huffed.

“It could be useful, this,” she said.

You finished up your chart, glancing at her as you turned off the computer. “What?”

“Having you as daddy's favourite.”

At that same moment Javadi joined the conversation, all wide eyed and eager to hear. “Why are we referring to Doctor Robby as daddy?”

Your head fell into your hands. “This isn't happening... this isn't happening...”

“Because she's daddy's favourite, poor peach just doesn't know how to handle that responsibility,” said Santos, seemingly finished with her own charts and heading off.

You held a finger up to Javadi before she could even start and finally she vanished too.

You were left at the computer, taking in a deep breath and taking the minute to assess the room. Patients waiting, doctors moving but there was no Robby. You thought, maybe it'd give you a chance to breath, to asses the situation. Did he really treat you differently? Was it so bad if he did? He was known to snap, be grumpy, if he wasn't like that with you maybe it wasn't such a bad thing?

But then... why didn't he snap and get grumpy at you?

“What are we looking for?”

“Jesus-”

Robby straightened up behind you, chuckling low at your startle.

You took a deep breath. “I was just um- er assessing.”

“Assessing?”

“Yeah?”

“Looking for someone?”

“What? No?”

“Has our screwdriver guy been discharged, we could really use the bed?” he asked.

Ah. You were behind. Not the first time. He'd told you several times not to fall into Dr Mohan's boots in taking your time with patients. This he could get mad at. “Not just yet, no, I can get right on that.”

There was no shake of his head, no tug at his hair or fingers through his beard. His hand only curled into a fist and he nodded.

“That would be great, find me if you need me.”

“Yes, Doctor Robinavitch.”

He'd started to walk away, moving onto the next case but he halted.

His hands had never gripped his stethoscope with such strength.

The last time you'd called him that was your first day and after that he was strictly Robby.

“What was that?” he asked.

“What was what?” you said as if you didn't know.

He peered at you and then pointed to himself. “Doctor Robby.”

“Yes?”

“Not Robinavitch.”

“Oh sorry- I was just.... trying something new.”

Robby slowly back tracked. “Don't.”

“You've got it bad,” laughed Dana with her low chuckle birthed by years of smoking in spite of warnings, mostly from him.

Robby was at her counter, standing in her castle looking over her empire. Outside the sun would set soon and the night shift would come to cross them off and he would go home to a quiet apartment, eat whatever food he could scrouge up (he'd at least try and throw one veg in there) go to sleep and do it all again tomorrow.

For now, as patients swapped out in beds, the ED was the only place he wanted to be.

“Got what?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from trauma two.

Dana joined his side, staring at him like he was a patient under examination. “Her.”

Robby didn't even have to follow the jerk of her head knowing she was looking through the glass he just was, at you, comforting the teen as you stitched him up.

He knew he shouldn't, knew it was borderline getting out of hand, as if it hadn't already. He knew there was probably a dozen HR rules against the rush of blood in his veins when he looked at you. He knew he was being the smallest bit biased when an interesting case came in and he wanted to give it to you first.

He'd been trying to quit it for months and it was like Dana's smoking. One of the only good things he has left in his life.

“Look at you, you're like a dog!” she chuckled.

“I am not.”

“I get it, she's good.”

He shook his head but his shoulders sagged under the relief of being seen. “She's a good doctor.”

“Pretty too.”

Robby grabbed the ipad of the side. Pretty, intelligent, gutsy. “I hadn't noticed.”

“Sure, and I'm mother Theresa!”

Robby planned to do a sweep of the rooms, check in with his residents, make sure triage was all handled. It didn't hurt that he was gonna check in on your first. He poked in his head. “How're the sutures coming along, Doctor?”

“Great,” you said without flinching at his voice unlike earlier. “Just finishing up now. Then it'll be crutches to minimise weight and we'll see you in three days to check the stitching.”

The boy smiled, his father standing over him just as grateful. As patients go, they'd been a pretty good pair. “Thank you.”

“She's the best,” said Robby with a proud smile. He caught your glance as you put the tools back and pulled off your gloves. There was amusement in your glance.

“One of the best,” you corrected.

“That's what I said?” Robby knew what he said, he wouldn't take it back.

You passed under his arm as he held the door open for you, shaking your head.

Like a dog- as Dana would put it- he followed.

“You took lunch?” he asked.

“Er no, haven't really found the time.”

Robby thought of chastising but knew if he was gonna do that he'd have to chastise half the other doctors and nurses. “Here-” he always carried a protein bar in his pocket, in case of emergency. This was that time.

You stared at it for a long moment. “Oh no, that's yours, I'm okay, really.”

“Take it, c'mon, can't have you passing out on me,” he practically shoved it into your hand and held it there. The only thing between palms touching was a bar. “I've had mine, you need it more than I do, you've been rushed off your feet all day.”

Your lips parted with an argument ready he was sure but instead you swallowed. “Thanks, Doctor Robby.”

Robinavitch. He remembered you calling him it earlier and he'd never been so worried he'd done something wrong since being in medical school.

“Yea, seems like you need it with the teasing Doctor Santos has been giving you also.”

You blushed.

Robby wasn't blind, far from it when it came to you. He recognised practically everything. He knew you and Santos were friends, starting residency together and all but he worried the teasing was too much. He saw the mumbling, the shakes of your head and the frowning, mainly of yours and the triumph of Santos.

“I know the two of you are friends, but if this teasing is ever too much,” he started, hoping you'd clarify.

“It's not, I promise, and-and it doesn't effect our workload.”

“I never said it did, I just wanted to check it was okay with you.”

You stuttered again, blushing. “It's just... harmless.”

“Harmless?”

“Girl stuff.”

“Girl stuff?”

He wondered what girl stuff usually entailed? He doubted working in a ED would give such trouble to menstruation cycles, surely as doctors that wouldn't be cause for teasing. Maybe it was an inside thing, or maybe, it was the other thing.

The boy thing.

“It is nothing to worry about, at all,” you assured him again, still holding the bar in your hands.

“Well if it ever is,” said Robby, his hands on your shoulders. His fingers started messaging the tension points before he could even get himself to stop. “You know where to find me.”

“That I do, Doctor Robby.”

You went home that night, tired, body heavy as it always was after a shift. You threw you scrubs in the wash, finished whatever takeaway was left in the fridge and then tried the shower.

It spurted cold water once and gave up on you.

So you resolved to doing the thing she didn't want to do.

The next day, getting in early to use the showers at work, taking time in the hot steam to let it wash away all the thoughts.

It didn't. If anything it caused them.

You wondered if Robby had ever had to use the showers then you thought about Robby naked in the steam, large hands lathering up and-

You slapped the temp to cold to wash away the sinful thoughts.

He was your boss!

You completely blamed Santos for calling him 'daddy.'

“Ah, I see-” called a familiar voice as you walked into work hour and a bit earlier than you were supposed to. “Wanted a piece of the night action.”

You smiled, throwing up your damp hair as you approached Dr Abbott. “You got me.”

“What're you doing here so early, kid?” he asked, kindly.

You were assured several times over that the night shift was crazy, whacky even but when you spoke to Jack you didn't see that. All you saw was his calming presence, his at ease voice and gentle touches. He was Robby's best friend- if he had one- and yet on the other side of the spectrum to him. Maybe that was why they worked best together. “My shower's bust at my place and the money I was going to use to fix it got taken in a bet. Thought I'd catch the early bird and just shower here.”

“A bet, huh? A bet I want to know about.”

“Probably not.”

Jack hummed. He always stared at you like that, quizzical and wondering. If he stared at you any longer you were sure you'd be spilling your guts.

“How's it been tonight?”

“Busy!” Doctor Chen called as he passed, sipping from his straw of ice coffee.

“Is that the same cup every time or does he replenish?” you ask Jack.

“Honestly, I'm not quite sure,” he said and pushed himself up from his chair. “C'mon, we may as well start the hand over.”

By the time Robby made his way through at seven in the morning the waiting room was already full, every seat taken and every corner filled with a person.

“Hey Doc!” Louie greeted as Robby made his way through. “How you doin today?”

“Oh, you know me, Louie. Always moving!”

He laughed, his full belly laugh. “Ain't that it, Doc.”

“You had your labs? What you in for today?” he asked, wondering how long he could delay entering the pitt.

“Just my gut, maybe it's finally giving up on me,” he said with the same bout of amusement he took just about everything else. “Your girl already got my tests done.”

He frowned, his coffee cup half way up his lips. His girl? Perhaps the reason the phrase was so alarming was because he knew who Louie was talking about at once. He bid Louie a simple 'see you later' and walked through the place, passing nods to everyone he passed.

He heard your laugh before he saw you, the melody guiding his way like he was Orpheus dying for the music. His grandmother had loved that story.

You were leant against the counter, laughing and smiling with Jack... that bastard.

Your creased eyes from smiling caught his. “Hey!”

Jack turned and sure enough, he was smirking. “There he is!”

“You're early,” he said to you.

Had you got in early to see Jack? He didn't know the two of you even knew each other well, only that Jack loved nothing more than to bring you up after a couple beers.

“Her showers bust,” said Jack like that explained everything. “Plus she wanted to see her favourite attending before her shift.”

You rolled your eyes with affection.

“Here I am,” said Robby.

He'd never been so angered so quick in the morning. What was Jack playing at? Well- he knew exactly what he was playing at. This was called jealousy and he felt it every time you and Langdon worked on a case together easily fitting around each other, or every time you and Whittaker had un-explained chemistry in a trauma.

Did he now have to worry about Jack?

“That you are,” you said, handing him an ipad with notes from the night and his body released its pent up breath. “Jack had kindly given me the run down from last night, I can work you through it?”

“That would be great.”

Robby moved around, putting his bag down under the counter, pulling off his fleece and counting how many stupid granola bars he had for the day while you went off somewhere.

Jack wondered over, hands clasped behind his back innocently. “My tool box's is in the van, I can leave it for you if you want.”

“And why would I want that?” Robby asked, rolling up his sleeves.

Jack nodded back to you. “Her shower's broke man. You know how to work a wrench, right?”

It was alarming how quick Robby understood what he was putting down.

Jack patted his back as he went by him. “Let me know if you guys need to come in late tomorrow, yeah?”

The morning rush is the only thing that stopped Robby from getting that far with you. After the morning rush and Dana's arrival the day continued busy on a random Wednesday in spring. There was a car crash involving an elderly family and a young man DUI. There was cops coming in and shouting and everything fun about working in the ED.

It wasn't until Robby stepped out in the afternoon to catch some breath he spotted you doing the same thing.

You spotted him first. “Hey, again.”

He nodded a greeting. “So, your showers out?”

You groaned at the mention. “Yeah, it's been hanging on for a while now. I just can't really afford to get it fixed right now.”

How wrong would it be to offer his help? Not wrong at all right? He was just extending a hand? Helping a friend...

“Showering in the hospital isn't like against some HR is it?” you panicked.

“No but it'd probably mean you get an extra hour of sleep instead of coming in here early every morning,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “If you want, I can take a look at it.”

The words felt so light from his mouth but he realised how badly he wanted you to say yes.

“Oh, I couldn't ask that of you-”

“You haven't,” he said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I'm offering. Thirty minutes after work, tops.”

You looked around as if looking for a way to say no. “I- I don't have the money to pay you.”

He chuckled. “I'm not asking to be paid. Unless you have beer and it'll make you feel better?”

You smiled to yourself before looking up at him through your lashes. He was afraid if you had said no he'd have insisted. “It would and yes. Thanks, Robby.”

He nodded once to hide the rise of heat that always came with you. “Now, get back to work.”

You didn't realise that when Robby said after work, he meant after work. He didn't insist on going home first or change his mind that he couldn't do it. He grabbed his bag at the end of the day- and yours- and the two of you walked out together.

“Have fun with daddy,” Santos mumbled on your way out and your face lit up in heat.

You were just thankful Robby hadn't heard.

On the walk to yours, maybe fifteen minutes out if the people on the streets weren't annoying, you talked casually about things you already knew. The patients of the day, or Robby asking how long you'd been in Pittsburgh. You dared pry into his personal life about his grandparents and he answered though with short responses, responses none the less.

On the walk up to your apartment you thought about everything that you hadn't cleaned up. Scrubs were in the washing basket, maybe plates and cups from the morning. Hell even knew the last time you dusted the place.

You lingered at the door.

“What you hiding in there? A dead body?” he joked.

“It's probably just a bit messy, I don't really have time to clean.”

He didn't care, he said as much that his place was probably in the same state. Still, you pushed the door open slow and turned on the lights. You tried to picture it through his eyes and really it didn't seem to bad. Actually- aside from dirty dishes and clothes, un-touched.

“Nice place,” he said, lowering your bags on the floor and slowly peeling off his fleece.

“Thanks. Uh- the shower's just through here.”

It was an ensuite, only a one room apartment but you hadn't exactly thought that you'd have to take Dr Robby through your room to get there.

The door pushed open to a wardrobe overflowing considering you typically only wore scrubs. Your bed wasn't made, just your covers thrown over the sheets and-

“Ah-” you threw a cushion over the red panties that laid there, clean.

Robby held his hands up but there was the tilt of lips that betrayed his words. “I saw nothing.”

You led him to the bathroom, making sure there was nothing else a slip.

You watched as if you were watching him do an operation that you would be tested on as he tried the shower, recoiling at the cold spurt of water.

In the doorway you were frozen as Robby directed around your bathroom like it was his own. He didn't still at the things littered around, at the scrubs you hadn't picked up from the floor. It was a different kind of mesmerising. Here- in your place- you could watch the flex of his arms and the way he flattened himself on your floor to look at the pipes had you thinking things you really shouldn't have thought.

“Want me to grab you a beer?” It was about the only thing you knew you had in the fridge.

Robby grunted as he messed around with what went on under there. “That's be nice.”

In the kitchen you pulled out two beers but pressed the cold against your head.

You'd never been so flustered by him. Not in the ED, not when he defended anyone that needed it against erratic patients, not when he stretched out and his shirt rose up, exposing a dangerous part of him. But no, here, in your place that was when you decided you wanted him.

Needed him.

You blamed Santos completely.

“Okay-” only five minutes later he was making his way into your living room/ kitchen. “You need a new part, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do till then.”

You deflated, taking the beer away from your forehead. “Shit.”

“But I know a guy,” he said, taking one of the cans you offered.

You rose your brows. “You know a guy?”

“I can get the part for cheap, next to nothing by this weekend, I can install it then.”

“I can't ask you to do that-”

“Again, you're not asking,” he reminded you. The crack open of his beer sounded between the two of you and he took a gulp, gaze levelled on you.

This was the start of a bad prono, you knew.

“I don't want this to sound, like, dirty? But there must be something I can do.” You regretted the words as soon as you said them. He probably didn't seem anything wrong with it, so you'd exposed your gutter mind before he'd even suspected.

“There is something,” he said. Robby led his way through your apartment like you were back in the ED under his commanding presence.

You followed until you were standing next to your couch. “Yeah?”

“You could enlighten me on why Santos keeps calling me daddy to you?”

You swear, the world stopped spinning.

“Fuck- you heard that?”

He chuckled, sipping his beer with a cock-sure expression. “A couple times, yeah.”

Your own beer dropped onto the couch- un-opened. “My god- I am so sorry Doctor Robby, it's just a joke. She, well all of them- the interns- they like to think you have favourites between all of us. And cause you're like, the daddy of the Pitt. And-and it's just a joke that I'm your favourite and you know they-they see you as the 'daddy' of the Pitt, so to speak. It's-it's totally unprofessional and I can get her to stop. In fact, I will! That is-” he wasn't saying anything, were you rambling? “That is what I will do for you.”

He nodded slow and leant down to put his beer on your coffee table even slower. When he rose up you swore he was taller than before. Closer, too. “Would that be so bad?” he asked.

“What?”

“If I did have a favourite? If it is you?”

Perhaps this was the start of a great porno...

“Isn't that unprofessional?” you uttered as his head leant down. His breath was warm, the slightest trail of beer in his breath, calmed by a mint he'd took earlier.

“Haven't we crossed that boundary?”

“Have we?”

When his lips met yours it was softer than you'd dreamt of. It wasn't rough with the scratch of his beard, it was light like a warm summers breeze waking you from a sleep. It lingered like the sun on you but burnt just as much.

His hands that you'd always admired were large as they crept up, cupping your cheeks, taking most of your face and his thumbs danced under your jaw eliciting shivers down your spine and across.

It could've lasted seconds, it could've lasted minutes but he pulled away too soon, sucking in a breath.

He nodded as if to himself. “I think we have now-”

You grabbed his scrubs and brought him down, showing the desperation in the smash of lips. You were firm on his lips and he grew firm everywhere else. Your hands planted on his shoulders as you pushed yourself into him, one of his arms strong around you and curling you into him.

There was desperation in his lips then, emergency like this could never last. Like if you were to pull away you'd never be together again. So when he needed breath he parted hardly before kissing you again... and again... and again.

Your hands found themselves in his hair, messing up what he had as his hands sprawled around your back, fingers dragging up and down, dipping into skin and pulling and pushing.

You tilted back enough to catch some breath, your eyes closed in bliss and scared you'll find regret in his if you looked. “Are we- are we crossing a line?”

Robby chuckled low in his throat. “God, I hope so.”

Your laugh rattled around the apartment that was empty besides the cars outside and Robby's laboured breath.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His hand cupped your cheek again, thumb running over your cheekbone till you opened his eyes. Gone was the temptation, replaced by the sort of serious look he gave to patients. “Is this okay with you?”

Boundaries? Crossed already. Want had hardly been sedated.

“Yes,” you uttered in the space left between you. Your hands fell down to his scrubs. “Is this... okay with you?”

To answer he leant down, slow, giving enough time for you to pull back or think again. You'd thought about this enough to know you needed it. His lips were soft again but his hands were quick in working under your scrub top and the one underneath.

When his hands met flush he groaned into your mouth, lips trailing down to your neck. He was bowed over you and your hands fought at his back, pulling up his own shirt till you could feel the rough of his back.

“I promise I-” you gasped as he nipped at the skin. “My shower really is broken.”

He muffled some sort of understanding as his hands gripped your hips, pushing down the pants just enough to tease the both of you.

“And I really did lose the money in a bet with Santos-”

“I'm sure,” he uttered, turning the both of you around. He didn't sound like he was listening but as you watched him slowly sink down onto your coach you knew why.

His eyes trailed down your body till they were eye level where your core hid.

“This still okay?” he asked, eyes stuck on where you pulsed for him.

You nodded. It was sinful watching him on your coach, hands cupping your thighs as he stared at your pussy like he was already filling it. “I don't think this'll ever stop being okay.”

“Good. Take your top off.”

It stole your breath away, the demand in his voice only heard at work now used to un-dress you. But it worked. Your hands were as steady as always as you brought off your scrubs and top.

You were efficient- you were sure that's something your colleagues would say about you- that's why you reached for your pants at once.

Robby's hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping you. He pushed them back, not harsh but with enough intent for you to know that was his job.

His fingers were rough as they dragged around the elastic and yanked.

There was another cocky smile as he tugged them all the way to your ankles. It was one of the biggest smiles you'd seen of his.

You were so distracted by it you didn't notice his finger sweeping into you until you felt the rush of pleasure and jolted in his hold.

“Doctor Robby-” it had slipped out, it was just natural.

His finger curled into your folds and lips kissed upon your nerves.

You gasped and arched closer into him.

His knees were spread, you were standing between his thighs as he had you pulled into him, finger slowly working you. It had slipped in easy enough but you didn't have much time to be embarrassed before he took your wetness and spread it over your lips. “You are my favourite,” he admitted low. He was focused as he curled two more fingers into you. His lips pressed on your stomach briefly.

“Ah-” you gasped, a hand cupping the back of his head, stroking over his hair. The other held his shoulder, bunching the scrubs.

“Lean into me- like that-”

You had no control over your body as it did. You were open for him, wanting for him.

Robby leaned closer and his tongue darted out, licking up the mess that was coming out of you and over your clit. He worked his fingers and tongue until you were gasping, trying to be quiet because you knew how thin the walls of your apartment were. Robby didn't.

He moved his fingers slow but hard in and out, drawing out your wetness.

You were close, so close when he took out his fingers and grabbed your ass, pushing you into his face as he buried himself there. For a moment all you felt was the tickle of his beard before the wet of his tongue took away any other feeling.

“Ah... hmm.... Doctor Robby-”

His hands pulled at the flesh of your ass as he leaned back, tilting his head up to reach further into your core.

You were almost climbing on the couch to be closer to him.

Your stomach coiled like a snake to strike-

Robby pulled back, out of breath before you reached your climax. You whined- you didn't know yourself to ever want enough to whine. "Lean back, lean back-" he said, voice hoarse as he stood up.

In your own apartment you didn't know where to lean back to until you understood.

He helped you lie back on the coffee table as he knelt in front of you and went back to your heat.

This was desperate. This was the all encompassing need that had been driving you crazy for months but it was in him.

By the move of his tongue and the grip he had on you, he'd wanted you to. Wants you.

“Robby! Doct-doctor Robby I'm gonna cum.”

“Mmh.” He nodded, his nose driving up and down your pussy as he kept your legs open.

He gripped your hips tight and groaned when you finished on his lips- on your coffee table!.

This was the sort of bliss you read about. Your chest was heaving, catching your breath as sweat stuck bits of your hair to your forehead.

By the time you composed yourself to push yourself up onto your elbows and look at him you saw him in his own bliss. His eyes were fluttering close, mouth agape and his hand was down his pants. You could see the tip of his cock.

Hard.

Large.

You surged up, surprising him as you wrapped your arms around him and kissed him, pushing your tongue into his mouth as he pulled you into his lap. Your wetness pooled at his cock, staining his scrubs.

“Awh- fuck-” he cursed between the moves of your mouth. He stretched out his legs, pushing back your coffee table with a screech.

You were grinding down on his lap maybe to eager, maybe to hard as his chest heaved and he lost his breath in you.

Your hands went under his scrubs and pulled off his shirt eagerly, pens in the pocket of his shirt scattering.

“Wait-” he gasped as you kissed him and kissed him, hands running down the softness of his stomach and dragging down the hairs that trailed.

“Please-”

“Honey-”

You pulled back enough to see his face. He wasn't as sweaty as you were but his face was hard as he stared at you, brushing your hair off your neck and for a moment he just ... stared. “What? Is it-is it too much?”

He smiled. “No, no it's not too much. You want to take care of me?”

You nodded.

“Okay.”

He helped you up to your feet, helped you stand out of your pants and kissed you. It was gentle and promising of a night full of this, of nights and days and a future.

His hands steadied you, keeping you against him as he pushed you back to your room.

You fell back, watching him as he un-did the ties of his pants and pushed them down.

Oh.

You were left, mouth watering on the edge of your bed as his cock sprung out, thicker than you'd have thought. Harder then you imagined. “Doctor Robby-”

His hand reached out to your neck as he bent over you. “You have to stop calling me that-” his kissed you, tongue working against yours in the warmth of your mouth. The both of you shuffled up the bed until you could feel the weight of his cock against your thigh.

“Wait-wait- I wanna-” you reached to brush his cock.

“Later-” he kissed you quick again.

You grumbled against his lips. “I-I don't have condoms. I'm on the pill, I'm clean-”

He nodded. “So responsible.”

Robby leaned back on his knees enough to see you. There was a thin sheen of restraint on his skin and as he pumped himself once- twice you marvelled at his body. The planes of it, the hairs. He was older than you by enough. His body wasn't rock solid but fuck was he the best thing you'd ever seen. “Tap out any time.”

You nodded, looking up at him as he looked at you. “I want it. I want you,.” you gulped. “In case I hadn't made that very clear..”

He rose a brow. “Well-.” slowly he descended toward you, an arm bracing himself on the side of your head. “Apparently I hadn't made it very clear that you-.”

Between one word and the next he pushed the head of his cock into you.

Your back arched and he groaned, head falling into your neck.

“-are my favourite thing in the world.”

You moaned out as he pushed inches of himself into you.

“Ah fuck- ah fuck- you just- just-” he mumbled to himself, body clenched.

“Robby please!” you begged, nails scratching at his shoulders.

“Jus gimme a sec.” His eyes darted down to his cock was slowly sinking into you. He controlled himself as he gave it inch by inch, the veins in his arms prominent as he controlled himself. “Fuck- oh I need you- I need you-”

With a smooth push he fell all the way into you, groaning out and taking your hand, entwining your fingers next to your head. He kissed you, stealing your breath and moans as he slowly worked in and out of you.

“I won't last long,” he warned you.

“I don't- I don't want you to.”

“Okay- okay- fuck-”

The composed man you worked with vanished as curses spilled from his lips as he went between kissing you and sucking at your collarbones to watching where he slid in and out of you.

He groaned where you moaned and as your body trembled he pushed himself up, the sound of skin slapping skin bouncing around your bed room walls.

“I'm gonna-”

“Wait!” he barked.

“Robby!”

“Jus-” he tested his body weight on you, moving at a brutal pace till his necklace was close enough for you to grab. You hooked a finger around the chain, bringing him in and locking your legs around him. “Ah fuck- fuck!” he moaned against you as he released inside and you let go, arching up into him.

His arm circled around you, holding you in.

The two of you stilled wrapped in each other, catching breath.

He ran his hand over your hair, pushing it back as his cock softened and he slipped it out.

“Shit-” he fell back on your bed, pulling the covers over the two of you. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, catching your breath. “Yeah, okay.”

Robby nodded, opening his mouth to say something when he felt an itch at his back and moved around. His hand came out, revealing the bundle of red panties.

You grabbed them, throwing them behind him and out of sight as he chuckled. You fell back on your bed, hiding your face in your hands and knowing there was little point in hiding from him.

Robby still chuckled as he turned on his side to watch you, his chest still moving as he caught his breath.

You mirrored him, tucking a hand under your head. “You know I don't think I've ever seen you smile so much.”

“Don't tell anybody they'll all expect special treatment.” His hand reached your thigh, circling it gently. “That was okay?” Under the smiling and the want that subsided a little you could read the mask of insecurity.

You were at a loss for words by how good it was.

You leant over and kissed him slow, feeling his lips with every note of your brain and trace of your lips.

You pulled away when you remembered why he was here in the first place. “I still don't have a shower.”

And it wasn’t because you were the most beautiful woman in the world — you were, and that was a truth he’d argue with anyone who dared suggest otherwise. But that was only the surface, the spark. What undid him, what kept him falling and falling without end, was your passion.

You were passionate about movies, about music, about your job, about children, about stars — basically about everything. Even the little things that other people might overlook. You treated life like something to be tasted, savored, and he was hooked on watching you do it. He often thought: maybe he didn’t need the yellow sun anymore. Maybe watching you burn so brightly was enough to heal.

He thought about one of his favorite memories, the one he always went back to when nights were quiet and long.

It was nothing special, at least it shouldn’t have been. A grocery run, your hair damp from the drizzle outside, you leaning against the cart with your chin propped in your hand while he unloaded apples and bread onto the conveyor. The kind of moment nobody would write a song about. And yet, Clark knew that if someone asked him to describe happiness, this would’ve been it.

His attention had been half on the cashier, half on you, who had paused mid-unloading to wave at someone familiar in the next line. You were chatting animatedly, gesturing with a loaf of bread in one hand, completely unaware that your attention had drifted.

That’s when he noticed it — a Kinder chocolate egg, sitting in a little cardboard display by the counter. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t shout “buy me.” It was tucked between larger, more attention-grabbing candy boxes.

Clark’s mind, always calculating, always observing, registered it instantly. He thought about the way you’d laugh if he handed it to you, how your eyes would light up in that way that made everything else in the world fade. And just as quickly, he shoved the thought aside. It was tiny. Silly. Not a “moment.”

Then he realized, why not?

So, without you noticing, without disrupting your conversation with the person you recognized in line, he reached over and grabbed it. It was nothing. Just a chocolate egg, he thought.

Back at your apartment, both of you unpacking bags, he handed it to you almost absentmindedly, his voice casual. “Oh, by the way, I got you this, honey.”

Your reaction — God, he would never forget it.

Your eyes widened first, then your mouth fell open, a gasp tumbling out. “Oh my god. You got me a Kinder egg? Really?”

“Yeah, I—”

“I LOVE this baby. Thank you, thank you!”

The carton of eggs you were holding clattered onto the counter (thankfully intact) before you launched yourself at him like he’d just offered you the stars. He stumbled back a step, arms automatically catching you, and then you were kissing him all over — his cheeks, his jaw, his nose — messy, frantic kisses that smelled faintly like your shampoo.

Clark laughed, stunned and helpless. “All this… for a Kinder egg?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, arms looped around his neck, eyes shining. “It’s not the egg, Clark. It’s you. The fact that you thought of me. That you saw it and thought it would make me happy.” Your voice softened, almost breaking. “I love it because it’s you.”

And that was it. He was gone. He was so, so gone.

The next day, he bought ten. He couldn’t help it.

You made him obsessed, just with existing.

Sometimes he even felt dizzy — if that was even kryptonianly possible — with how kind you were to him. He thought about the time he’d secretly tried your skincare because he’d seen you do it every night, curious if it made you feel as soft and radiant as you looked. He expected you to laugh when you noticed the missing cream. Instead, the very next evening, there was an entire line of products neatly lined up on his bathroom shelf, numbered in the order he should use them.

He remembered just standing there, toothbrush in hand, staring at the bottles like they were holy. Like maybe they were proof that someone could see him, not just Superman, not just Clark Kent the reporter, but him.

And then there were the nights when he came home with a sigh — not just a sigh of exhaustion, but the heavy, bone-deep exhale that came after trying to carry the weight of two worlds. You always knew. You didn’t press him, didn’t interrogate. You just looked up, studied his face with those eyes that seemed to unravel him, and pressed a warm mug of tea into his hands.

Sometimes, you cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing against his skin so tenderly it almost hurt. “Come back to me, Clark,” you’d whisper.

And he did. Every time.

It amazed him.

Nothing made him feel stronger than your fragile heart. Nothing prepared him for what the privilege of being yours would do to him.

And so, quietly, he started to notice the little things about you, too.

1. The way your nose scrunched when you read something that annoyed you.

It was one of those rainy afternoons where the world outside seemed muffled, the kind of day that made the apartment feel smaller, cozier. You were curled up on the couch, your laptop balanced precariously on your knees, a blanket cocooned around your shoulders. Your hair was piled up messily on your head, a pen sticking out of it as though you’d forgotten it there hours ago.

Clark sat at the opposite end of the couch, reading through his notes for the next day’s piece. Or at least, he was pretending to. In reality, his eyes kept sliding back to you.

He could always tell the moment something you read rubbed you the wrong way. Your eyes would narrow slightly, your lips pursed like you were holding back a sharp comment. And then came his favorite part—your nose would scrunch, just a little, the same way it did when you caught a whiff of burnt toast or when you tried to untangle a stubborn knot in your necklace chain.

And every time, without fail, it made him smile.

You muttered something under your breath now, your fingers flying over the keyboard as if typing out your irritation might help. Then you glanced sideways and caught him watching.

“What are you smiling at?” you snapped, though your tone wasn’t sharp enough to draw blood. It was laced with that familiar playfulness, like you already knew the answer but wanted to hear him say it.

“You,” Clark said easily, setting his notepad down and leaning forward to brush his hand against your ankle where it rested against the cushion. “You look like you’re about to declare war on whoever wrote that article.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes, but he didn’t miss the way the corner of your mouth twitched. “It’s just—” You sighed and gestured at the screen with one hand. “How can someone this ignorant have a platform? I swear, Clark, it makes my brain itch.”

He chuckled, watching your hands flail in animated frustration, your blanket slipping down one shoulder. He reached over to tug it back into place. “Maybe you should take over. Write something better. You’d have them running for cover.”

You shot him a look, pretending to glare. “Don’t tempt me.”

Clark grinned, warm and unshakable. He loved this version of you — fiery, passionate, a little indignant. He could face aliens, disasters, villains, and still, nothing compared to watching you come alive over something as simple as a badly written article.

“Seriously though,” he added softly, almost reverently, “I love it. The way you care. Even about things other people would scroll past.”

For a moment, you just looked at him, your lips parting like you wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the words. Then, slowly, your expression softened. “You’re ridiculous, Kent,” you muttered, ducking your head back down to your screen.

But he saw it. The small, secret smile you were trying to hide. The one that told him his words had landed, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

And Clark sat back, heart warm, knowing that the world might call him Superman, but in this apartment, with you scrunching your nose at your laptop and trying not to smile — he was just a man in love.

2. How you always touched his arm when you laughed.

It always started small, and it always undid him.

The two of you were in the kitchen again — the kitchen that had, in some strange way, become your shared sanctuary. The window above the sink was cracked open just enough to let the night air slip in, cool and damp with the smell of rain. A low song played from the speaker on the counter, something with a slow guitar and a voice like velvet. The soft hiss of garlic in butter filled the air.

You stood at the island, barefoot, cutting vegetables, telling Clark a story from your day. Your hands moved as much as your mouth did — chopping, gesturing, pausing for emphasis. He loved watching you in these moments: animated, alive, unguarded.

“—and then she actually said that to the client. Out loud!” you said, shaking your head, eyes wide in disbelief. “I swear, Clark, my job is a sitcom without cameras.”

He chuckled softly, stirring the pan. “Sounds like you had quite a day.”

You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “And then, as if it couldn’t get worse, he—”

You broke off, reaching the punchline, and suddenly you were laughing — bright, ringing laughter that filled the whole apartment, rolling off the walls like sunlight. And there it was again. Without even thinking, your hand reached out, fingertips brushing his bicep as though the sound of your own joy needed somewhere to land. It wasn’t a conscious gesture. Just a fleeting touch, but to him, it was seismic.

Clark smiled before he even knew he was smiling, before he could stop himself. His heart felt like it was expanding in his chest, pressing against his ribs until it almost hurt.

You noticed, your laughter tapering into a curious glance. “What?”

“Nothing,” Clark said softly, shaking his head, but his eyes stayed on you. “Just… you.”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?” he asked, feigning innocence, turning back to the pan even though the food was already done.

“The one that makes me feel like I’m missing the joke.” You set down the knife, wiped your hands on a dish towel, and took a step closer. “Out with it, Kent.”

He let out a soft laugh, low and fond. “You always touch my arm when you laugh.”

Your brows shot up. “I do?”

“Yeah.” His voice was warm now, lower, a kind of reverence in it. “Every time. Like… like you need me there for it to be real. Like you’re grounding yourself.”

You blinked at him, your cheeks going warm, the corners of your mouth fighting a smile. “That’s—God, Clark, you notice the weirdest things.”

“They’re not weird,” he said quickly, earnestly. He reached forward and turned off the burner with one hand, then leaned against the counter so he was facing you fully. “They’re you. They’re the little things you don’t think I see. But I do. And they matter to me. Every single one.”

For a heartbeat, you didn’t move. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft sound of rain against the window. The towel twisted nervously in your hands. Your lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t.

Then, slowly, almost shyly, you stepped close enough to hear his heartbeat. You reached out again — this time on purpose. Your palm came to rest on his forearm, thumb brushing over the fabric of his shirt like a question.

“Better?” you teased, but your voice was softer now, almost unsure.

Clark’s heart swelled so full he thought for sure it might give him away. He covered your hand with his own, large and warm over yours, grounding himself in your touch as much as you in his. “Always,” he whispered.

Your eyes searched his for a moment, then softened. You smiled, small and secret, and leaned your forehead against his chest. He held you there, one hand still resting on your fingers, the other sliding to the small of your back.

The garlic was starting to brown. The rain was tapping on the window. And Clark thought, in that quiet kitchen with your hand on his arm and your laughter still echoing in his ears: he’d never need another anchor, not when he had you.

3. The way you hummed.

Clark noticed it first on a Sunday morning.

The city outside was still sleepy, gray light filtering through the blinds. He woke to the faint sound of water running in the bathroom and, underneath it, a low, tuneless hum. He smiled before his eyes even opened fully. It was soft, almost unconscious, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re content without realizing it.

He lay there, listening — the cadence of your toothbrush tapping against the sink, the gentle vibration of your voice weaving into the background noise. It wasn’t a melody he recognized. Maybe it wasn’t even a melody at all. But it was yours. And for Clark, that was enough.

From then on, he realized: you hummed all the time.

While you cooked, while you brushed your teeth, while you folded laundry, while you dug through drawers looking for your keys. Sometimes it was an old song he could almost identify. Other times it was nothing — just notes strung together, aimless but warm, like the inside of a memory.

You never seemed to notice you were doing it. But Clark did. He noticed every single time.

One evening, he leaned against the kitchen doorway, just watching. You stood at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta sauce, hips swaying faintly to some rhythm only you could hear. The overhead light haloed your hair, and that little hum slipped past your lips, soft and low, blending with the hiss of bubbling tomatoes.

Clark folded his arms over his chest and couldn’t help himself. “That’s my favorite soundtrack.”

You startled, your spoon clattering against the side of the pot. “What soundtrack?”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smiling gently. “Yours.”

You blinked, cheeks warming. “I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

“You always do,” he said, his voice hushed, like telling you felt almost too sacred. He crossed the room, the floor creaking softly under his weight, and dipped his head to press a kiss against the crown of your head. You smelled faintly of basil and soap. “And I hope you never stop.”

You exhaled a laugh, embarrassed. “Clark, that’s not even real music. It’s just noise.”

He pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes steady. “Not to me.”

You tried to brush him off, stirring the sauce with unnecessary vigor. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he countered without hesitation. His tone wasn’t teasing. It was reverent.

Your hand stilled on the spoon, your head tilting just slightly as if to read his expression. When you saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes, your lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile. “You’re making it really hard to concentrate on this sauce, you know.”

“Good,” he murmured, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder, listening as you let the hum return, quieter this time but deliberate, because now you knew he was listening.

4. The way you loved animals.

Clark was convinced you had a superpower too.

It wasn’t the kind you could see from headlines or newspaper clippings. It wasn’t about strength or flight or speed. Yours was quieter, subtler — the kind of gift that made the world softer just by existing in it.

The way you loved animals.

It wasn’t just dogs or cats, though you certainly doted on every one you encountered. No — with you, it was everything.

Once, he caught you kneeling on the sidewalk in the middle of Metropolis, traffic whizzing by, cooing at a cluster of pigeons like they were rare jewels.

“Clark, look at their little feet!” you’d said, pointing as if he didn’t have enhanced vision that could see each scale of their skin. “They look like they’re wearing tiny red socks.”

He laughed, holding the grocery bags while people detoured around you. “Most people would call them rats with wings.”

“Most people are wrong,” you replied primly, tossing a crumb from your bagel onto the pavement. The birds swarmed, fluttering dangerously close to your hair, but you only giggled, delighted.

Clark had to bite back the urge to tell you that you were infinitely more luminous than all of them combined.

Another time, he found you crouched by the dumpster behind your building, murmuring softly to a raccoon with a broken paw. You’d left a little dish of food nearby, coaxing it closer with patience he swore could disarm even the fiercest enemy.

“You’re going to get bitten one of these days,” Clark warned, hovering behind you with his arms crossed, half-exasperated, half in awe.

You shot him a look over your shoulder, eyes shining. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s just hungry. Aren’t you, buddy?” You turned back, voice dropping to a soothing coo as if the animal understood every word.

And somehow, Clark thought maybe it did. Because within minutes, the raccoon was edging toward you, trembling but trusting. You lit up like the stars had descended just for you, and Clark’s chest ached at the sight.

But his favorite moment was Geraldo.

A squirrel. Just a squirrel, nothing special. Except to you. He remembered how you’d spotted it one autumn afternoon outside your window, its fluffy tail twitching as it darted across the railing.

“Hi, Geraldo,” you said, as if introducing yourself to a new neighbor.

Clark glanced up from his book, puzzled. “Geraldo?”

“Obviously.” You nodded at the squirrel, who had now stopped to nibble something between its paws. “He looks like a Geraldo. Don’t you think?”

Clark tilted his head, suppressing a grin. “He looks like… a squirrel.”

You gasped dramatically, swatting his arm. “How dare you. He’s family now. Say hi.”

So Clark, being who he was, leaned over to the window with a deadpan expression and muttered, “Hi, Geraldo.”

The squirrel flicked its tail. You clapped your hands together like you’d won a prize. “See? He likes you.”

And in that moment, watching you beam at a tiny animal most people would ignore, Clark felt something settle inside him.

It wasn’t just that you loved animals. It was the way you gave them your full attention, as if their existence mattered as much as anyone else’s. As if you saw value where others saw nuisance. As if every living thing was worthy of kindness.

Later that night, as you curled against him on the couch, he pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered, “You know, I think you really do have a superpower.”

You yawned sleepily, burrowing closer. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“The way things trust you,” he said softly. “The way I trust you.”

You hummed, not fully awake, and nuzzled into his chest. “That’s just love, Clark.”

But Clark knew better. It wasn’t just love. It was something rarer, something he’d never be able to name properly.

Something that made even a squirrel named Geraldo seem like part of your universe.

And he was lucky — so lucky — to live in it with you.

5. The way you collected little things.

Clark had always thought of himself as someone who noticed details. He had to — both as a journalist and as Superman. Every shift in the wind, every heartbeat out of place, every flicker of a lie in someone’s eyes. It was instinct. Survival.

But you… you noticed different things. Smaller things. Softer things.

You collected them.

Ticket stubs from movies you’d dragged him to — even the bad ones that made you groan on the way home. Receipts with silly notes scribbled in the margins. Candy wrappers you swore were “too pretty to throw away.” Little pebbles you picked up on walks, turning them over in your palm like treasure before tucking them into your pocket.

At first, Clark hadn’t realized the scope of it. Until one afternoon, when he’d gone looking for a spare pen in your desk drawer and found a tiny glass jar, no bigger than his fist. Inside was sand — pale, fine grains that shimmered faintly in the light.

“What’s this?” he asked, lifting it gently.

You barely glanced up from the book you were reading on the couch. “Oh, that? Just sand. From the beach trip last summer.”

“Just sand?” He sat beside you, holding the jar like it was fragile, sacred. “You brought this home?”

“Of course,” you said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I wanted to remember what it felt like. The air, the sun, the waves. I thought maybe if I had a piece of it, I wouldn’t forget.”

Clark’s throat tightened, and for a long moment, he just looked at you — your easy smile, your hair mussed from lying back against the couch, your fingers idly tracing the corner of the page.

“You’re like a historian of our life,” he murmured finally.

You snorted. “Historian? Clark, it’s just junk.”

“Not to me.” His voice was soft, but weighted. He reached for your hand, curling his fingers over yours. “To me, it’s… everything. All these tiny pieces of us, all the moments I’d give anything to keep.”

You blinked, startled by the seriousness in his tone. “Clark…”

He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I don’t really need things to remember. My memory doesn’t exactly let me forget. But when I see these little pieces you’ve saved… it feels different. Like you’re choosing us. Like you’re saying our life together matters.”

Your lips curved slowly, and you leaned your forehead against his shoulder. “Of course it matters.”

He kissed your temple, lingering there, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with the warmth of you. And when he pulled back, he set the jar of sand carefully on the coffee table, almost reverently.

Later that night, he found himself opening your shoebox of stubs and scraps and wrappers, rifling through them with a kind of wonder. A scribbled receipt for Chinese takeout — from the night you’d stayed up until dawn building a puzzle together. A ticket stub from a movie so bad you’d both laughed until your stomachs hurt. A wilted flower petal, pressed flat, from the bouquet he’d surprised you with on your first anniversary.

Clark held each one like it was made of glass, his heart swelling in his chest until it was almost too much.

When you padded in, sleepy-eyed and in one of his shirts, you caught him there — sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by your scraps of history.

“Clark?” You tilted your head. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at you, caught, sheepish. But there was nothing embarrassed in his voice when he said simply, “Falling in love with you again.”

And you couldn’t even tease him for it, because the way he said it made your knees go weak.

6. How you always noticed him first.

For all his strength, all his speed, all the ways he could bend himself to the demands of two lives, Clark had a talent for moving silently. It was second nature — whether slipping out of the bullpen without Perry catching him or landing on a rooftop without waking the city below. He could tread like a ghost. Invisible when he needed to be.

But not with you.

With you, it was impossible.

It didn’t matter how softly he turned the key in the lock, how carefully he eased the door shut behind him, or even if he hovered just above the floorboards to avoid creaks. The moment he stepped inside, your head always lifted.

“Hey.”

Just that. A simple word. A greeting. But Clark swore it sounded like home every single time.

Sometimes you’d tilt your head, studying him, your eyes warm but searching. “Rough day?” you’d ask, setting aside whatever you were doing — your laptop, a book, even the spoon you’d been stirring with. He marveled at it: how the whole world could be clawing at him, demanding, tearing him into pieces, but one glance from you and he felt stitched back together.

Other nights, you didn’t ask questions. You just smiled softly and said, “You’re home.”

Two words. That was all it took.

And something in him always cracked a little at that. Because for Clark, “home” wasn’t a place. It had never been. Not really. His childhood home in Krypton was gone, his fortress in the ice was too empty, and Metropolis was a city that both needed him and devoured him. But you — you were something else.

With you, home was a heartbeat. A couch light still on. A voice that noticed him first, even when he tried not to be noticed at all.

One night, after an especially long patrol, he came in well past midnight. He had hoped you’d be asleep — you deserved rest more than anyone — but as he eased the door shut, there you were on the couch, curled in a blanket, eyes heavy but still watching.

“Clark,” you murmured, your voice like silk fraying at the edges with sleep.

He froze, guilt prickling. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you said, though your small smile gave you away. “I just… wanted to see you come home.”

He set his bag down slowly, moved toward you, and when he sank onto the couch beside you, you leaned into him without hesitation. Your warmth, your scent, the weight of your trust — it made his eyes sting.

“Do you know what that does to me?” he asked quietly, almost a whisper, his lips brushing your hairline.

“What?” you mumbled, half asleep against his chest.

“The way you notice me. First. Always. Like… like I matter, even when I’m just Clark.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, pulling you closer. “Especially when I’m just Clark.”

Your hand found his, squeezing gently. “Of course you matter,” you said, simple and sure, like it was the most obvious truth in the universe.

And right then, Clark decided he’d save the world a thousand more times if only so he could keep coming back to this — to you, to your quiet noticing, to the way you made him feel like the luckiest man alive.

7. The way you talked in your sleep.

Clark had always known sleep could be revealing. On Krypton, he’d seen memories flicker in dreams. On Earth, he’d learned that the quietest moments often held the most truth. But nothing — nothing — had prepared him for you.

You talked in your sleep.

Not constantly, not like a running commentary, but enough that it made his heart ache with a tenderness he couldn’t explain. Sometimes it was fragments of your day — “No, Clark, I didn’t eat the last cookie…” or “Geraldo, stop stealing my granola!” Other times, it was nonsense, words strung together in a melody that only you could create.

One night, he found himself awake long after you had fallen asleep, curled on your side under the blanket he insisted you borrow because it smelled like him. You murmured softly, a smile tugging at your lips even in sleep.

“Clark… don’t forget the… Kinder egg…”

He chuckled quietly, careful not to wake you. Even your unconscious mind remembered the smallest things, the things that mattered to you, and somehow it made him feel closer to you than he had all day.

Another night, he’d stayed up late reading, exhausted from patrol and work, when he heard it again: your voice, low and sleepy, drifting across the room.

“… and then the pigeon—he winked at me…”

Clark froze mid-page, blinked, and swallowed the laugh threatening to escape. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, marveling at the way your body softened into him at the touch. “Even in your dreams, you’re impossible,” he whispered.

One particularly cold morning, he woke before you, sunlight spilling through the blinds. You were still buried under blankets, face pressed into the pillow, and muttering something in that half-formed language of sleep.

“Clark, no… don’t… the salad…”

He smothered a laugh into his palm, his heart tightening. Even when you weren’t awake, your mind carried the little quirks and joys of your day. You carried them everywhere.

Sometimes, when he gently shook you awake for work or breakfast, you’d blink blearily, still half in the other world. “Did I… say something?”

“You’re adorable,” he said, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You talk in your sleep.”

You frowned, still groggy. “Do I? What did I say?”

Clark grinned, unable to resist. “Mostly… things that make me fall in love with you all over again.”

You rolled your eyes, but the flush rising in your cheeks gave you away. “Pfft yeah right,” you mumbled, stretching and burying your face against his chest.

“And yet… it’s true,” he said softly, holding you close, inhaling the faint scent of your hair. “Even in dreams, you’re… just you. And I’m so lucky to be the one who gets to hear it.”

You hummed, half asleep, and curled even tighter into him, murmuring something incoherent. Clark smiled and kissed the crown of your head, already memorizing the tiny, unconscious symphony of your life.

Because to him, every whispered word, every sleep-tumbled syllable, was a secret he’d cherish forever.

8. The way you played with your earrings when you were nervous.

The tiny gestures that were invisible to most people but screamed volumes to him.

Like the way you played with your earrings when you were nervous.

He noticed it one evening at a work event. The room was full of people, bright lights, laughter that seemed just a little too loud. You stood by his side in a sea of strangers, smiling politely, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, but every so often, your fingers would drift up to your ears. You twisted a small silver hoop between your fingers, tugged at the clasp, rubbed the lobe gently. A nervous habit.

Clark’s chest tightened. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, leaning slightly closer, voice low enough that only you could hear.

You froze for a fraction of a second, then gave a small, tight-lipped smile. “Yeah… just… thinking.” Your fingers didn’t leave your earrings, circling them absentmindedly.

He wanted to reach out and take your hand, to anchor you somehow, but he knew that would be too much — this was yours, a small bubble of privacy. So instead, he simply watched, memorizing the way your eyes darted to the crowd and back to him, the slight crease of your brow, the way your fingers circled the metal again.

“It’s… cute,” he whispered softly, more to himself than you.

You glanced at him, half-embarrassed, half-teasing. “Cute?”

Clark smiled, warmth filling him like sunlight. “Yeah. You look… thoughtful. Vulnerable. And… I don’t know. I love it.”

“Love what?” You tilted your head, tugging lightly at your earring as if it could somehow shield you from his gaze.

“That,” he said, nodding toward your fingers. “The way you do that. When you’re nervous, or unsure, or… just human. It’s beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes, but the blush rising in your cheeks gave you away. “You’re ridiculous, Kent.”

“I am,” he admitted softly. “But I mean it. Every little thing you do, even the things you don’t notice, they matter. To me.”

For a long moment, you were quiet, still twisting the small silver hoop, then slowly, almost reluctantly, you let your hand fall to your side. Instead, you reached for his, fingers intertwining with his.

“Guess I’ll have to be careful around you then,” you murmured, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

“Please don’t be careful,” he whispered back, pressing a kiss to your hand. “I want to notice everything. Even the tiny things no one else sees. Especially those.”

You didn’t need to do anything extraordinary. Just being yourself — fidgeting with your earrings, nervous, alive — was enough to make him fall in love with you all over again.

9. The way you only pushed your glasses up when they were just about to fall.

It was ridiculous, really — how often Clark caught himself waiting for it.

You didn’t even notice, not consciously anyway. It was one of those small, absentminded habits, the kind people did hundreds of times a day without thought. But he noticed. Oh, he always did.

You’d be sitting somewhere — on the couch with your laptop, sprawled out on your stomach reading, or perched at the kitchen table with your hair pulled back in a messy bun — and your glasses would begin their slow descent.

It was almost like a test of will.

They’d slide, millimeter by millimeter, as you typed or scrolled or turned a page. Clark would watch from wherever he was — maybe on the couch across from you, maybe standing by the counter pretending to read the paper — his lips twitching, waiting for that precise moment.

Anyone else would have fixed them right away. But not you. You’d keep going, completely focused on whatever you were doing, your brow furrowed in concentration, until they were hanging on for dear life at the very tip of your nose.

Then, finally, you’d sigh, squint as if scolding them, and push them back up with one decisive flick of your finger. Always the same motion. Always that same tiny sound of relief you made afterward — a soft exhale, like you’d just resolved some grand crisis.

It made him smile every single time.

He found it endearing. Human in a way that made his chest ache — because here was this small, ordinary thing, and yet it said so much about you. About how you let life be a little messy, a little imperfect. How you trusted that things wouldn’t truly fall apart, not until they absolutely had to.

One night, he couldn’t help himself.

You were sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by the glow of your laptop and the quiet sound of the refrigerator. It was late — maybe too late — the kind of hour that made the world feel smaller. Your hair was loose, falling around your shoulders, your glasses slipping slowly, predictably, down your nose.

Clark stood by the counter, arms crossed, watching as you chewed your bottom lip and scrolled through something on the screen. He could tell from your expression you were half frustrated, half exhausted. The tea beside you had gone cold long ago.

When the glasses had reached that perilous edge, he finally moved.

“They’re falling,” he murmured, his voice soft but teasing as he leaned over the back of your chair, his chin almost brushing your shoulder.

Without looking up, you hummed, distracted. “Mhm. I know.”

He grinned, bending a little closer so his breath stirred the loose strands of your hair. “You always wait till the last second.”

“That’s called suspense, Kent,” you muttered, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Builds character.”

“Oh, does it?” he teased.

Before you could react, his hand came around, steady and gentle, and with one light touch, he pushed your glasses back up the bridge of your nose. His fingertip grazed your skin, feather-soft, and he felt you freeze for half a heartbeat — just enough for him to notice.

You turned your head slightly, looking up at him, eyes wide and amused. “You did not just do that.”

“I did,” he said, his grin widening. “Someone’s gotta keep you from losing your glasses every three minutes.”

You snorted, laughing quietly as you shook your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You say that like it’s news.”

“Thanks, Boy Scout,” you murmured finally, smiling — that small, crooked smile that melted something inside him every time.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head before straightening up again.

You pretended to go back to your work, typing furiously as if to prove you weren’t affected, but Clark could see it — the faint pink at the tips of your ears, the way your lips twitched when you thought he wasn’t looking.

And as he leaned against the counter, watching you from across the room, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

To anyone else, it would’ve been nothing — a forgettable, automatic gesture. But to Clark, it was everything.

That quiet patience. That stubborn focus. That refusal to rush anything, even gravity itself. It was the same thing he loved most about you — the way you let things be, trusted that they’d find their way back up again.

He’d spent his whole life holding the world together, afraid that if he ever let go, it would all come crashing down. But you — you lived differently. You let life slide, just a little, and still believed it would right itself in the end.

And somehow, in that small, wordless thing, you taught him what it meant to trust, too.

When you finally shut your laptop and stretched, glasses askew once again, you caught him looking. “What?” you asked, smiling sleepily.

“Nothing,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Just… you.”

You laughed under your breath, unaware that your glasses had slid again, hanging crookedly on your nose.

And Clark thought — with a kind of helpless, wholehearted love — that if they ever did fall, he’d always be there to catch them.

10. The way you loved him back.

Clark could describe flight. He could describe the sound of the wind breaking against his ears at Mach speed, the weightlessness of looking down at the Earth, clouds stretching endlessly below him like spilled milk. He could describe the heat of the sun against his skin, the heartbeat of Metropolis beneath his feet.

But this — the way you loved him back — he could never put into words. Not really.

It wasn’t the big gestures. Not the declarations that would make headlines, not the grand displays of devotion. It was quieter, subtler. Unseen by anyone but him.

It was in the soft weight of your head against his chest when you were tired, sinking in as if the world had finally stopped spinning and you had chosen to anchor yourself there. It was the way your fingers drifted across his palm in lazy circles, your thumb tracing invisible patterns like you were writing a secret he would never read aloud. It was the way you whispered “you’re mine” against his neck when you thought he was asleep, voice cracked with sleepiness, not a claim but a promise, the kind of thing that settled deep in his chest and refused to leave.

Clark would lie there, eyes open in the dark, listening to the rhythm of your breathing, memorizing it, feeling it sync with his own heartbeat. It wrapped around him like gravity, like warmth, like the only force strong enough to keep him tethered to something real.

One night, after a patrol that had left his muscles sore and his mind frayed from the constant weight of two worlds, he came home and found you asleep on the bed, tangled in the blankets, hair splayed across the pillow. He lay down beside you, careful not to disturb the soft rise and fall of your chest, until the pull of your presence became unbearable.

“You know I love all these things about you, right?” he whispered, voice low, almost a part of the darkness.

Your eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded, a strand of hair falling across your cheek. “All what things?” you mumbled, the edge of sleep still thick in your voice.

“The little things,” he said, brushing the hair from your face with his thumb. “The way you lean into me, the way your fingers wander across my palm without realizing it, the way you whisper…” He leaned closer, letting the warmth of his breath brush your skin. “…the way you whisper ‘you’re mine.’ I notice it. I always notice it. Because I’m always watching you.”

You blinked at him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips, then nudged his chest playfully. “Creepy,” you teased, but your tone was soft, almost shy.

“Maybe,” he admitted, the laugh in his chest low and rumbling, meant only for you. He shifted, draping an arm across your waist, pulling you close until your forehead rested against his shoulder. “But it’s true. I love every one of them. And I love you.”

You exhaled softly, a sleepy, satisfied sound, fingers drifting over his hand again, tracing that circle that had become your signature. “Good,” you murmured, eyes closing. “Because you’re stuck with me, Kent.”

He swallowed, heart squeezing so tight it left him breathless. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he whispered back, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head.

He lingered there, memorizing you — the faint scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin, the way the golden light from the street outside spilled across your cheek and painted everything familiar and sacred. He wished he could bottle it, hold it forever, take it with him across oceans, across rooftops, across time zones.

Because nothing in the world — no strength, no speed, no cape — could ever compare to the privilege of being yours. You weren’t just his anchor. You were his home.

You shifted, murmuring so softly it almost didn’t reach him, “Love you too, Clark.”

And in that moment, Clark Kent — Superman, the boy from Kansas, the man who had carried the world on his shoulders — felt more human than ever. More alive. More whole. More himself than he had ever dared to be.

He pressed his lips to your hair once more, a silent promise in the dark: whatever the world demanded of him tomorrow, he would come back to this. Back to you. Back to the quiet, unshakable love that made everything else bearable, and more than bearable — extraordinary.

He whispered back, almost to himself, “Always. Always yours.”

And the world, for just a heartbeat, fell away.

“It’s fine, just go,” you reply. You’re waiting for him to leave so you can finally get rid of that monstrosity in the living room.

He smiles, thinking he got away with it. He doesn’t know it’s because you decided to do it yourself.

“I love you so much baby. I swear to you I’m doing anything you want me to do as soon as I come back,” he promises, eager and hopeful and genuine, and he cups your face gently between his too big hands and he kisses you on the forehead gently, as if you would shatter if he’d applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

You can’t help but snort. Not meanly, just… he always says that. And while it’s mostly true, it apparently doesn’t apply to that damn bookshelf. Why? Absolutely no idea. You remember one day when Clark had literally mowed the lawn instead of fixing the damn shelf. What was wrong with him? Was the shelf made of kryptonite or what?

You’re proud of yourself for not sounding petty or annoyed.

“Go save the world, big boy. The world needs you.”

So did you, but not anymore. You can do anything on your own. You don’t need stupid otherworldly powers for that.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he repeats.

“I love you too. Now go before the unthinkable happens.”

He’s gone in a flash, as if he was only waiting for your permission. There he goes, probably away for the rest of the day.

You push your sleeves back and get to work.

It starts easy enough. The shelf was already cleaned and ready to be thrown away. All it needed was a strong pair of arms, and a long ladder.

You got this.

You don’t got this.

The ladder was probably older than Clark’s home planet and it stood shakily like it had a goddamn cold, but it was tall enough and it was sturdy enough for the job. Screwdriver in hand, you started unscrewing the screws (how many times were you going to say that word?), thinking to yourself that Clark was an idiot for putting this off for so long. There’s literally nothing difficult about this – or dangerous, if you didn’t count the ladder’s strange composition, and honestly, it doesn’t even count, because if it were him doing this, he wouldn’t even have needed it in the first place.

Everything was going perfectly well. You were halfway done with the screws and you were thinking of taking a small break (totally deserved, in your humble and completely unbiased opinion), when Superkitten decided that the ladder was a pair of legs, and he started rubbing himself all over it, making it even less stable than it already was.

“Superkitten, go away!” you try telling him, but of course, Superkitten answered to no one.

He’s sharpening his claws now against the splintering wood and you suddenly have the clearest vision of your demise. Dying because your stupid (God bless his stupid little heart) cat used your ladder as a scratching post.

Everything happens so fast you barely had time to think, only act, and you’re gripping onto the shelf for dear life and next thing you know, you’re on the floor. Superkitten had fled the crime scene the moment the ladder fell and you hung onto the bookshelf.

You’re not proud of it but your last thought before the wood quite literally crushes you into oblivion is: serves Clark right.

────୨ৎ────

You’re not really sure how long you’ve been unconscious for, but when you come to your senses, the sun is barely starting to set and Superkitten is licking your face. He must have been going at it for a long while because your skin felt raw. At least someone was worried about you, though, if the low whining coming from your cat was anything to go by.

“I’m up, I’m up,” you tell him, trying to reassure him. You try to lift a hand to pet him but pure agony blocks you from moving.

Now that you think about it, your chest hurts and you have a hard time breathing with the broken pieces of wood littered your body like a blanket. A painful, not warm at all, not soft blanket. If you have to have a not soft blanket, you would rather have Clark draped all over you again.

Clark. Ugh. This is all his fault. If he’d fixed the shelf when you’d told him to, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

You hope you haven’t broken any ribs. You need your ribs for baking.

Superkitten’s whining has gotten louder now, probably scared because you’re awake but you’re not moving, and your heart breaks a little. You didn’t mean to worry him.

Summoning all of your strength, you push the wood off of you (you want to scream but you don’t because Clark would definitely hear that and you really, really don’t want him to see you in this situation).

“There,” you breathe out to no one but yourself, your arms falling limp to your side, weak from the strain. You can finally breathe again, at the cost of your arms.

It takes you a longer time to move again. Thankfully you don’t think your ribs are broken (you’re not a professional but you’re pretty sure the pain would be more unbearable than this) but they’re definitely bruised. You feel like a giant bruise, honestly. You guess there won’t be any sexy times with Clark any time soon. You scoff at the thought. Why are you thinking about that? Besides, Clark definitely doesn’t deserve any sexy time for being the world’s most unreliable boyfriend. Bruised ribs or not.

You want to throw everything away but you’re not sure you’d be able to bend down, so first you make your way, slowly and painstakingly, to the bathroom where you first swallow half of a pill of Clark’s heavy duty painkillers (probably a bad idea, but you have a very good reason for being stupid, and you’re not going to waste it — you love bad decisions, especially when you’re not responsible for them) and then check the reach of the damage.

Gingerly, you lift your shirt up.

One giant bruise. You literally became a Smurf.

Thirty minutes later, the painkiller has fully kicked in and you decide to get rid of the incriminating evidence. Honestly, you should be mad at Clark for gatekeeping these painkillers when you have period cramps. He’s had these all this time and he never even offered once? Rude. Cruel. Blatant abuse.

Is it normal that your heartbeat is so fast? And that you feel kind of delirious? Probably. You just got crushed half to death, so it would make sense that your body’s in a state of shock.

Superkitten hasn’t left your side ever since you woke up on the floor, and it tugs at your heartstrings. He’s obviously shaken.

“I’m so sorry baby,” you whisper to him, scratching his cheeks with both hands. “Mommy’s not gonna do that ever again, I promise. That was really stupid of her, wasn’t it? No, you’re right. Daddy’s the stupid one. This is all his fault.”

He meowed, which was all the confirmation you needed.

“Let’s go to sleep,” you whisper to him.

You change out of your clothes to put on your favorite sweater (Clark’s old college shirt) because even if you’re still a little pissed at him, you’re still hopelessly in love with him, even if he doesn’t deserve it (lie), and you curl up in his side of the bed, body wrapped around a purring Superkitten, wishing Clark was here right now.

────୨ৎ────

“The shelf is gone,” Clark says, a little dumbly.

“What are you talking about?” you reply.

You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you don’t really want to talk about what happened (the bruises are agonising and you don’t dare take more of Clark’s painkillers after you spent the entire night with your knees on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl as you emptied your entire stomach — bile and intestines), and quite frankly, you just want to mess with him a little bit.

“You know, the bookshelf! The one in our living room?”

You look at him, feigning concern, and you touch his forehead with the back of your palm, hiding the wince as the movement pulls your muscles. “Are you sure you didn’t take a nasty hit to the head, baby?”

He huffs, looking adorably indignant, and he crosses his big arms over his chest.

He’d come back a couple of hours ago while you were still asleep, and he’d joined you in bed, gathering you in his arms like you were his favorite bouquet, holding you until you woke up. Then, he spent close to an hour just kissing every inch of your face and neck. When he tried to pull your shirt away, you stopped him with a hand to his face without a word, because you knew Clark would stop without a word. Even in your half asleep state and the numbing pain you’d remembered he couldn’t see you underneath your shirt.

And now you’re fully awake, and he hasn’t stopped following you, pestering you about the shelf. I’ll fix it now for you baby, he says, blissfully unaware and earnest in his desire to do things right by you.

But there’s no bookshelf anymore. It’s gone, and he seems to have a hard time understanding it, because his very core can’t compute the fact that you may be lying to him.

“Where’s the shelf, baby?” he asks, whining. “What happened to it?”

“There’s no shelf, Clark,” you say, as if you’re talking to a baby that’s prone to hysterics.

“Yeah, there’s no shelf now, but there was one! Remember? The shelf I was supposed to take down but then every time I tried to, something came up?”

That irked you. “Oh so now you remember,” you say, and it might have been a mistake because he wasn’t supposed to know you felt as strongly about it as you did. You were supposed to be cool and chill, and most importantly, self-reliant and independent.

His face switches almost instantly, from confused to kicked puppy. “I’m sorry baby, I really am. I was going to fix it, I swear, but then I heard—”

“I know, I know,” you reply, a little more irritated than you would normally be, and it’s partly due to the pain and partly due to the fact that he is right. You can’t get mad at him for wanting to make the world a better place. “That was a job for Superman, yadda yadda, I get it, I know, you can shut up about it now. Forget about the shelf. Forget I ever asked you to help me. I fixed it myself, so you don’t have to keep leading me on with it. Let’s just move on. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Is it possible to get addicted from just taking one half of a pill? Your head is killing you, and your ribs feel like they’re closing in on your lungs and heart, and having Clark hover around you like this, with his stupid morals and values and too pure heart only made everything worse.

Scratch addiction — was it possible to get withdrawal from just one half dose?

You take three normal painkillers. Maybe the right decision would be to go to the ER but you’re too deep into this, and you really, really don’t want Clark to find out about your ribs and have to deal with his guilt again.

You love him, you really do. But you just wish you could take a normal breath again without almost passing out from pain alone.

If he’d fixed that damn shelf months ago like you’d asked him, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You know you could have done it yourself, but he’d made you promise you wouldn’t do that, and unlike some people, you actually kept your promises. If he’d kept his, you wouldn’t be mad at the love of your life, and you wouldn’t be thinking about swallowing all of Clark’s painkillers.

You make the mistake of looking at Clark’s face, and the misery and heartbreak you see on it almost brings you to your knees. If the physical pain didn’t do you in, then his pain so clearly etched onto his angelic features certainly would.

────୨ৎ────

You love Clark but you hate his guilt. You hate the kicked puppy look on his face whenever he thinks you’re not watching. You hate how he gets quieter, more overbearing, as he tries to fix things by overcompensating.

Dinner is a matter of awkward silence and grating sounds from cutlery against plates. He made dinner. He really wanted to, even if it was usually your role to make dinner. You let him because frankly, you’re over this whole thing.

The dinner is good but it tastes like ashes to your tastebuds. You keep thinking about his painkillers in the bathroom. The ones you were never supposed to take because they weren’t made for humans. You wonder if he would ever notice half of one missing. You wonder how he would react.

When you go to sleep, he tries to hug you from behind but you flinch so hard (not at him, just at the expectation of the pain that was soon to follow) that he literally makes a noise. A small, wounded, noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

Yeah, you’re sorry too.

────୨ৎ────

You can’t stay mad at Clark for too long. It’s against your nature.

So when he makes dinner for the third night in a row, and buys you all of the items on your whishlist, and does a million tiny other little things that make you feel like you’re the only girl in the world, and he gets down on his knees to sincerely ask for your forgiveness, and he tells you how much of an idiot he’s been, you give in. Because idiot or not, you still loved your boyfriend. So much that it sometimes hurt.

“I forgive you,” you tell him, and watching him smile is like seeing the first rays of sunshine break through dark stormy clouds after a dark season.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. More than you could ever know, even if I’m an idiot sometimes. I genuinely was going to do what you asked, I swear, but I guess I just didn’t see how important it was to you.”

He’s so sweet, and he’s so kind, and you don’t know how you’re going to keep hiding your ribs from him without breaking his heart. It’s obvious he already feels bad enough for not taking what you ask of him seriously; he already feels bad enough that you ended up doing something he was supposed to do.

Knowing you got hurt, indirectly because of him, would crush him.

“I love you, Clark. And I appreciate your words,” you reply, and you try to forget about the bruises under your shirt that seem to flare up, in sync with your guilt.

“I am the luckiest man on earth and the galaxy,” he whispers against your neck. “And I was too stupid to see it. Never again, sweetheart. Never again. I don’t even have a proper excuse, other than I was being an idiot.”

His hand trails beneath your shirt. He grazes your ribs and when you shiver, he thinks it’s from pleasure.

“You’re warm,” he says.

Yeah, because my skin is tender and sore and swollen, and even your softest touch feels like fire against my skin.

“I run hot,” you reply.

“Or… maybe I make you hot,” he says, in that distinctive way of his; both confident and boyish, both suave and sheepish, like he’s still not sure whether he’s allowed to be like this around you.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m still mad at you, remember?”

And he pouts. This oversized man, who can lift buildings, who can destroy civilisations with one vision ray, who is on his knees for you, is honest to God pouting, eyes looking at you through his eyelashes, eyes downturned like you’d just told him Krypto hated me. “But you forgave me,” he says— or rather, he whines.

“Did I?” you ask, smirking despite the tender ache beneath your breasts. He always did make everything better.

“You’re so cruel to me my love. And yet, something is wrong with me because I love it.”

You brush his messy curls over his forehead, and he all but melts against your touch, and you scratch at his scalp like you do to Superkitten.

It’s not the first time that you make the comparison. Superman and Superkitten. Both a little dumb, both full of love for you.

He rests his head on your thighs and you keep playing with his hair. It’s soft and silky and it always smells nice. He always denies it but you’re ninety-nine percent sure he steals your vanilla scented shampoo. You rasp your fingernails against his scalp, and he lets out a contented sigh.

“I love you, sweetheart. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll work hard on becoming a man worthy of you.”

And there’s something wrong with this sentence, because why would the man who saves the planet on a daily basis not be worthy of you? Who even are you? But still, his words break something tender inside your chest, and your heart spills like ink on paper.

“I love you too, Clark,” you tell him, because it’s all you’re able to say before your throat closes up and your eyes sting.

I should have waited for him, you thought to yourself. I shouldn’t have tried to do it on my own, and I shouldn’t have snapped at him the way I did.

Now you hurt him, and yourself.

────୨ৎ────

Clark Kent is, by definition, a clingy man. No one would never know because on the surface, he almost looks put together — aside from his clumsiness and his fool act that stopped fooling you a long time ago.

Ever since he confessed to you and asked you out and you gave him permission, it’s like all his restraints came off. A kiss on the lips were just the tip of the iceberg. When you guys go grocery shopping, he refuses to let you hold anything, and he holds everything with one hand just so he can hold yours with his free hand.

He kisses you on your eyelids, on your nose, on your cheeks, on your forehead. Anytime, anywhere, for no reason other than he just felt like it.

He never once made you doubt his love because, as cynical as you are, even you can’t deny the love pouring off him in waves whenever he sees you.

Whenever he has to write an article, he always manages to sneak in something only you would understand. Each sentence would start with a letter that would then form a secret message for you.

I LOVE YOU

SWEETHEART

LOVELY

Clark Kent is in love with you. You know that. The world knows that, because he has no issue with showing it to the world. In fact, he has issue if he can’t show you off.

It’s Saturday morning and neither of you has work. It’s a lazy morning, with sun rays draped over your bodies like nature’s own blanket. His arm is draped over your thigh— thigh that’s draped over his own hip. Mornings with him felt like a game of Twisters in the best way possible.

You can feel him, heavy and hot, right against your crotch. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. He bucks his hips, and you’re not sure if he’s even aware that he’s doing it.

Clark Kent is a clingy man, but also a relentless one. He can never get enough. Awake, asleep, his mind’s always attuned to your presence. He always wants you.

It doesn’t take you too long for your body to adjust, to react. Your hips respond in kind, and you watch as a smile unfurls on his face. He looks like the world’s largest, and most satisfied, cat in the world.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers, voice hoarse and thick from sleep. It’s so deep you feel like it could rumble against your chest. His hands are travellers, mapping each inch of your skin from touch alone. This, I love. This, I love too, he seems to say with his hands.

You shiver again. Pleasure and pain mingle together.

“Morning,” you reply. You’ve never been the early riser between the two of you, and mornings make you feel it.

Then, he disappears from your side, and he appears again between your legs, your thighs bracketing his head, draped over his shoulders like the world’s naughtiest cape. He’s looking at you expectantly, and heat exploses in your lower belly. He’s so big that your thighs are already stretched apart, just to accommodate him.

With one thumb, he slides your panties to the side.

Your head falls back on your pillow, and you twist and grasp the mess of his curls between your fingers.

His hands, large and safe and big and warm, are on each side of your hips, and his thumbs slide underneath your shirt. His face disappears between your legs, and your hips stutter involuntarily.

He tries to go further with his hands, but you stop him. You hold his hands in yours, and close your legs around his neck. You know he loves the feeling of you crushing him with your thighs, and you need to distract him from trying to take your shirt off, because you also know that he likes having you bare and naked, so he can play with your breasts freely. He doesn’t like being caged by your shirt.

But your bruises have gotten worse, and you can’t show him, not when he’s finally moved on and stopped feeling guilty every time your eyes meet his.

He bites the inside of your thigh when he feels that you’re not all there with him.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he demands, lips swollen and shiny. “Eyes on me.”

And what else can you do when he speaks to you like this except obey?

────୨ৎ────

“You hate me,” he pouts.

“What?” you ask, laughing in disbelief. “You just had your head between my legs and you think I hate you?”

He hasn’t even washed up yet. His lips are shiny and glossy and they smell of you.

“But you won’t let me wash you,” he explains. “You hate me, admit it, my love. You only use for my tongue and—”

You blush, and cover his — sticky — mouth with your hands. “Shut up!”

His mouth can’t move but his eyes smile for him.

“Let me shower with you, baby, please. I’m begging you,” he pleads, the moment you take your hands off his lips and you your hands against your shirt.

“No.”

“Ouch,” he pouts. “Just no? I don’t even get a reason?”

“You’ve been a bad boy,” you lie. “Bad boys don’t get to shower with me.”

He gasps. “You’ll never let me live it down, will you?”

“Not for another four weeks, no.”

This time, he just laughs, taken by surprise by the specificity of your answer. “That’s so specific, baby. Why four weeks?”

You raise one shoulder. “I just felt like it.”

It’s a lie. You said four weeks because Google said bruised ribs took six weeks to recover, and it’d already been almost two weeks. But you can’t exactly tell him that, can you?

“Fine. I guess I deserve that. But you should know I’m going to miss you terribly while you’re showering in there, all alone, without me, without anyone to scrub your back for you because you’re all alone.”

You push his face away with your hand again. He loves being manhandled by you. “I think I’ll manage, lover boy. But thank you for the concern.”

He watches you close the bathroom door like a sad puppy being left behind.

They always say things get worse before they get better, and you hope that’s the case with your ribs. The longer you look at it, the more ashamed you felt. Falling from a stupid ladder. Trying to hold onto a broken shelf. It’s no one’s fault but yours. Clark didn’t make you grab that screwdriver and climb on that ladder. He didn’t make you fall. You did. You thought that an old and unstable ladder was good enough for the job, and you tried to hold onto the shelf you’d just spent twenty minutes unscrewing from the wall to not fall.

All of this is on you. The pain, the anger, the sadness, the shame.

You don’t know why but under the shower you break into tears. The instant the hot drops of water touch your skin, it’s like a faucet is turned on. Your ribs hurt with the weight of your sobs. Maybe it’s the pain, maybe it’s keeping it secret from him when all you want is to be cared for by him. You don’t know. You’re being stupid, and you’re so glad Clark is too much of a gentleman to use his superheating when you’re under the shower on your own, because you’re really not sure how you would have lied your way out of that.

Only a few more weeks. Your bruising is going to disappear soon, and you would no longer have to avoid Clark anymore.

By the time you’re out of the shower, Clark is cleaned up and dressed (well, he’s shirtless, but he did put pants on), and he’s busy sliding the last chocolate chip pancake he’d made onto a pile of steaming pancakes. It’s your favorite breakfast. The jar of Nutella is already out on the table, and he’s got hot chocolate ready for you as well.

He has a towel thrown over his shoulder, and you know he put it there on purpose, because you’d told him once that it made you go kind of crazy whenever he did that.

You slide on the barstool with barely a wince. You’re smiling so big your cheeks hurt.

“What’s this?” you ask him.

“Breakfast for my one and only.”

“What happened to you thinking I hated you?”

“Well, I figured if you really hated me, I had better start treating you like the princess you are.”

“Aren’t you just smart?”

He preens under the praise, and the sight of the red dusting on his cheeks makes everything else a little easier to bear.

“I hope you like the pancakes. I tried my best.”

“They look fantastic,” you reply immediately. You’re not lying. And even if they looked ugly, you wouldn’t care, because he’d made them for you, because he knew they were your favorite.

“Thank you, Clark.”

He gets closer to you and kisses you on the forehead. “Anything for you, my princess. I mean it.”

You believe him. You’ve always believed him.

You don’t know what the hell you did to deserve a man like him.

────୨ৎ────

“You okay?” he asks you a couple of days later, completely out of the blue.

“Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Your stupid heartbeat’s going to expose you if you don’t calm it right now.

He notices. Of course he does. He’s attuned to you like he’s a radio and you’re his favorite channel.

“It’s just… I saw two sheets of painkillers in the trash. Empty. I’d never seen you use that many before. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s too kind to mention your heartbeat going crazy inside your ribcage, like it’s trying to escape. It’s a wonder, you think, that it doesn’t actually hurt your ribs.

He knows. He must know about the half dose of his painkillers that you took. Knowing him, he probably checked everything in the shelves behind the bathroom mirror.

You can’t think of a lie on the spot. “My- my headaches were getting worse,” you say. You hope he doesn’t think it too suspicious, because he already knows you’re prone to headaches. It’s why you have so many painkillers in the first place. “But I’m feeling better, now. I think they’re gone for good.”

It’s true, in a way. Your rib pain is almost gone. The bruises are mostly for show, at this point.

“Oh baby, why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you,” he asks, gentle frown between his eyes, and it breaks your heart, to be the one to put that worry there on his beautiful face.

“Sorry… I’m sorry Clark. It wasn’t really a big deal. I’ll tell you next time, though. I promise.”

He stands up from the couch and walks over to you. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He bends down to kiss your forehead. “And I’m sorry you’ve been hurting this badly. Next time, don’t take that much painkillers, okay? I’m not telling you what to do, but they aren’t good for your health, and I’m worried about you. Come to me, and I’ll make you herbal teas and give you massages, okay?”

“Okay,” you croak out.

The guilt is going to eat you alive.

────୨ৎ────

In a way, you’re almost glad when fate decides to take reigns over your life and exposes your lie to Clark.

It happens like this: it’s Sunday afternoon, you’re in the kitchen washing the dishes you’d used to make Clark his favorite cake while he’s in the backyard doing Clark Kent stuff, and then he comes back inside through the kitchen door, and he’s smiling at you and then standing right behind you. He puts his head above yours, because you’re the perfect size for that, and then, without warning, he wraps his arms around your ribs and lifts you up in the air.

It’s supposed to be cute, it’s supposed to be romantic. He’s happy to see you, and he loves you, and he loves to have you in his arms at all times.

You’re supposed to shriek in surprise to fake struggling while giggling and asking him to (not) put you back down.

What you’re not supposed to do, however, is gasp like he’d just crushed your ribcage, and double over in pain.

The effect is immediate.

“What’s wrong, are you okay?! Did I hurt you?”

You’d never heard him this panicked, this horrified. His biggest fear had always been to accidentally hurt you, physically or mentally, and this must seem like his worst nightmare come true.

Clark puts you down immediately on the ground, and he’s turning you gently so he can look at you, eyes raking up your body up and down to check for injuries.

You try to hide your ribs with your arms but it’s useless against his x-ray vision.

You can tell just from the tightening of his jaw that he saw it. He saw what you’d been trying to hide for the past couple of weeks.

“What happened?” he asked. His voice is strangely cold and distant. It’s — terrifying. “I know it’s not me because it looks old. Weeks old. What happened?” he repeated.

You’re standing there, frozen with fear, hands still soapy and dripping water all over the floor. “It’s nothing,” you reply. It’s your first instinct. To lie and pretend nothing is wrong.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says. His voice is quiet but almost menacing. “I can see it clear as day. You’re hurt. Tell me when, why, who or what.”

He’s starting to connect the dots, you think. He’s scared of your answer as much as he’s scared of you lying.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re apologizing for. For hiding it from him? For not hiding it good enough from him?

“Baby, please,” he begs. His voice sounds wrecked.

“When I was taking the shelf down, our cat used the ladder as a scratching post, and it fell. I tried to hold onto the shelf but it broke under my weight. And it fell on my chest.”

He rubs a hand over his face as he starts pacing around the kitchen. “You’ve been hurting for two weeks and I had no idea,” he says. He sounds completely wrecked. “And it’s all my fault. If I’d just— why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were already feeling so guilty, I didn’t want to add on top of that. And it’s not your fault I fell and bruised my ribs. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“My emotions are mine alone to manage, okay? It’s not— God.” He stops moving, and he turns to look at you. “You shouldn’t have had to hide your pain from me just to spare me my feelings. I’m a grown man, I can take it. I can take anything you throw at me. But don’t hide from me, especially not because you think you’re protecting me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, God, no, I’m sorry. Baby, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. Did you… did you go see a doctor at least?”

“No. I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think about it but by the time I did, it was too late.”

“What if you’d broken a rib?” he asks.

“I didn’t. I checked myself. And it didn’t hurt as bad as it would if I’d broken a rib.”

His laugh is a mixture of disbelief and tears. “That doesn’t reassure me at all.”

“It wasn’t— it wasn’t meant to be reassuring. It’s just the truth.”

“Can I see?” he asks.

“You already did.”

“No, I need to see you. I need to be able to touch you.”

You lift up your shirt from the bottom and lift it slowly, revealing the nebula of purple and blue across your ribs, and Clark’s breath catches in his throat as he falls to his knees.

His hand hovers your skin. He doesn’t need to touch you for your skin to erupt in goosebumps.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I should have known. The painkillers, refusing to let me see you change, refusing to let me undress you. The signs were all there and I was too stupid to see it.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say weakly.

“Perhaps I didn’t make you fall, but I’m the one who pushed you to do something I was supposed to do for you, on your own. I’m the one who made you feel like you had to hide it from me to spare my feelings. I’m the one who failed you.”

“I’m the one who made the decision to hide it from you.” Your voice is weak to your own ears. You can’t blink at all. You’re staring at him, on his knees for you again in two weeks. Him apologizing to you twice in two weeks.

“No— you listen to me. Not any of this is your fault. I’m the one who’s been negligent and irresponsible. I’m the one who kept breaking my promise to you. I’m the one who’s made you bear something that was never yours to handle to begin with. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. Unconsciously, I made you feel like you couldn’t be honest with me. And that’s unforgivable.”

────୨ৎ────

Clark refuses to let you lift a single finger. He’s helped you lay down in bed in a way that didn’t hurt your ribs and said,

“You can bully me and refuse to listen to me for the rest of our lives all you want but only after you’re okay. For now, just — please — humor me?”

Who are you to say no?

He calls his parents, and you can hear sweet Martha’s voice right from his phone because she always speaks loudly into the phone, worried you wouldn’t be able to hear her over the distance.

“Ma, I messed up,” he says.

You tune everything out while he asks his mom what he should do. And then he’s handing the phone to you because she said she wanted to talk to you, but Clark’s reluctant because he’s worried making you talk will hurt you more but you just roll your eyes at him and snatch the phone from his hand. Nothing will stop you from talking to her. And besides, your ribs are a lot better than they were. And Martha’s not exactly going to come out of the phone just to squeeze her ribs.

It’s fine.

Martha is lovely as always and she says five times that she’ll come on down to their place anytime you wanted, and that she could make your favorite cookies, and that she and Jonathan missed the both of you, and that she hoped you will be alright soon.

She ends the call with, “Come see us once you’re alright, darling. Smallville misses you.”

And it must be in their genes because you can’t say no to her either.

Clark had been standing there the entire time, probably using his superhearing to overhear the entire conversation. He’s worried, you can see it. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and he’s rubbing his thumb across his lower lip.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks you for the hundredth time since he found out about your ribs.

“Yes. Believe me when I say it, or I’ll never tell you about my injuries from now on.”

He gasps. “You plan on having more injuries?!”

God bless his poor sweet soul.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Just… make yourself useful and come spoon me.”

His body reacts instantly — so used to obeying you — before his mind catches up with him and he jerks. “But your ribs.”

“They’re fine. As long as you don’t plan on squeezing me again.”

He took off his shirt and pants before crawling into bed next to you. He’s sulking. “I told you I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know about your ribs, otherwise I never would have tried to lift you that way. Promise me you’ll always tell me when you’re hurt. Or even when you’re not hurt. I just need to know how you’re doing at all times.”

“Right now, I’m feeling very, very lonely because my boyfriend refuses to cuddle me.”

“Ouch, but fair.”

Your words spur him into action and soon, his arms are ever so gently wrapping around you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your ear. “And I’m sorry for failing you. But I swear to you that I’ll make it up to you, and keep making it up to you till the day I die.”

“I love you too, even if you’re crazy dramatic sometimes.”

“Lucky me,” he whispers. The worst part is that he means it. He truly feels lucky because you love him. He’s an idiot, but he’s your idiot. “I’m the luckiest idiot in the entire world.”

It’s not even close to the end of the day and it’s too late for a nap, but your eyes start to flutter shut anyway. All you need is Clark by your side and his arms, light as feather, around you.

“And by the way, you’re banned from ever climbing on a ladder again,” he whispers into your ear, right as you’re about to fall asleep.

Idiot.

No one ever saw it coming, but Bucky Barnes was the picture of a perfect partner. Everyone around him knew better than to get between him and his girlfriend. To say he was in love with you was an understatement—no.

He was hopelessly devoted to you. Utterly and completely.

Despite the rough glares, the deep voice, the intimidating stature, and the whole ex-brainwashed-assassin thing, he was a total softie when it came to you. It was like taking a big, brooding Bucky Barnes, tossing him into a blender, and turning him into pure, warm mush you could drink right up.

He was clingy in the sweetest way possible. He was always close, always there for you when you needed him. He gave you the softest kisses known to mankind. He spoiled you endlessly, told you every day how beautiful you were, and made sure you never once forgot how special you were to him.

Bucky loved you. You knew that for a fact. He was good at showing it.

Except there was one problem.

Aside from all the kisses and cuddles, he never took things any further. You both had been together for a few good months now, and not once had the two of you had sex.

There were moments—more than a few—when his body gave him away with a hard-on. When you were tangled up in bed, or curled together on the couch, you felt the way his body reacted to you. When you would try to slip your hand lower, thinking maybe it’ll get somewhere, he would gently catch your wrist and say “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”

After that, you stopped making the first move. You let him set the pace for his comfort. But as the weeks stretched into months, the harder it became to ignore the feeling of insecurity creeping in.

It wasn’t like he never gave you signals. He had bought you lingerie and suggestive pajamas to wear to bed more than once. And every time you slipped them on, you told yourself, “this is it. Tonight’s the night!”

But then… it never was.

You respected his boundaries—of course you did. You loved Bucky, deeply. And you would never push him into something he wasn’t ready for. You told yourself over and over that love wasn’t measured by sex, and that what you had was still something beautiful and real.

But that didn’t make the selfish, insecure ache go away.

Because sometimes, when the lights were out and Bucky was sound asleep beside you, those stubborn thoughts crept in anyway. Ugly, unwelcomed whispers that made you wonder if maybe… you weren’t what he wanted in that way.

That perhaps, you weren’t enough to make him want you like that.

You tried to shove the feeling down, to remind yourself that the way he held you, looked at you, and loved you meant more than anything else. But it was hard to silence that insecure part of you that just wanted to feel desired—not just loved, but wanted.

Eventually, you realized you couldn’t keep pretending the feeling wasn’t there. The weight of the feeling was too damn heavy on your chest, only growing heavier each night he refuses to touch you.

You loved Bucky. God, you loved him more more than anything. And you trusted him enough to know this wasn’t something you could just bury and let fester. You’d done your research—most couples fall apart over financial strain or intimacy issues. For you, it wasn’t just about sex. It was about the self-esteem that came with it.

You didn’t understand. How could he be so loving, affectionate, and clingy, with clear physical signs of being aroused by you, yet still refuse to take things any further? There had to be something deeper he wasn’t telling you.

So, you made the rational choice to talk to him—because communication was vital in a relationship.

The two of you were curled up together on the couch, your legs draped over his, his arm lazily wrapped around your waist. His thumb drew soft circles against your skin, and for a second, you almost lost your nerve—because there it was.

That damn erection pressing subtly against your thigh, the one he always deliberately ignored.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, turning his head slightly toward you. That gentle, half-asleep smile of his nearly made you want to drop the idea of confrontation all together.

But you persevered. “Can we talk about something?”

That got his attention.

He straightened slightly, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. “Yeah. ‘Course. What’s goin’ on?”

Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too fast. “I don’t want you to think I’m upset with you,” you began carefully. “I love you. And I respect your boundaries. Always.”

His brows furrowed together, just a little—as if he already knew where this was headed but didn’t like it.

“But,” you continued softly, “I need to be honest with you. It’s getting a little hard for me. Not because I want to pressure you—never that—but because…” you hesitated, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Because sometimes it makes me feel like I’m not wanted. At least not… in a sexual way.”

There was a quiet pause, and every second that ticked by felt like it was crushing your lungs. You didn’t even want to meet his eyes—too scared of what might come out of his mouth.

The silence drowned you. Would he finally admit that he just didn’t find you attractive enough?

“What? Baby, no,” Bucky said finally, shaking his head hard. “That’s not—”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard like he was trying to compose himself. “I don’t want you to ever think that. You’re everything to me.”

But his voice was shaky, his gaze flicking away from you for a second too long. All little things, but enough to make you anxious.

“Then why…” you trailed off, trying to steady your own voice. “Why does it feel like you don’t want me?”

His jaw clenched, and you could feel his hand squeeze slightly against your arms before softening again. “It’s not like that. I just—” he let out a small, forced awkward laugh that didn’t meet his eyes. “Can we not do this right now?”

Your heart squeezed a little. Not because he was being mean, but because you could see the way he was retreating—like a door slowly closing before you could get a foot in.

“Bucky,” you pushed. “I need you to be honest with me. I’m not trying to push you into anything. But I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect me. I… I just want to understand.”

He still wouldn’t look at you.

“Why don’t you want to have sex with me?” you asked bluntly—not as an accusation, but as a plea for the truth.

Bucky’s breath hitched. He finally looked up, lips parting like he wanted to speak, but no words came out.

“I…” he faltered, his hands flexing against your waist before falling away completely. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He let out a shaky breath. “It’s the opposite, actually.”

You tilted your head slightly, confused.

He dragged a hand down his face, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he struggled to put his feelings into words. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he admitted softly.

“I’m scared I won’t be able to control myself.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders tense and jaw tight. “You don’t get it,” he continued, voice so low it was like he was talking more to himself than to you. “When it comes to you, it’s… different. It’s not just wanting you—it’s needing you. I mean, just look at you—”

His eyes flicked up, skimming over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes with a raw honesty that made your breath catch. “You’re this soft, fragile little thing. If I make love to you, I wouldn’t want to hold back.”

Bucky looked into your eyes like he was pleading you to understand—and you did. You did understand. But under the weight of his confession, a spark stirred in your chest. A stubborn, competitive fire. Because you loved Bucky—all of him. Which meant you wanted to take… all of him, even the parts he thought you couldn’t handle.

You inhaled slowly, scooting a little closer to him. “Then… what if we set a boundary?”

He gave you a questioning look. “What?”

“A safe word,” you explained carefully. “Something that we can use if it gets too intense—if either of us wants to stop.”

You thought it was a good idea, and expected Bucky to be on the same page. But he sucked in a breath, his brows furrowing together in that familiar expression—one you knew meant he wasn’t fond of the suggestion.

“I’m serious,” you said, gently reaching for his hand. He didn’t pull away, but his fingers twitched against yours, still unsure. “I trust you, Bucky. More than anyone. And I want you to trust yourself, too. We can set the pace, we can stop whenever you want. If you feel like it’s too much—just say the word, and it’s over. No guilt. No pressure.”

He bit his bottom lip, his silence making you more anxious.

“You think it’s that easy?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t think it’s easy,” you shrugged, trailing your hand down to his, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze. “I think it’s a start.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, the sound rough. He looked down at your joined hands with a small pout that made your chest ache. “I don’t know if I can follow that,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t know if I can trust myself to stop once I start.”

You stared at him for a moment, processing his words, before finally asking, “But… is having sex with me something you want?”

Bucky’s gaze softened, a mix of frustration and longing. He didn’t need to think about it before answering, his voice rough but honest as he looked you square in the eye. “More than anything.”

Despite everything, you believed him. There was nothing more to say, so you let it go.

Since that night, though, you couldn't help but tease him. You knew it wasn’t exactly fair, but you needed to feel something—that spark, that connection, that heat between you. So, you started to frequently wear those slutty pajamas he bought you—lingerie so barely there you might as well have been naked. You would purposefully linger just a little too long when your hand brushed against his leg, letting your fingers trail down his thigh, knowing full well what it did to him.

You would snuggle closer on the couch, wiggling so your body pressed up against his, feeling his muscles tense as you did. And when you bent over—whether to pick something up or just move around—your hips would sway a little too much, your body just a little too close to his.

The little acts were almost unconscious—more instinct than strategy, really. But they were all worked without fail. You could feel that tension from him more than ever. His body would stiffen up, his usually bright puppy eyes would darken with slightly, and his jaw would clench in a sexually frustrated away.

As the days dragged on, you had noticed how much more on edge he seemed recently. Usually when you climbed into bed in your slutty pajamas, he'd welcome you and shower you in compliments. But tonight, his blanket was pulled up to his nose, his back turned squarely toward you.

“Are you calling it an early night?” you frowned, crawling onto the mattress beside him.

He mumbled something under the covers that you couldn’t quite make out. You lifted the blanket, slid underneath beside him, and felt him instantly tense up. With a soft, sleepy sigh, you wrapped your arms around his waist, settling your hands on his lower stomach as you spooned him from behind.

He immediately shuddered at your touch.

“Are you okay, baby?” you asked softly, nose pressed into his shirt, inhaling his scent.

“F-fine,” he grunted.

The contrast between your usually soft and puppy-eyed boyfriend and this pent-up, grumpy mess was amusing. Your hands subtly trailed lower, brushing the crotch of his sweatpants. He shuddered again, but didn’t pull away—he never did.

“Don’t you want to see what I’m wearing? I'm wearing one of the little night slips you bought me,” you asked softly and innocently from behind.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby…”

Your hands trailed lower, your fingertips barely grazing the straining bulge beneath his sweatpants. God, he was rock hard, just the small graze of your fingertips made his hips buck and his cock twitch instinctively.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “If we were to set a safe word, what should it be?”

You couldn't help the small smile that curved your lips as you gave his clothed cock a subtle squeeze that made him gasp. “Well, if we’re speaking in theoretics, it should be ‘Brooklyn.’”

Your hands hovered just above him, expecting him to use the word, but he remained silent.

Instead, he took in a deep, shaky inhale. “Okay.”

Your hands slowly dropped back onto his cock, and he immediately twitched and throbbed beneath your touch. Your thumb grazed the outline of his head, and as you moved your fingertips, you felt something cool and slick.

He was leaking.

You grinned, though he couldn’t see it. “How was your day, baby?” you asked innocently, the question sounding almost taunting.

“G-good,” he muttered, subtly rocking his hips into your hand. “So... good.”

“That’s good,” you murmured, keeping your palm heavy and still against his cock. “I missed you today. I just stayed home and cleaned. I was wearing this night slip you got me. It’s so comfortable, it feels like I’m wearing nothing.”

His breath hitched. He could already picture it—you bending over to clean and pick up items, looking domestic yet tempting in that skimpy little dress. He could picture it clearly because you had been doing exactly that these past few days—purposefully teasing, purposefully taunting. Now, with your palm still against him, you were testing the last of his patience. His hips began to rock more suddenly and deeply, his cock aching for friction. He told himself he wasn’t going to lose control. He tried to convince himself that this act alone was enough for him.

As long as he didn't turn around and look at you—wearing that flimsy dress with your perky chest visible, your ass exposed—then he was safe.

All he had to do was not look at you.

“Fuck,” he swallowed hard. “Did you now?” he questioned, clearly trying to distract himself from your touch.

His cock was growing heavy and hot beneath your touch, and with the aggressive way his hips were rocking into your palm, you couldn't help but increase the pressure. “Mhm,” you drawled. “I was being very good today.”

His jaw clenched as he tried to compose himself, his back shuddering as your hand worked him greedily. “Yeah?” he breathed, straining the word out. “You were being a good girl?”

You let out a soft little whine at the nickname, your legs clenching together to soothe the warmth creeping between your thighs. Then, you lifted your leg, draping it lazily over his, pressing yourself impossibly closer so that your breast pushed against his broad back.

You peeked over his shoulder, his hands were fisted in the sheets. You knew you were being selfish, taunting him like this—but you couldn't help it. You wanted to see him break, and the cracks were becoming more and more visible.

“Bucky,” you whined, your free hand coming up to caress the soft strands of his hair. “Why won’t you look at me?”

The stark contrast between your soft, gentle caress on his hair and your greedy hand working his erection made it impossible for him to think. His mind was spinning with one thing only: to take you.

But he wasn't going to look at you. He made sure of it.

“Don’t you want to see how I look?” you pouted, squeezing your legs more tightly against his.

He took in a deep, steady breath before responding. “I’m sure you look beautiful, baby.”

“How do you know if you haven’t even looked at me?”

“Baby,” Bucky warned, his voice rough and demanding. “Don’t test me right now. I’m trying so hard to be a good, respectful man, but I—oh, fuck!” He moaned as your palm worked faster on his cock, giving it a subtle squeeze as you pumped him through his sweatpants. “Shit, baby. You better fucking stop right now or I’ll—”

“Stop what?” you cooed innocently, your head resting on his shoulder as you stroked him from behind. “I’m not doing anything bad, am I?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Don’t push it, honey. I mean it.” But despite his warnings, he had yet to say the established safe word. “Fuck—stop.”

You gasped softly, your teasing posture deflating a little with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, you mean it? Okay, okay. If my good, respectful boyfriend is feeling threatened by my hand, I definitely wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You deliberately pulled your hand away, leaving his heavy, throbbing erection alone in the confines of his sweatpants. You even slid your draped leg off his, and the absence of your warmth made his hips spasm once, sharp and frustrated.

You paused, waiting to see if he would finally give in. When his shoulders remained tense and his body stayed still, you let out a long, disappointed exhale. Without another word, you turned back around so that both your backs faced each other.

Even though he hadn’t said ‘Brooklyn,’ you still didn’t want to risk pushing him further. You had never reached this point in your relationship where he sounded genuinely frustrated and pent up. You couldn't tell if his reaction was solely sexual frustration, or if he was actually upset.

Either way, you didn't want to gamble with the possibility of upsetting him.

You had tried. You had been trying for days, and now, you were done. Suddenly, the skimpy night slip felt like an insult to your pride and self-esteem. You pulled the blanket over your body with a shuddering sigh—a sound Bucky definitely heard.

A long, tense silence stretched between you. Both of you were completely still and neither of you dared to move. You wanted to speak up, maybe ask if you had gone too far—but Bucky was so damn quiet, you convinced yourself he had already fallen asleep.

Then, he spoke up first.

“Are you okay?”

You snuggled deeper into the mattress, trying to hide yourself even though he wasn't looking at you. “I’m okay.”

There was another pause, and you thought that would be the end of it. Then, you heard shuffling behind you. Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into soft fabric and a wall of muscle. Bucky’s warm arm curled tightly around your body and pulled you flush against him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into your ear. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Despite the sincerity and softness in his voice, you immediately felt his erection press against you underneath the blankets. You swallowed hard.

“You didn’t upset me, Bucky,” you explained softly, keeping your body still. “I just... I don’t want to push you or force you into something you’re not ready for. But I can’t lie and say it doesn't hurt, you know?”

You felt him stiffen behind you, his arms tightening around you just slightly. “It’s not that I’m not ready,” he explained gruffly, his voice deep and raspy. “I can take you right here, fuck. I want to take you right here—but I won’t, because I know you’re not ready.”

His hand rested heavily on your hip, his thumb circling slow patterns over the fabric of the gown as he spoke. You knitted your brows, glancing over your shoulder at him with a confused look. “What do you mean I’m not ready? I’ve been ready for a long time now.”

“I’m saying, if I pulled the blankets off you and saw you right now—wearing that slutty little dress—I’d flip that gown up and fuck you right through the mattress,” his grip on your hip tightened, his voice a low growl. “I want to, baby. I want you so badly, but I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Bucky,” you whispered, turning completely around to face him. He had to clench his jaw to compose himself. “I’ve told you this before. You can’t hurt me.”

“Jesus, baby. You’re not understanding me,” he grunted, his hungry eyes slowly wandering down your throat to your collarbone. “You’ll be a crying mess. You’ll be begging me to slow down, and I won’t be able to stop.”

His warnings should have scared you, but they only made you shamelessly wetter.

You bit your bottom lip, and you felt his cock twitch against your leg at the sight of your face. “Well… it’s a good thing we established a safe word, right?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I told you. Safe words are unreliable—”

But before he could finish his sentence, his words died in his throat as you slowly lifted the blanket, finally revealing yourself to him. The sight of the thin night slip clinging onto your curves, the strap falling down your bare shoulder, and the curve of your breasts poking through the fabric made his throat go completely dry.

“Fuck,” he grunted quietly—the word slipping out before he could stop it.

“Bucky, please. I can take it,” you reassured, holding his gaze. “I want to feel you make love to me. I want to feel every inch of you. I don’t want you to hold back. I can take it. Please.”

He let out a shaky exhale as his eyes fluttered shut, forcing himself to look away. You could tell it was taking everything in him to keep it together—but you also knew that just one more push could break him open completely.

So, you grabbed his hand and placed it back onto your hip, scooting even closer and batting your eyelashes up at him.

“I need you, Bucky,” you whined. “I need you so badly—it hurts. Please give yourself to me.”

His eyes fluttered open, and it was like something in him snapped. His eyes lost that usual soft, puppy-eyed glow and were replaced with something darker, hungrier. His gaze wandered down your body with a shaky breath, and as his eyes took in your whole form—vulnerable and inviting right in front of him—he couldn't hold back anymore.

He sat up abruptly, gripping the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers and yanking them down past his hips. His cock sprang free, heavy and hard, slapping against his stomach.

“I’ve been trying to be a good man—a good partner for you,” he snarled, his eyes burning with desire.

His free hand wrapped around his erection, pumping himself slowly and deeply. You watched, completely captivated, as his thumb rubbed the head of his cock, smearing the pre-cum.

“I’ve been doing so fucking good—holding out for months, trying to resist you. But fuck, you’re testing my patience, baby girl.”

“You asked for it,” he didn't ask or plead—he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly sound you barely recognized. His hand pushed the hem of your night slip up past your hip. “You told me not to hold back. Fine. I won’t.”

His lustful eyes wandered down your body, where your bare thighs lay exposed and the night slip was bunched messily around your waist. His gaze took you in completely—and you felt small and defenseless beneath his heavy presence. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his throat as he admired you.

“Damn, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I was right. You look fucking beautiful in this tiny dress.”

His fingertips caught the waistband of your panties, pulling them down in one swift tug past your legs and tossing them carelessly onto the floor. With rough hands, he gripped your legs and spread them wide—baring your wet slit to his ravenous eyes.

Despite being together for a few months, this was the first time you two saw each other completely bare, intimate, and vulnerable. All you could do was lay there mesmerized by the sheer size of him. He was big and hard in a way that should have scared you, and maybe he was right, maybe you wouldn't be able to handle him. But with your man hovering above you, practically panting at the sight of you—radiating an overwhelming need to claim you—you were determined to take every inch of him.

Bucky must have noticed your hesitation, because a smug grin tugged at his lips. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he taunted, fisting his cock in his hands. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

His grip on your thigh tightened as he positioned his cock against your entrance, rubbing his tip up and down against your wet folds. You shuddered as he coated himself with your arousal, and you let out a shocked gasp as the tip of his cock probed and caught against your entrance before he pulled it back to rub against your slit again.

“Christ, baby…” he groaned, his cock purposefully catching on your entrance again before retreating. “You’re so damn wet. It would be so easy to just slip it in... to slam all the way in.”

Your legs instinctively tightened around his waist, gripping the bedsheets as if bracing yourself. “I-I’m ready, Bucky…”

A mocking and almost cruel laugh escaped his lips. He shook his head, probing his tip at your entrance again. “You’re not ready,” he rasped. “You’ll never be ready to take me—but it’s okay. I’m still a good man, a good boyfriend for you, aren’t I? I’m so good, I’ll even help you…” he slowly pushed the tip past your entrance, “… ease into it.”

A small whine escaped your lips as you felt his tip slip inside you. It was only the head of his cock, but it was enough to make your walls flutter tightly around him, subconsciously trying to invite him even deeper.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut with all the restraint left in the world as he stilled his hips. “You’re so fucking tight, and that’s just the tip, baby…”

“Please…” you whined, “give me more.”

Bucky groaned—almost in frustration—as his hips slowly began to rock back and forth, fucking you with just the tip of his cock. You moaned beneath him, your back arching as you tried to subtly move your hips against his, attempting to push yourself deeper onto him.

“Oh, fuck, Bucky…!” you let out another moan as you pushed onto him, pulling more of his thick cock to stretch you out. It was more than just the tip, and not nearly halfway up his shaft, but it was enough to make your legs shake.

“Fuck… you greedy little slut,” he groaned, his hands finding your hips and tightening to keep you still. “You’re so fucking greedy, trying to take all of me already.”

His hips started to move as he held you still, fucking you with only what was already inside you and refusing to slam all the way in. The stretch burned, but it felt way too damn good. He was so big, stretching you full, and this wasn't even all of him.

Bucky gritted his teeth as he watched you whimper and whine beneath him. You were so tight your walls were clamping down on him, making it hard for him to move. He knew his size was hurting you, but how could he pull away when you were writhing beneath him so cutely?

Pleading for more when you could barely take what he had given you so far?

“What’s wrong, baby?” he cooed, leaning down to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes…” you shuddered. “I wanted this… I can take it—oh, fuck!”

You squeezed your eyes shut as he began to push in deeper. Your wetness only made it easier for him to slide in. A low, raspy groan rumbled from his chest as he tossed his head back in pleasure, finally feeling your tight walls stretching around his cock.

He paused just before he hit the base. “Fuck, baby! God, you’re so fucking tight…” he breathed. “I need to put it all in, okay?”

Just as he was about to move his hips, he saw your eyes squeeze shut again as you braced yourself. “No,” he snarled, his voice dropping low as one hand cupped your face, shaking your head lightly. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, baby. You’re going to keep them open while I stuff the rest of my cock in your pussy. You wanted this, doll. So you’re going to get it.”

Your eyelids fluttered open, eyes glossy from tears. You looked up, and your once gentle, loving boyfriend was staring down at you like you were his prey. It was a dark, hungry gaze, as if the only thing he wanted to do was claim you, ruin you until your body was branded as his.

“I… I can take it,” you sniffled.

He smiled, a dark, wicked curve of his lips. He drew his hips back until only the tip remained inside you. He then lifted your thighs slightly, spreading you even wider for him, before he slammed forward until the base of his cock was buried deep inside you.

“Ohhh… fuck!” he groaned, letting himself be fully buried before immediately grounding his hips, rocking himself slowly against you.

Your back arched off the bed, eyes instinctively squeezing shut as he shoved the rest of his thick cock deep inside. As his hips rocked, you felt every pulsing ridge of him, and your walls clamped down on him, struggling to accommodate his large size. To say it didn't hurt was an understatement, but you were fiercely determined to take him. You wanted to prove to your boyfriend that you could be a good girl and take every last inch like you said you would.

“... Bucky!” you gasped. “T-too much… be slow, okay?”

He snarled as he leaned over you, the heavy weight of his body completely pressing down on yours. His flesh hand slid through the strands of your hair, giving it a rough tug. You winced, your eyes shooting open.

“That’s it. Look at me,” he demanded, grounding his hips against yours.

He moaned softly as he fucked himself into you. His vibranium fingers rested coolly on your hip, and you shivered at the touch despite the warmth of his body pressing down on yours. You let out a cry as he gave you one sharp, sudden thrust, your head tossing back before his grip on your hair went tighter, forcing your gaze to steady on his.

“I-I said to slow down…” you swallowed. “Y-you’re too—”

“Too big, am I?” he smiled, and it wasn’t the usual soft smile he’d give you. No. This smile was mocking, almost condescending. “I know I’m too big. But I warned you, baby. I told you you were this small little thing…” another sharp thrust that made you gasp, “... so small you can’t even take all of me.”

You tried wiggling around, attempting to make yourself comfortable—though it was futile. And the slight shifts and movements only made his cock throb harder inside you, each friction-filled rub making his shaft twitch with pleasure.

“Fuck… so… s-so small, so tiny and tight,” he grunted, his hips moving faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he continued to belittle you. “Thinkin’ you can take all of me… but look at you—you’re a crying, whimpering little mess.”

Bucky had never spoken to you this way. He always showered you with praise and soft words, but the sheer condescension in his voice now only made you wetter, driving an undeniable craving for more.

“M-more,” you begged despite your weak voice and legs trembling around his waist. “More… please—”

“Yeah?” he laughed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. “You want more?”

Before you could reply, his grip on your hair and waist tightened. His body fully enveloped yours, and he began pounding into you, hard and fast. You cried out, your hands desperately clutching his back as you cursed and babbled his name—but he didn't slow down for a second.

“Fuck—so fucking good, baby girl,” he groaned. “You don’t know how bad I wanted to do this…” He tilted his head down, pressing soft kisses to your neck that starkly contrasted the brutal, relentless pounding of his hips. “To grab you from behind every time you’re cleaning…” another kiss, “...throw you down on the floor and fuck you until you cry, until your throat’s raw from screaming my name.”

You were doing exactly that.

Tears welled in your eyes as he fucked you hard and deep. “Bucky!”

“Yes,” he breathed heavily. “Scream my name.”

“B-Bucky, oh my god—it’s too—I…”

“Shit, what a babbling little mess you are.”

He nuzzled his face in your neck, eagerly sucking, leaving filthy, bruising marks along your sensitive column. He was fucking you so hard and deep, mumbling dirty words into your neck—sounds you could barely distinguish over the frantic slap of skin, your own desperate moans, and the creaking of the bed beneath his assault.

Your head spun with overwhelming desire, and the moment his hand released your hair and trailed down between your bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive clit, you knew it was over. Your eyes widened at the overwhelming sensation, and your walls clenched down on his cock, tighter than ever, as you felt yourself coming undone.

“B-baby!” you gasped, clinging to him desperately. “I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna cum, baby? Already?” he taunted, though his fingers never faltered in their relentless, merciless movement.

“Bucky… please, fuck, I’m going to come—it feels too good. Oh my god!” you gasped.

He sat up, his arms sweeping under your thighs, lifting them and folding you nearly in half. Your legs trembled, suspended in the air, while he slammed into you—deeper than before—in that punishing position.

You cried out his name, “Bucky! Oh my god—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he grunted, his voice commanding, “and you will.”

He fucked into you, harder and deeper, indecent noises and rough words spilling from his lips in a relentless litany of lust. You felt him throb and pulse deep inside. Even through the haze, you knew he was close, too, but he wouldn’t let himself go. Not until you did.

“Fuck—come for me, baby. Now,” he demanded, the words hard and mean. “What the hell are you waiting for, sweetheart? Trying to hold out for me?”

“N-no, I…” you blubbered, his cruel, deprecating words sending an agonizing jolt of lust through your entire body.

His words alone were the final push. Your legs trembled, your eyes still wet with tears of pleasure and pain as you screamed his name. You clamped down on him, hard enough to wrench a loud groan from his chest, and came all over his cock.

“Fuck! Jesus, baby…” he snarled.

Bucky’s hips tried to continue their relentless rhythm, but he was forced to still because your inner walls were so unbearably tight. You panted and sniffled beneath him, trying to close and relax your legs, but he held them rigidly in place.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“… tired,” you whimpered.

“Yeah?” he smiled again, and this time it was with a softer adoration—his grin almost boyish. “You’re sleepy?”

You nodded.

He tilted his head, that soft admiration gleaming in his eyes. “But I haven't come yet, baby.” His free hand gently trailed to your cheek, wiping the tears away. “You’re not going to leave your boyfriend high and dry now, are you?”

“B-but…” you panted, your legs shaking uncontrollably. “I don’t think I can—”

His fingers cupped your cheeks, squeezing them to silence you. “Baby,” he warned, “I told you I couldn’t hold myself back once I started.” He then pulled his cock out slowly, the loud, wet sound of your arousal filling your ears as your face instantly warmed with embarrassment.

Before you could protest, he grabbed your hips with strong hands, hauling and flipping your body until your stomach hit the mattress with a soft thud. You yelped as his hands gripped your waist, hiking your hips and presenting your backside bare for him.

“We’re not done,” he grunted from behind you, grabbing his cock and positioning the head at your entrance for round two. “Not until I come.”

“Bucky, I—” your words died in your throat as he drove into you again in one fluid motion, filling you completely.

The stretch burned even more than before, and your cunt, overwhelmingly sensitive, forced you to bury your face into the pillows. Your hands squeezed the fabric as you arched your back, taking every painful inch of him again.

“Oh my god! T-too much…”

“But it feels so good, doesn’t it?” he moaned, fucking you deep. “Tell me how good it feels, baby…”

You were a babbling, drooling mess, barely able to form words, staining the pillows with your tears.

Bucky let out a disapproving sound from behind. His hand slunk around your waist, his finger pressing against your clit and rubbing it in rough, merciless circles. Your whole body convulsed at the sensation, utterly overstimulated as you shook and trembled. Bucky’s vibranium arm circled around your body, the metallic coolness making you tense up as he pulled your hips back and forced you to hold still.

“Tell me, baby,” he demanded, his voice raspy.

You tried to answer, you truly did, but only a ragged gasp escaped. Your eyes were fluttering, and your body trembled violently in his hold. He held you tighter, leaning down to bite softly on your bare shoulder.

“Fuck... I’m gonna cum, baby,” he moaned, his movements growing sloppy and desperate, losing all rhythm. “Christ, it feels so good, doesn’t it? You can’t even say anything because you’re so—fuck, so drunk on my cock... can’t even think straight either, can you?”

Your inner walls clenched and pulsed around his cock at his taunts, and the sensation shattered what little control Bucky had left. He gave you one final, rough thrust, his cock burying deep inside you as he let himself come undone, making your whole body jerk. Even as he held you impossibly full, his fingers never stopped their merciless pacing.

You were so stuffed with him, unable to form a single coherent thought. You weren’t sure how much you could take. He began to rock his hips again, a slow, agonizing grind against your overstimulated flesh.

“Yes, yes—you’re taking me so well, baby girl. Fuck, my cum is buried so deep—”

“...B-brook…”

His hips stilled.

His hands paused.

He held his breath, his face still pressed against your shoulder.

“W-what was that?” he rasped, waiting.

“... Brooklyn.”

The word broke him instantly.

Bucky snatched his hand from your clit and yanked his throbbing cock out in one urgent motion. A small, vulnerable whimper escaped you at the sudden, aching loss. His vibranium arm was quick and soft, turning you over. In the next moment, he had pulled you flush against his chest, both large arms wrapping tightly around your trembling body.

“Fuck, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice dry and thick with remorse.

He looked down to see your tear-streaked face and felt a sharp clench in his heart. His eyes drifted to your neck, the soft skin now riddled with dark, bruising marks left in his wake. He let out a shuddering breath, overwhelmed by the sight of you—utterly ruined by his intensity.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the curse directed only at himself. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to go that far. Are you okay? Shit…”

Your body shook, and your heart clenched at the sound of his distress.

You knew Bucky would never hurt you intentionally, but the overwhelming sensations left you physically weak. And truthfully, despite the intensity, it was the most mind-blowing sex you'd ever had.

“That was… good,” you managed quietly, your voice shaky and breathless.

He frowned down at you. “Good? Baby, how can you say that?” his voice wavered. “I… I hurt you…”

His thumb brushed the corner of your eye, wiping the wetness away. With a trembling arm, you lifted your hand, gently wrapping it around his wrist as you looked up at him.

“No… it was good,” you repeated with a breathless laugh, realizing how unconvincing you sounded. “It was good, Bucky, it was just… a lot for me, that’s all.”

His eyes softened, dropping to your hand wrapped around his wrist. He continued to soothe your cheek with his thumb. “I told you we shouldn’t have…” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “We shouldn’t have done this. I’m so sorry.”

“Bucky, stop apologizing,” you cooed gently, tilting your head up to press a messy, sluggish kiss to his lips. “It’s okay. You didn't hurt me.”

“Honey, look at you. You’re covered in…” he made a face, ashamed of himself. “… hickeys. And your hair’s a mess.” He raised his hand, trying to smooth the strands down.

“Bucky,” you said firmly, grabbing his hand and meeting his gaze. “Stop. I’m okay, baby.”

You gently moved his hands away from your hair and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. He let out a ragged sigh at the feel of your lips. “It was good. Really good,” you continued, your voice shaky but sincere. “And I want to do it again, and again, and again. More times than I can count. I just needed a little break, okay?”

He pursed his lips, clearly wanting to argue, but he held back. He looked deep into your eyes before nodding quietly. “Okay,” he repeated, but the word was strained, as if he were trying to ground himself. “Okay. I understand.”

A long pause followed—a silent moment where you two simply stared into each other’s eyes. He occasionally leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, his finger dragging over your face reassuringly and gently, as if you were the most fragile thing in the world, and he hadn’t completely ruined you just moments ago.

“I know you said it was okay,” he whispered. “But I still feel like shit for losing control.”

You gave him a tired smile, your hands rising to cup his cheek. “But you listened to the safe word,” you pointed out. “You stopped the minute I muttered it, and you were just over here telling me that safe words were ‘unreliable.’”

He exhaled, breath shaky. “I know. As good as it felt, I didn’t want to hurt you. God. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft, slightly wet kiss directly to his lips—a gesture that held none of the rough lovemaking and only pure, quiet affection. “I know that, Bucky. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He looked down at the state of the night slip, now messily bunched around your waist with the strap falling loose from your shoulder. Your hair was disheveled, your neck was marked with bruises from his lips—and yet, to Bucky, you were the most beautiful and precious thing he had ever laid eyes on.

“This…” his fingertips fiddled lightly with the lace hem. “This dress is very dangerous.”

You smiled. “You were the one that bought it for me.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

“I know. And all I had to do was not look at you.”

thank you for reading <3

The two of you were polar opposites. He was the moon, pulled into orbit around you, and it made sense he felt so good whenever he was with you. You were the sun. 

He was happy to tag along with you to any of your adventures. Trying out a new restaurant, a new club, vlogging a last-minute trip, trying out PR packages you get. 

You’d always been the life of the friendship, and Clark was never afraid of being in your shadow. In fact, he reveled in it. He liked being invisible to others around you, as long as he was seen by you. It was more than finding a distraction so people didn’t look at him for too long and start getting suspicious; it definitely helped, for sure, but it was never what made him want you as his best friend. He couldn’t help it. After all, he was a sunflower. And you were the sun. 

Sometimes his colleagues at The Daily Planet didn’t believe him when he talked about you to them, and gave them your username. It didn’t help that he didn’t have any social media so he couldn’t show them that you followed him back. Clark didn’t really care whether they believed him or not. 

“It’s not because she has less than a thousand followers doesn’t mean your lie would be more convincing,” Jimmy said with the sageness of a monk. “She’s too pretty for you.” Then, as an afterthought, he added: “No offence, Clark.”

Clark shrugged. “None taken. I know she’s pretty.”

Lois hit Jimmy on the shoulder. “Eve is too pretty for you too but you don’t see me insulting you.”

Clark frowned. “Guys, she’s my best friend, not my girlfriend.”

Jimmy looked at him with pity in his eyes. “Lying about having a best friend is so sad… I didn’t know you were so lonely, Clark. I’ve been failing as a friend.”

Clark just rolled his eyes but didn’t try to convince him, since he didn’t seem like he wanted to be convinced. 

“She would love to meet you one day,” Clark added before forgetting. He kept forgetting to. Or maybe, he just wanted to have you all to himself. He’ll never tell. 

Jimmy looked at him suspiciously. “Is she just going to be a printed picture of her Instagram feed on a doll?”

Lois and Clark both ignored him. 

“If she’s your best friend, she must be a really good person, then. I would love to meet her,” Lois said, before pressing on the follow button. Ding! “Oh. She followed me back already.”

“She knows about you,” Clark said. “She must have recognized you.”

“That was quick,” Lois noticed. 

“Yeah,” Clark replied. “She says she’s terminally sick online or something. I never understand her when she says those Internet words.”

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “He wasn’t lying…” he whispered to himself, mind blown. Which, honestly, he should have seen it coming. Clark was the most honest person he’d ever met. He was incapable of lying to save a life. Jimmy pressed the follow button on his phone too, as if some part of him still wasn’t convinced, and watched with quiet horror as a follow back notification popped. And he couldn’t justify it as you just following back everyone, because you only followed cat and food accounts.

Clark just thought Jimmy was being his weird self again and didn’t pay it too much attention. Honestly, he just took it as a compliment to you, which made him happy. He always felt proud and happy whenever people complimented you, as if he was an extension of you. 

“Great, I will call you for the details. She’s gonna love preparing something for the four of us. She’s such a good event planner.”

Of course Clark didn’t text. Not that he didn’t want to, it was just that even the biggest phone he could get was still too tiny for his hands and it made typing a pain in the butt. 

“Cool, can’t wait,” Lois said. Jimmy was just staring in the horizon. 

Clark smiled. He was happy all of his favorite people were going to meet. 

You were waiting for Clark at the Daily Planet’s lobby. You were taking pictures of the regular cat that became an honorary reporter at the office, more exactly. 

“Hi Clark,” you brightened when you saw him. 

“Hey you,” Clark replied, fondness dripping from his voice until it was sticky and sweet. “How was your day?”

“It was okay, I found this new spot we absolutely have to try together,” you replied, getting on your tiptoes despite your heels to press your lips to the edge of his mouth. Clark smiled instantly, like a switch was flipped.  

Some people would say you were too obsessed with image and social media, but Clark knew you better than anyone else. Even if you weren’t an influencer, even if social media and the internet didn’t exist, you would still be the same. You would still take pictures of your day, share your meals with Clark in a spot you really liked, and you would still take video diaries. 

“I can’t wait,” Clark replied. “Oh by the way, Jimmy and Lois said yes.”

With his superhearing, he heard Jimmy gasp from somewhere behind. “She’s really real. Wait, I thought he said she was his best friend? Why are they kissing?” Then the unmistakable sound of Lois slapping his shoulder. 

He tuned it all out. He would get over his weird crisis later. 

You grabbed his hand and dragged him away. 

“Oh, yeah, I saw they followed me both. I figured you talked to them.”

Clark squeezed your smaller hand in his. 

“What did they think?” you asked curiously. 

“Lois said you must be a good person if you’re my best friend. Jimmy… well, I think he really liked you. He said you were way too pretty for me, whatever that means,” Clark replied earnestly. 

“He’s an idiot,” you replied. “I’m not too anything for you. I’m just right for you.”

Clark nodded. “Exactly. Perfect for me.”

Clark often offered to learn about internet and what you do, but you just replied, “no it’s fine, don’t worry about it <3” (you made the heart with your hands). 

You appreciated his offer, but you knew how all of this made his head turn and how hopeless he was with everything that was even remotely tech-related (don’t even get her started on microwaves and Clark). And quite frankly, you found him cute just the way he was. Like an overgrown, oversized, oblivious but eager puppy. 

“You’re sleeping over tonight, right?” 

You were asking as if it was a planned event, when in fact Clark wasn’t aware of this until right then and there. But Clark was nothing if not adaptable (he did get adapted to an entirely new and foreign planet when he was just a baby), and nothing if not used to you, so he took it in stride and nodded. 

“Mhm,” he replied. “I’ll even make dinner if you want.”

“Deal.”

Walking to your place hand in hand had become routine early on in your friendship and one of the few things Clark would never bring himself to sacrifice. It was home away from home. 

“I’m going to the gym tomorrow, you’re coming with me.”

“Okay.”

“Great.”

Clark, being who he is, didn’t need a gym, or at least not one fit for humans, but you asked, so he obeyed. 

“What time?”

“Six am.”

That meant you were trying again to renew yourself and to adopt better habits and hobbies. It was something you routinely went through almost every six months. First when it’s the new year, second when it’s June, when you realized you’d been slacking off and not following your new year resolutions, and Clark became your accountability partner.

That title sounded big and full of responsibilities, but Clark didn’t really do anything, really — except show up wherever you went and gently reminded you of your commitments. When it was something really important, like taking your meds, he pressed but other than that, he let you flit through life like the butterfly you were meant to be. 

Clark was awake before you, unsurprised to find you pressed against his body, sleeping deeply while holding him like you were scared he was going to flee. Well, considering he was Superman, he guessed you weren’t far off the mark. 

With his free hand, he grabbed your phone to check the time since the arm he wears his watch on was currently being repurposed as a body pillow and his heart felt heavy at the thought of disturbing your sleep. 

5.15AM. He woke up early, but not too early. Just in time to wake you up so you could enjoy your ‘free time with Clark. That’s what you called cuddling up with him and talking about your dreams before you both had to leave the bed. 

“Psst,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“No,” you grumbled. 

He chuckled softly. “What about your free time with me?”

“Mhmhmhmmm…” you mumbled before shifting position until you were actually cuddling him. “‘m awake,” you said. 

He didn’t doubt you. He just thinks that you’re also asleep at the same time. 

The both of you stayed like this for half an hour, Clark rubbing his thumb mindlessly on your arm, a quiet and gentle smile on his face while he listened to you ramble about your dream.

“You dreamt I was Batman?” he asked incredulously, swallowing back the laughter that overcame him. “Sweetheart, I’m literally already my own superhero, why would you dream of me as someone else?”

“I don’t know, Clark,” you replied and he didn’t need to look at your face to know you were rolling your eyes. “I didn’t do anything. I was quite literally just a spectator. Don’t shoot the messenger and all that.”

“You’re right. How could I forget you were literally incapable of wrong doing?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Better not forget next time.”

You fell back to sleep at six am on the dot. Clark tried to wake you up and remind you of your plans but you declined all attempts with the smooth dexterity of a politician deflecting questions. 

“Sleeping with you is its own workout anyway,” he muttered to himself. 

Clark quickly left you when he heard someone call for Superman but he came back before you woke up, which didn’t actually say anything about how long he took, since your sleep schedule was as predictable as a string of letters typed by a thousand monkeys on a typewriter. 

He was under the shower when you finally woke up and barged in through the bathroom without a care in the world. 

“I’m sleepy,” you tell him while peeing. 

“Hi sleepy, I’m Clark,” Clark replied while showering. 

You chucked the entire roll of TP at him and Clark didn’t even try to avoid it, even though he definitely could have. (You loved Clark dearly, but his dad jokes when you just woke up were unforgivable.)

Morning you was the best kind of you, and it was nice to know that your grumpiness didn’t do anything to erase your lack of privacy, because invasive you was also the best kind of you.

It’s not like there’s anything you didn’t already see. 

(To be fair though, you didn’t just start barging in on him when he was naked without a care for his consent, it just… happened. 

First it started with you walking in on him changing boxers, dick and everything out. Then it was him accidentally walking on you under the shower (honestly, how he didn’t realize you were under there with all of his gazillion superpowers was beyond the two of you). And then again, you walk in on him because you keep forgetting that Clark’s at your place more often than not, and then after that Clark accidentally used his super vision on you because he thought you were injured.

 So you sat him down one day and asked if he minded whenever either of you accidentally sees the other naked and he replied ‘no’, so you asked, ‘would you mind if it wasn’t accidental? Not exactly on purpose but just… not caring at all?’ and he said ‘no’, and you said ‘okay, by the way you have a big shlong’ and that’s basically how it started (after teaching Clark what shlong meant.

Clark only regrets his decision when it’s early in the morning and his hormones are raging and you’re changing in front of him like no one’s watching.)

He was out of the shower by the time you were brushing your teeth. 

“You’re not vlogging this morning?” he asked, feeling that same rush of pride he felt whenever he used one of the words you taught him, towel wrapped around his middle. His hair was wet and curled and doing all kinds of swoopy woopy things. His chest was glistening and dripping with water. 

“I wanted to but I also didn’t want you to steal my thunder with your naked cameo,” you replied with a floss string between your two front teeth. “Although you would have definitely made me go viral.”

“Ah, my bad,” he replied humorously. “I’ll try to be less… hot under the shower next time.”

You threw the used floss in the bin. “I don’t think that’s possible, unfortunately.”

Clark blushed and the redness followed him right to his neck and collarbones. 

You grinned toothily at him so he could inspect your teeth. He grabbed your chin between his index and thumb, and used his thumb to push your lower lip lower. “Mhm…” he hums thoughtfully. “Perfectly flossed. You get a star. Doctors from around the world want you as their client.”

“Yay! Thanks, Clark!”

His lips broke into a happy grin. “You’re welcome. You know, it’s not too late to go to the gym now.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” you said. “My past self was crazy. I don’t associate with the likes of her anymore.”

“I see, your past self is being cancelled. Right?”

You burst out laughing before petting the top of his head. “God, I love you Clark. Never change.”

You ended up going to the gym anyway, dressed in your “cuntiest” outfits to “serve” (to serve what? Clark thought you quit being a server a year ago), but all you did was point at things and ask Clark if he could max them all out. Of course he could, and you knew he could, but you asked for a demonstration anyway. 

Then, because seeing him succeed flawlessly at every machine (and after attracting every “gym bro” in the vicinity who started asking Clark about powders and training regimen and whatnot, and lowkey looked impressed when Clark replied earnestly to the question of how he became so strong with “By being kind and respectful to everyone”), you decided he now had to do pushups with you sitting crisscross applesauce on top of him. 

“But why?”

“I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be a barbell,” you replied. 

“I think you mean plate, sweetheart.”

“Same difference,” you replied. And of course, Clark was totally convinced. 

“Do you mind if I take pictures?” you asked him once you were sitting on him and he was laying on the floor, shirt off. 

“You know I don’t,” he replied. He didn’t need to remind you not to post his face anywhere because he trusted you implicitly. 

And then he started the pushups with complete ease, because there was no better way for him to spend his day-offs than to go to the gym with your best friend and use her as additional weight. 

You took plenty of pictures; some you called aesthetically pleasing and “would do well in tumblr”, others you said were just silly and for fun.

You showed him the pictures while still on his back, your arms on each side of his neck as you scrolled through the pictures for him while he stayed in an isotonic contraction (his muscles didn’t even flail, and it took you almost fifteen minutes to show him everything because you annotated each one.)

“I really like this one,” Clark said, lifting a hand from the floor to point at a picture, still lifting your weight with only one arm. 

The picture he picked was one where he looked at the mirror in front of you, and he was obviously looking at you, while you were making a silly face that wasn’t really silly, because it made you look devastatingly pretty. You were also flexing your left arm, winking and tugging your tongue at the camera. 

“Solid choice,” you replied, tapping something on the screen. “Definitely one of my favorites too.”

He smiled happily, and then remembered they were in public and he shouldn’t be showing off his strength so much, as much as he wanted to impress you. 

So, he pretended to have his muscles locking and asked you to get off, in case anyone was watching. You were always up for a bit of acting with him. You said it made you feel like the sidekick of a hot spy in a film noir.

Clark hung in the side while you took a video of yourself rambling to the camera — he was tall enough that he didn’t worry about his face being caught on camera, but the camera could still pick up your interlaced hands from the angle you held the camera. People would only be able to see his arm swinging and the beginning of his legs. 

You were talking about going to the gym and how you earned a big meal after it (though if you asked Clark, he would say you should never feel like you have to earn a meal, and that you could eat anything anytime you wanted if it made you happy). 

You set up the phone against the wall so it could take a video of you and the table. Clark was sat across from you, and again, wasn’t visible at all. Not even your face fully showed. Just the bottom half of your face. Your hands did most of the talking as you animated your stories with a floating burger. 

The camera captured Clark’s hand across the table, wiping the side of your mouth with a thumb, and your pleased, bashful smile after. 

It captured you stealing fries from Clark’s plate, and then Clark sharing half of his fries with you. 

It captured your laughter, and then your lips as they moved to form the words: I love you, Clark.

(When you finally uploaded the video to YouTube a while later, people commented: 

‘am I the only one who felt like a third wheel throughout the video? I loved it though. Always wanted to be the third to a hot couple’

‘God I see the things you do for others’

‘Guys ik she said he was just her best friend but I’m seriously having doubts rn. Maybe she meant it as in best boyfriend?’

‘You’re so pretty!!!!!! And your bf looks so hot too. Definitely my fav power couple of youtube’

Which then pushed your videos to more people.

You read all of the comments to Clark while he was writing down notes for his next article. His thoughts? “I think they really liked the video. I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”)

You picked a nice coffee shop downtown for your first meeting with Lois and Jimmy. Jimmy couldn’t look you in the eyes in shame. 

“I’m so sorry I doubted Clark’s ability to have pretty friends,” he said, before getting elbowed by Lois in the ribs. 

“Excuse my friend. He’s a dumbass.”

You took it in stride. You loved them and they loved you. Jimmy helped you take the perfect pictures for your picture dump, Lois and you talked about fashion, and Clark was happy to just step back and watch as three of his five favorite people get along so well. 

“How did you guys meet?” Lois asked curiously. She’d been eyeing the way you were both sitting so close to each other it bordered on lap sitting. 

“He mistook me for a scarecrow,” you replied. 

“We were childhood friends.”

“Clark I love you, but for a journalist you’re really bad at hooking people in,” Lois said. “As for your best friend, she was clearly made to hook people in.”

Clark was too happy to even feel offended, and just let you tell the story. The insult flew right over his head. 

It wasn’t anything grand. Clark was in the fields with his parents when he noticed a figure almost his height in the distance, and ran towards it. It was you, standing still with your arms outstretched. 

He ran back to his parents and asked if they put a new scarecrow in the fields that looked like a little girl. 

Jo and Ma looked at each other concerned before setting off to find this little scarecrow girl. 

And the rest was history. 

“I still don’t know what you were doing,” Clark confessed at the end of your story. “You won’t tell me.”

You shrugged. “Because I am aloof and mysterious.”

“This raised more questions than it answered,” Jimmy said with a faraway look on his face. 

“Good,” you and Clark said at the same time. 

“Your friends are really nice. Maybe I should become a journalist too and then become your colleague. That would be so much fun,” you told him after quitting Jimmy and Lois. “What do you think?” You took a sip of your Oreo milkshake you got for take-out.

Clark smiled. “I think you just can’t get enough of me,” he said.

You squeezed his hand. “Yeah, you’re right. I won’t even try to lie.”

He laughed. 

He had never realized how his friendship with you could be seen as strange until you were both in college and everyone on campus the two of you were dating. It was common knowledge around all of the campus that you and Clark were the it couple. Even in high school, you’d been both voted prom queen and king, even though you both didn’t even know you were participating. Clark didn’t regret it though, because he got to wear a crown alongside with you and dance. It was one of his fondest memories with you. 

“Friends don’t act like that,” people would say. No one would ever be able to understand the bond you two have, so he doesn’t bother replying or trying to explain. Besides, what you have between the two of you was special, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

But Clark supposed there was some part of truth to that. Lois and Jimmy were his best friends too, but he would never cuddle in a bed with them, as much as he loved them. He also wouldn’t even dream of letting them peck him on the lips, or, God forbid, walk in on him under the shower. 

If this friendship was considered weird, then he was happy to be weird with you. Besides, nothing he could ever do would be weirder than being an actual alien pretending to be human. Or stumbling through your window into your apartment, jaw dislocated and nose bleeding.

“Clark? Is that you?” you called out from the kitchen.

He closed his eyes. Coming here was a bad idea, because he hated the thought of worrying you, but there was also nowhere else in the world he would rather be. “Yeah,” he replied, voice distorted because of his jaw. He heard you close the lid on a sauce pan and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel before hearing the soft pads of your feet walking into the living room.

“Hey, what did I say about tracking blood and mud in my apartment?”

Your words sounded mad but your voice betrayed your worry. You dropped the kitchen towel and reached him in quick strides. He was sitting on the floor against the wall, and you fell on your knees, hands hovering over his jaw, unsure whether you could touch him in this state. 

“Sorry,” Clark replied. “Will remember for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time because you’re going to stop letting bad guys hit you, okay?”

He laughed, even if it hurt to. Of course you said it as if it was that easy. It wasn’t, but Clark would make it so. 

“Stop laughing at me,” you chided, even as you inspected his nose. “It doesn’t look broken, so that’s good.”

“It healed on the way here. Perks of being Superman.”

“Stop acting like nothing’s wrong or I’ll break your nose myself, and I’ll make sure your healing factor is too busy to handle your nose first.”

“Wow,” he said. “Such violence coming from such a tiny little human.”

You grabbed his jaw without a warning and snapped it back into place. 

“Golly, woman! Warn a guy first, will you?” he yelped indignifyingly, rubbing his smarting jaw, before moving it left and right to make sure it was still working. He didn’t need to worry because you were a professional by now, ever since you were both fourteen and you started playing nurse for a Clark who was discovering his powers and trying each day a new way to test his abilities.

“If I warned you, you would never be ready,” you replied, and Clark smiled sheepishly at that. You were right. Despite him being the strongest human on Earth, his pain tolerance was subpar, and he always chickened out before anything like that. Usually, you would at least fake a countdown. “And besides, that’s what you get for making fun of me.”

He pouted. “I’m sorry baby,” he said, batting his eyelashes at you. 

“Ugh! This is so unfair,” you groaned, before bending at his height and pressing your lips against his pout in a quick peck. “I hate you.”

“I love you too,” Clark replied, not in the least bit remorseful for guilt-tripping you, basking in the bliss of the feeling of your lips against his, as fleeting as it was. 

You pinched his bruised nose and stood back up.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

“Don’t even try to talk to me for the next five minutes. I’ll be too busy hating you.”

He was behind you before the five minutes even were up, wrapping his arms around your waist, still pouting. “Why are you so mean to me?” he asked, cheek pressed against the top of your head. He was still in his dirty Superman suit; he hadn’t even taken off his boots yet. 

You were trying really hard to ignore him. It was funny, and Clark couldn’t keep up the wounded act any longer. His shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed mirth. 

“Message received, baby. I’ll let you be for five minutes. In fact, I’ll let you be for thirty minutes.”

He used that time to clean up the mess he’d left behind (superheroing wasn’t a clean job) and finally take a shower. He tried not to notice how you kept pretending you forgot something in the bathroom while he was showering. First, it was your glasses, which you hadn’t even found, then you had to check a pimple on your face, and then it was your makeup, which you needed to retouch. 

“You know,” he said, voice barely heard over the sound of the stream of water. “I’m starting to think you’re just finding any excuses to come check on me.”

You shot him a dark look. “You said you weren’t going to bother me for thirty minutes.”

“I’m not bothering you, but you are bothering me.”

He realized his mistake before the words even finished leaving his mouth. You gasped.

“See if I ever bother you again,” you said, turning on your heels.

Clark groaned, before shutting the water off and grabbing a towel to wrap around his hips and chased after you, dripping water everywhere but unable to care because he just wanted to catch before you locked yourself in your room (and coincidentally blocking him from getting his clothes) and started listening to heartbreak songs at full volume. 

“Nooo,” he whined, “you know I love it when you bother me! Please don’t ever stop!”

“Nuh uh,” you replied, escaping his hand narrowly.

“Oh come on, are you really going to sulk at me for that? And why were you so mean to me anyway? Ever since I got here, you were being grumpy, which, don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I don’t understand why, did I do something wrong?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that you were injured again as Superman, you don’t take it seriously when I’m worried, you make fun of me when I tell you to be more careful, and you tracked blood everywhere! You know I hate blood! Stupid blood! And your blood isn’t even normal, it’s alien blood!”

You still didn’t stop walking but now the two of you were walking in circles until you were the one chasing him now. It was a ridiculous sight, but it wasn’t an unusual occurrence at your household. 

“Wait, what do you mean by alien blood?”

“Your blood doesn’t come off easily, you know that! Remember when I was trying to scrub your blood out of the rug and I kept mixing any chemicals I could find and accidentally made chloroform?”

Clark felt silly for entertaining for even one second the terrifying thought that you thought of him differently, and his shoulders dropped. He stopped walking. And he did remember that time. Of course he did. He’d been sick with worry his muscles had locked in place for a few seconds before he finally spurred into action and got you to a safe place with fresh air and threw away everything else before it did more damage. 

He’d made you sleep over at his place for a week to make sure the smell had completely left the apartment. 

“Baby, I’m sorry, I know you hate blood, but I really wasn’t thinking straight, and I just wanted to see you, and it made everything else disappear. It’s not an excuse however, and I apologize for it. And I’m also sorry for not taking you seriously when you’re worried about me, it’s just… I’m not laughing at you, it’s just… it’s really sweet how you’re always so worried about me, and you always get so endearing when you lecture me, I just can’t help myself.”

You sniffed. “Okay, fine. I forgive you. And I’m sorry for being so mean to you today. It’s not really because of you. I’m just so irritated these days and lashing out makes me feel better, even though I shouldn’t.” 

Clark’s heart instantly broke at your small voice, and gathered you in his arms. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. I gave you a good reason to get annoyed at me, it was my fault.”

“It’s always your fault,” you mumbled, voice muffled by his chest. 

He snorted through his nose, unable to help himself. “Yes, baby. It’s always my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“Mhm, and you’re taking me out tonight.”

“Okay, baby. Anything you want.”

There was a comfortable silence before you said, “I think your towel just fell.”

Clark couldn’t look at you for the rest of the day without going as red as his cape in the face and you laughing at him every single time. 

“It was time it happened, you know? It’s just the natural course of events.”

You pretended it was fine, but Clark could tell you were embarrassed a little too and that knowledge comforted him a little. 

You were laughing at him again. Because he just took out his pocket notebook from his backpocket so he could make a note out of something he wanted to look up later. And he had a tiny pencil that came with it.

“You’re so—” you shook your head.

“An old soul?” Clark offered helpfully as he closed his notebook and slid it back in his pocket. 

“Chronically offline, I was going to say, and it’s crazy how even your words reflect how chronically offline you are.”

Clark smiled. He liked it when you teased him, because it meant you liked him, even if he had ten billion other proofs that you liked him. 

“I’m going to say words and you’re going to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?”

“Let’s do it.”

He moved his upper body so that he could fully face you, giving you all of his attention.

“Serve.”

“Tennis.”

“Eat.”

“Food.”

“Slay.”

“Dragons.”

“Flop.”

“Flip flop.”

“Tik Tok.”

“Clock.” 

Your face got progressively red as you tried not to burst out laughing. 

“Do you know what rizz means?”

“Uh… not really, but I remember Lois telling Jimmy she didn’t understand how he got so much rizz. Is it… freckles? He has a lot of freckles.”

You broke into laughter. “Oh you’re so cute, Clark. I just want to eat you up. In a soup. Like wonton soup but it’s Clark soup.”

“Thank… you?” 

“You’re welcome, babe.”

Clark Kent was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken, respectful young man. It’s a truth universally acknowledged. Despite his stature and his size, no one had ever seen him use it in a way to cause harm rather than help. Sure, they’d seen him climb on top of a tree to save a kitten, help lift things from one floor to another, but they’d never seen him use that strength against someone else. 

And no one ever will. Not even you. Clark takes great mesures to make sure that it stays that way. He’ll do anything to protect you from anything that could upset you and if it’s truly important, he won’t tell you about it. Why would he ruin your day when he was perfectly capable of handling everything? He was happy to handle everything else while you were busy enjoying yourself, like now.

You weren’t even drunk — you hated alcohol and besides, Clark couldn’t get drunk either so it wouldn’t be fun for him to be the only one sober — but you were feeling the music, and talking to someone, looking gorgeous and in your element in your dress. You looked stunning. Not just because your dress was pretty — though it was — but because you were radiating with joy. You loved going out and having fun and dancing to a music that reverberated deep in your ribcage. 

“Hi Clark!” you screamed over the music, even if he could have easily heard you mumble it ten feet away in the middle of fireworks. “You having fun?”

“I am,” he called back.

You grabbed him by his hands and tugged him against you. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“Oh, no, you know I don’t do any of that.”

You snorted. “If it’s just because you’re embarrassed of your dance moves, I won’t judge, I promise. I’ve already seen them all anyway.”

“It’s not that…” he countered weakly. It was exactly that. His gracefulness as Superman unfortunately did not translate to when he was Clark Kent, and coupled with his height and size, he was an actual public hazard. He didn’t want to accidentally bump into someone or, God forbid, step on your feet. He knew you wouldn’t care, but he did, and it made him feel bad. 

You huffed. “Fine. I’m gonna go dance with that hot guy over there, then. He’s been trying to talk to me for like an hour but since I thought you were going to dance with me… anyway, it’s his lucky day, bye Clarkie,” you said, before sauntering over to the guy who, Clark had to admit, was attractive. 

He watched you talk with him with an unnamed feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he forced himself to take a sip of his water. Maybe he should have gone with you. 

But then you were back already, not even ten minutes later. You said you just didn’t “vibe” with him, but Clark suspected it was because you missed him.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “I was getting tired anyway.”

“Bollocks,” you replied in a fake posh accent. “You never get tired.”

He hummed. “True. I just wanted to go home with you.”

“Then let’s go home.”

The streets of Metropolis were half-lit. It was a Friday night in the summer so everyone was still out, despite the late hour. He had your hand in his and you were skipping on the pavement, heels clicking, arm swinging. 

He loved you best when you were like this. Happy and blissful and totally unaware of the rest of the world, because you trusted him to have your back, even if you weren’t entirely aware of the many ways he’s had your back.

“I hate the subway,” you muttered, scanning your metro card against the reader. 

“Well, you refuse to fly you home, and also walk home so,” Clark replied patiently. 

“Should have taken a taxi.”

“And complain about how it’s expensive all the way home?”

“You know, Clark, I don’t think I appreciate how much you know me. Maybe it’s time we start putting some distance between the two of us.”

Clark didn’t need to reply, he merely looked down at the way you were literally pressed against him until there was not a single inch of space left between the two of you. 

“Shut up,” you grumbled. 

The subway was full despite the late hour so the both of you had to keep standing. Well, Clark had to, but you leaned against him, putting most of your weight against him. He loved it. 

It happened when there were only five stops left.

You were rambling to Clark about something even you wasn’t sure about it, when Clark noticed the man behind you who had been trying to get closer for the past five minutes.

His reaction was swift but controlled. Making sure your attention was elsewhere, namely fixating on the bright lights announcing the stations left, he grabbed the man’s wrist in a tight enough grip that it was uncomfortable, but not tight enough to break anything — yet. 

“Hey, baby, can you explain to me what Instagram again?” he asked you, voice soft and sweet. 

“Again?! You do realize it’s been—“

He tuned you out, not out of malice, just so he could focus his energy into the man who thought sticking his phone underneath your skirt was a good idea. 

The man’s eyes looked up in unwarranted anger, ready to yell at whoever dared touch him, but it quickly switched into fear once he saw the stony expression on Clark’s face — and the height and muscle he had on him. 

Clark knew he shouldn’t, but he squeezed his grip tighter until his super hearing could pick up the sound of his joints creasing against each other. 

“Are you even listening to me, Clark? This is your problem, because you say you want to understand but then you always zone out even before I even start.”

“Sorry darling, there’s just a… bug that’s been bothering me.”

“Silly, just swat it away, and then give me your full attention.”

Clark grinned, and twisted the man’s wrist until it sprained. Just enough to make him second guess himself next time he tried to pull this stunt again — to you or any other unsuspecting girl who may not have Superman by their side. The phone dropped and Clark ‘accidentally’ stepped on it.

“Perfect idea, my smart girl.” 

The rest of the ride home went without any other problem, but Clark still couldn’t for the life of him understand what Instagram was. 

You passed out in bed before Clark even took off his pants. 

He sighed at the sight, but without any real annoyance. He supposed your clothes were comfortable enough to sleep in, but he gathered your makeup wipes from the bathroom.

You mumbled something intelligible when the mattress dipped underneath his weight as he crossed a leg on the bed and sat down, and he smiled. Even unconscious, you were endearing. 

He poured some product in the cotton before he wiped your face with it gently. He did the same with another cotton wipe and focused on your eyes this time, removing the mascara and eyeliner he loved so much that made your eyes look even bigger and shinier. 

He threw everything away and then got into bed behind you. Sleep had never felt sweeter than when he slept with you in his arms. 

Things my chronically offline bsf does

“What’s this?” Clark asked, blinking at the screen you just shoved in his face as if you were afraid he was going to somehow miss the glowing bright box. He was drinking his glass of milk when you walked in the kitchen in a flurry of excitement. 

“It’s an idea for a TikTok,” you explained. It probably explained it for most people, but it only left Clark even more puzzled. He knows you explained it to him, multiple times, but he keeps forgetting. 

“What’s bee-ess-eff?”

“Best friend. It’s you. You’re my chronically offline best friend. I think the world needs to know about this.”

“Uh… sure?” He wasn’t sure why the world needed to know the things he did, but he wasn’t one to not show you support whenever he can, so he went along with it. “What sort of things do I do?”

“Take notes on an actual notepad.”

“That’s normal, why would they care?”

“You use physical maps.”

“They’re fabricated for a reason!”

You ignored him again. “You print recipes instead of following them on your laptop. Wait, let me correct that. You ask me to print you the recipes because you still haven’t figured it out.”

He blushed at that. “But it’s just so much easier that way! I like having everything I need right in front of me. I don’t want to have to scroll or zoom in or whatever else it is.”

“Mhm,” you replied, unconvinced. “I still think it makes for a really funny TikTok video, so. I’m posting it.”

“Well… okay. Sure. Maybe someone in the comment section will explain to me why it’s so funny.”

You snorted. “I love you, Clark.”

He brightened up, confusion leaving his face. This, he knew. This, he was used to. “I love you, sweetheart. Let me know when you upload it. I want to read comments with you.”

The TikTok was forgotten for a bit. Life got in the way, you got distracted by other shinier, newer, better things, and it was deadline season for Clark, and crime seemed to have multiplied overnight. 

So, it wasn’t long before he and you finally got to reading the comments. 

“Clark, you’re a famous man,” you preamble. 

He paused mid-slurp of his chicken noodles. “Huh?”

“The video blew up.”

Clark instantly looked concerned. “What? Are you okay?”

“Yes, silly. It means the video went viral.”

“It went where?”

“Ugh! Whatever. You’re famous. I got like 35k comments.”

Clark knew what going viral meant. He was just being a little jerk, and you were so used to him being actually that obtuse that the joke flew right over your head. 

But the number made him pause. “That many? Where do these people come from?”

“All around the world. Do you want me to read the comments for you or not?”

Clark placed his chopsticks down and stapled his fingers, as if he was getting ready for an important meeting. “Let’s hear it.”

You cleared your throat, readying yourself to start reading some sort of royal decree. “Him having the actual notepad from old iPhone noteapp is taking me out.”

Clark was frowning, not upset, just trying to understand. “Okay, but where is my notepad taking them out?”

“Do you actually want to know or do you prefer living in bliss?”

“Uh… is it bad?”

“No, I just don’t know if you want to preserve your ignorance.”

“Oh. Explain this one. I’m intrigued.”

You did, and he cracked a smile when he finally got it. You kept reading him some comments, explaining them when needed. 

“Someone said, this is the only person who would probably survive a nuclear fallout.”

You snorted at that one, knowing that the commenter couldn’t possibly realize just how close to the truth they were. 

“How did they know?”

“It’s a figure of speech, honey.”

“Oh. Okay, next one.”

“I am lowkey jealous of him. I bet he is happy and healthy and has clear skin.”

“Could you reply to them?”

“Yeah. What do you want to say?”

“Tell them that if they have questions about how I live, they can ask me. Or I guess, direct message you.”

“If I do that, everyone will flood my DMs but fine. The things I do for you… okay, done. Next. Bet he pays all his bills by check too with a crying emoji.”

Clark frowned. “Why are they sad? Did I make them sad?”

“A crying emoji is basically laughter, don’t worry.”

“Weird. Next.”

“This guy’s got the world’s cleanest internet footprint. Even rainbolt wouldn’t be able to find him.”

“Who’s rainbolt?”

“A dude who’s really good at finding locations in the world with the tiniest picture.”

“Oh.”

Sometime between the first comment and the last one, you’d ended up on his lap, and he’d leaned back against his chair to give you more space. 

“What is this one?”

“I hope he knows he’s iconic,” you read out loud. 

“Oh. That’s really sweet. I am iconic, thank you. But so are you.”

You smiled, pleased before bursting into laughter. “Oh you’re gonna hate this.”

“Uh oh. Lay it on me.”

“Chronically offline but chronically FINE,” you said, barely able to read it with a straight face. “I should have known people were going to lose their mind over you.”

“I’m fine? As in, nice to look at?”

“Yes, honey. They’re saying you’re hot.”

“Oh. How many of them?”

“That comment alone got fifty thousand likes.”

“Gosh. The Internet is a scary place.”

You kept reading comments, giggling to yourself. 

He can write me a letter any time. 

I would learn how to use a rotary phone for him. 

I’m getting a pigeon just so he can start sending me letters. 

“Unlucky for them, you’re all mine.”

Clark smiled, pleased and smug. That’s right. He was yours. 

You started including him more in your TikToks, partly because people demanded more of him, but mostly because you enjoyed doing things with him. 

You posted another one: 

things my bsf does for me because he’s just built like that

Ever since they met, Clark had just felt more inclined to do things for you. He was raised that way, yeah, but it was more than that. 

Clark didn’t think there was any door he’d let you open when he was around. Paying for you had always been second nature to him, just like kissing your forehead whenever he was happy. Holding your hands started out because you wanted to hold his hand, but he kept the habit. Now he couldn’t go anywhere with you without holding your hand. 

If anyone asked why, he wasn’t sure he would be able to explain why. He just felt like it. Just like walking on the side of the road, or gently guiding you with a hand to the small of your back. 

He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the things you picked, but somehow the internet had a lot of things to say about it. Surprisingly, they were all nice. 

May this kind of friendship kidnap me (What?!)

Is someone going to tell them? (Tell them what?)

I don’t think they’re aware they’re dating. (Clark would like to believe that he would know whether he was dating someone or not.)

THEY SLEEP TOGETHER?!? (Yeah? How else would they cuddle then?)

I feel so bad for their partners. (Clark and you haven’t dated anyone ever, so the worry was appreciated but unwarranted.) 

I’m struggling to find a good bf because girls like her are hoarding the good men (What?)

Girl you’re living the life. Where can I find me a man like that? (In corn fields.)

THAT SHOULD BE ME… holding your hand (Oh! Clark recognizes that song.) 

Clark didn’t say anything as you wedged your head between his arm and forearm, using it as a sort of prop, only watched in confusion as you took a picture of it using the reflection on the train’s windows. 

“It’s for my collection,” you helpfully added. 

Your collection of pictures of the two of you. Picture of your hand against his, another one of you flexing your arm next to his relaxed biceps, his hand wrapped around your waist. He never really understood why, but he didn’t need to understand it to feel a sort of understated satisfaction and pride at the sight of the two of you together, your difference in size so pronounced. When asked about it, you merely said ‘Tumblr’s gonna go crazy’ as if it explained everything.

Clark didn’t know who Tumblr was, but he felt bad for them. 

But like anything else that you did or said, Clark didn’t need to understand it to support it. 

During lunch break, Clark was swamped by Lois and Jimmy who stood over his desk like two very nosy sentinels.

“Did you see your best friend’s new post?”

Clark clicked out of a tab before peering up at his two other best friends through his thick glasses. “Uh… she didn’t show me anything, so I wasn’t aware she uploaded something new. Why? Did she?”

“Oh no,” Lois said, way too normally. “We, uh, we were just wondering if she was going to post something soon.”

“Yeah, we became huge fans. We can’t get enough of her posts,” Jimmy supplied. 

Clark beamed. “Oh, that’s really sweet. She’s going to be so happy hearing that. I’ll definitely let you guys know if she ever wants to post something new on the TikTok.”

“Cool, cool,” Jimmy said in his usual shifty way.

“Wanna go out for lunch with us?” Lois asked.

“Uh… sure,” Clark replied with a nod. You were busy that day, so it wasn’t like he had anything planned with you.

Clark wasn’t much of a talker. Around his loved ones, he preferred listening. He couldn’t get enough of it.

Jimmy was talking about his latest date with Eve, a really sweet girl who kind of reminded Clark of you, because she was an influencer too. 

Lois talked about her latest investigation against Luthorcorp. You could take her out of the office but you couldn’t take the journalism out of Lois. It’s how Lois and him had become friends when Clark first joined the Daily Planet. 

“How are things with her?” she asked once the conversation trailed off and Clark smiled, always happy to talk about you.

“Good, we’re actually going to the movies tonight. I can’t wait.”

Lois slurped loudly on her Oreo milkshake. 

“The new horror movie?” Jimmy asked. “Eve and I went to see it last week. It was really good but I think Eve forgot she had her own seat.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Eve deserves so much better,” Lois sighed longingly. 

“Hey! You said you weren’t gonna say stuff like that to me!”

Lois shrugged. “I lied.”

Clark watched them bicker happily. Weirdly enough, it reminded him of his own parents bickering together. 

Clark raised a brow at your look. “Lazy night tonight?”

You were dressed in Clark’s old hoodie that still hung loosely on you and a pair of sweatpants (not his, unfortunately), and your hair was tied haphazardly into a bun. “Mhm,” you grunted. “I looked at my closet and it looked back at me and then I stared back and I realized I was way too lazy tonight to dress up properly. So, you get this.”

“Well, not that you asked, but I still think you’re gorgeous like this. Actually, I think I like you better like this, wearing my shirt.”

“Possessive much, huh?”

Clark rubbed the back of his hand with a sheepish smile. “Ah, well…”

Clark liked going to the cinema with you. He liked buying you overpriced snacks just because you loved them, and he loved it when you inevitably get tired mid-showing and lay your head against his shoulder. Or when you grow bored with the movie and start playing with his hand instead, sending shivers down his spine when you caress the back of his hand with a feather-light touch. 

“This movie is so lame,” you grumbled, hand digging into Clark’s popcorn.

Most of all, he just loved you. Even when you were being a harsh critic.

Clark’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “It’s a children’s movie, sweetheart. What did you expect?” he whispered back. 

“Even kids deserve quality! They need to watch good movies at the earliest so that they learn to appreciate good cinema.”

Clark snorted. He usually tried not to be so noisy in the cinema but the room was filled with approximately twenty children who were all screaming or crying or making some sort of noise. His snort flew under the radar. 

“Have you always been this passionate about children movie?”

“I was a child once too, Clark. This is very important to me.”

Clark barely resisted the urge to grab your hand, buttery and salty, and press a kiss to it. 

Clark cannot exist without you, but Clark thinks that you could exist without him, you just choose not to. 

“Clark,” you said one day, phone in one hand and Clark’s arm in the other. “My favorite bubble tea shop is offering free drinks for couples on Valentine’s day. We have to go.”

Clark knew that bubble tea was your favorite, so it was easy to agree. “I’m not sure they count best friends as couples, though.”

“Oh Clark, you dummy. We’re going to go there as a couple. I got us matching outfits. We’re going to be the cutest couple ever.”

Clark heard matching outfits and his heart hammered inside his chest. He was no stranger to matching outfits. It was you, after all, who introduced them to him. 

It had started out small: friendship bracelets, then necklaces, then clay rings they made together. 

Then one day you’d come across matching beanies and bought them on an impulse, because they made you think of him. Clark had really loved the beanie. His was red and blue, because of course it was. Yours had been pink and black. 

From then on, there were no more limits to what you would consider matching. You’d even made him exchange sim cards holders so that yours became black and his pink. 

A full matching outfit had always been the next natural course of action. 

“Wouldn’t that be… lying?” he said, smiling sheepishly. As much as he loved the idea of wearing matching outfits with you and helping you get free boba, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to help you commit fraud. 

“Clark, think about it. We regularly go on date together. Your toothbrush is next to mine in my bathroom. We celebrate anniversaries. We sleep in the same bed. These are all things couples do.”

“Yeah? But we’re not a couple.”

“They don’t have to know that! We’ll just let the facts speak for themselves.”

“Well…” 

Clark Kent was about to commit fraud in the name of love friendship.

You got your free drinks because nothing could stand in the way between you and your favorite drinks with pearl shaped tapioca inside. 

“Hey, Kat,” you said, greeting the cashier by name as if you guys were long lost friends. “Can you help me out?”

Kat had a confused smile, but she also looked intrigued. “Sure?”

You hook a thumb towards Clark. “He’s been sleeping in my bed for close to a year now, and he makes me breakfast every day, but he refuses to believe we’re dating.”

Clark’s entire face went beet red with sheer embarrassment. “H-Hey!”

Your grin could put to shame the Cheshire cat’s smile.

Kat snickered. “Oh boy, he’s got it bad, isn’t he?”

You showed her your matching clay rings. “Look at this. We made them together ten years ago. And now because he refuses to admit we’re together, I won’t be able to get my free drink.”

Kat’s eyes went big, before looking at Clark like he was really dumb. “Is he blind?” she asked you while looking at him.

“Well, they do say that love makes you blind.”

Oh you were good, and you were such a menace, and Clark wasn’t sure his face was ever going to be able to go back to a normal shade after this.

“Was this really necessary?”

“No, not really,” you admitted, taking a large sip from your straw. Your drink was pink, because of course it was. It’s Valentine’s day, after all. “But it was fun. And I technically didn’t say lie.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whimpered.

“You love me.”

“I do. Unfortunately for me.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Enjoy your drinks. They’re tainted with the taste of my mortification.”

“Yummy. Extra delicious.”

Contrary to popular belief, Clark Kent was a menace too. He just hid it really well, and only let it show around you.

It was stupid, really. He came across a joke store and he went inside for some reason. He thought he would find something silly or cute for you. Maybe matching disguises. 

But then he found a disturbingly realistic cockroach and before he knew it, he was out of the store with a bag and three dollars missing from his wallet. 

He already felt so guilty, but also very excited. 

Clark was pretty humans all over the globe, metahuman or not, had been able to hear your scream when you noticed the cockroach right next to your eyes.

“Clark!” 

Your first scream was one of fear.

Another thing about Clark Kent was that he had a terrible poker face. It’s why you loved playing poker against him.

But it also meant that he was the worst at playing pranks, because guilt always showed on his face. Ergo, you knew instantly.

“Clark!”

Your second one was of anger and Clark smiled, ducking his head to the side. “Good morning?”

“Oh Clark, I hate you.” 

But Clark didn’t need his enhanced vision to see the way your lips quirked up as you struggled to not smile. 

“Are you free Friday night?” you asked him, peeking your head inside the bathroom where Clark was showering. Thankfully he was only showering and not doing anything else. 

“Uh, sweetheart, you know I’m always free Friday nights,” he said, wiping a hand over his face to see you better. 

You snorted. “Oh yeah. Forgot you were such a nerd. Oh well, consider yourself not free anymore. You know, you look really cute with your hair pushed back.”

He flushed.

“You blush down there too. Interesting.” 

You closed the door behind you and he let his forehead bump against the wall with a dull thud. Oh, he was in so much trouble. 

If Clark Kent stopped being dishonest with himself, he would finally let himself admit that he liked you more than normal friends, and more than their own brand of friendship.

His feelings for you ran as deep as the ocean, as old as the birth of his civilization. From the day he thought you were a scarecrow, to his first kiss. His first kiss was with you, of course. It was your first too. You said you wanted to know what the fuss was all about. 

Fireworks had erupted the moment your lips touched his, and never stopped once whenever he saw you. 

Clark Kent was really in love. With his first kiss, his first friend, his first love, you.

And it wasn’t as scary as people made it out to be, honestly. Nothing was scary when you were there. 

When he first started getting his powers, it was scary but you were there. You made it not scary. 

When Pa Kent had a health scare, it was really scary, but you were there. You made it not so scary. 

Point was, Clark wasn’t afraid of the depth of his feelings for you, because he had blind trust in you. (And something told him that you felt the same.) 

Even if you dragged him to random parties on a random Friday after work. It felt weird to spend eight hours cooped up behind his laptop and then find himself in a nightclub that same night, wearing clothes that were way too fitted. 

“I need you to wear something good,” you told him before dragging him into an impromptu shopping spree. It was planned for you, but it was a surprise for him. Really, who was he to tell you no? 

Your whistling and happiness were worth wearing something out of his zone of comfort. 

“You never leave your drink unattended, okay?” you warned him seriously. 

Clark only nodded sagely, even though he was fighting the stupid grin that was threatening to break on his face. It was cute how you worried for him, even though drugs literally had no effect on him. 

“No drinks left unattended, got it. And I don’t talk to strangers. Unless they’re cute.”

“Don’t sass me, young man. I’m doing this for you.”

His smile turned softer. “I know. Thank you, sweetheart.”

It was a regular nightclub, like any other. You wanted to taste their drinks, take pictures, have fun. Clark was used to these nights. You were there for the fun, he was there for you. 

He didn’t usually dance but there was something different about tonight. He remembered the way he felt when you went to dance with someone else, and he didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. 

He waited until you finished your drink to ask, “Can I have this dance?”

You looked at him with eyes wide like saucers. “Oh em gee!” you shrieked. “I thought you would never ask!”

If he’d known how happy it would make you, he wouldn’t have kept refusing you. 

He wasn’t really used to dancing, and the only thing that came to mind when he thought of dancing was slow dancing. So that’s what he had in mind when he asked you. But then you finished his glass in one go and pressed yourself to him until there was no more space left, and the rest of the world disappeared.

He could feel everything. The press of the swell of your breasts against his chest, your hands gliding along his waist, the intoxicating smell of your lavender perfume.

Oh yes. This was a nightclub. This was how people danced. He swallowed thickly. Maybe he chose the wrong time to ask for a dance. 

Your hands are now caressing your neck, up to your hair, your head turned to the side. You were one with the song, and Clark was frozen in place, hands hovering in the air, suddenly unsure whether he was allowed to touch you.

“Aw, Clarkie, getting shy on me now?” you teased him when you noticed him unmoving. You grabbed his hands and placed them on each side of your waist. “Just follow the music. Sway from one side to the other.”

He tried, but God did he feel stiff and watching you in your element didn’t help. The friction of your dancing body against him was doing something to his nerves.

“Look at how the man are dancing with the girls,” you whispered. “Try doing the same.”

He looked, and immediately averted his eyes. “I can’t do that,” he whispered in panic. “It’s… borderline graphic!”

You laughed. “Oh Clark. You’re adorable. I’m gonna grind on you,” you said with that same look on your face that said you were up to no good, and that Clark couldn’t even dream of surviving you.

“Please don’t,” he whimpered in a tiny voice. “At least not here, where everyone can see.”

You paused at that, your teasing smile frozen in place, and Clark watched with barely muted satisfaction at how he’d so easily rendered you speechless. 

But then your eyes turned mischievous, and Clark realized his mistake. “I like the sound of that.”

He groaned, throwing his head back. You used that moment of weakness to press your lips along the lines of his neck. Not a kiss, not a bite. Just the soft press of your lips against his neck.

And then you screamed when your favorite song came on, and it was like that moment never even happened. 

“This is my song!” you squealed excitedly. 

You were so drunk.

Clark Kent didn’t mind taking care of you when drunk. He would like to say it was because he always wants to take care of you, but the truth was a little more selfish than that. 

Sure, drunk you was a menace, but when you got tired and sleepy and drunk, you were always so sweet. So clingy, so desperately needy and Clark absolutely loved to take care of you in that state. You were already clingy on a normal day, but drunk and sleepy was a whole other level. If he didn’t have his Superman strength, he would never be able to extricate you from his body. You turned into an oversized, drunk, needy koala. Clark leaving for just one minute to bring you water was enough to send you into an inconsolable state, so he learned to improvise. Again, he was thankful for his superstrength allowing him to lift you with one arm while he took care of things. 

Tonight was no different. By the time you both reached your apartment, you were already dozing off to sleep but fighting it, your entire chest wrapped around Clark’s arm. 

“Clark, you’re staying the night, right?” you asked, voice muffled and words slurred. 

“Yes,” he replied, fighting hard a smile, turning his own copy of your keys in the lock. 

“And you’re staying with me, right?”

“Yes,” he replied. This time he couldn’t help the smile. He helped you walk inside.

Your bottom lip quivered, tears already forming in your eyes. You let go of him. “You hate me!” 

Clark’s eyes went wide. “What? Where the heck did that come from? I just said I was staying with you.”

“Yes, but you sounded like you hated me when you said it,” you replied, voice already watery. 

“Gosh no, what? I could never love you. I love you. Always have, always will.”

“So why did you stop calling me petnames? You hate me!”

You broke into tears in the middle of your living room and for the first time since ever, Clark felt utterly helpless. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped. 

“Oh baby, is this what it’s about?” he cooed, and his heart broke when you nodded pitifully. “Come here sweetheart.”

He opened his arms and you launched yourself into them. He closed his hold around you, his arms wide enough so he could hide all of you, and protect you. Your shoulders shook with the strength of your sob, and once again he found himself wondering how such a tiny little thing could have so much feelings inside of her. 

“I love you baby, I could never hate you. Forgive me?”

“Okay,” you said, sniffing. A second later, he felt you wipe your snotty nose against the really nice shirt you got him earlier. He suppressed a small laugh. “I love you too. Even if you’re mean sometimes.” A pause. “Okay, you’re never mean. But still.”

“Thank you sweetheart.”

He kissed the crown of your head and you didn’t move for so long he thought you’d fallen asleep, but your heartbeat was still strong and rapid. 

“Let’s get ready for bed, okay?”

“Okay.” But you still didn’t move.

No matter, Clark thought. He had superstrength for a reason. He easily lifted you with one arm, and his heart swelled inside his chest at your giggle. You were such a strange girl. 

“Open up,” he said with a tap of his finger on your chin after he placed you on top of the bathroom counter, standing between your open legs, and pouring toothpaste on your toothbrush.

“Aaaah.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and started brushing your front teeth in gentle circular motions. 

You had your right index finger hooked inside his pants. You always needed to feel him around, even when he was literally brushing your teeth. 

Your mascara had run across your cheeks — unable to support a drunken night of dancing and singing and crying; your eyes were slightly red and your undereyes were swollen, and yet you were still the prettiest sight he’d ever laid eyes upon. Your lipstick was smeared across your lips, and Clark wanted to run his thumb across so badly, just to smear it even more.

You were patient while he meticulously brushed your teeth because you’d gotten used to him brushing them for two minutes exactly as prescribed by dentists. He was thorough in his cleaning, making sure you were properly clean before he makes you gargle and then spit in the sink. He didn’t give you water to rinse it off because he’d seen that you shouldn’t do that. 

Then, with movements honed with years of practice, he grabbed your cotton pads and miscellar water from your skin care product self.

“Can you close your eyes for me, sweetheart?”

The effect was instant. You pouted. “But I wanna see you.”

“I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Okay.” 

You closed your eyes and he started with them, gently wiping your makeup with the cotton pad. “Almost done,” he whispered. Your fingers tugged at his pants. 

Then, it was your lips’ turn, and Clark imagined it was his thumb wiping them.

“Yucky. Doesn’t taste so good,” you mumbled.

He laughed. “Oh baby, you shouldn’t taste it.”

You pouted again. 

He used a fourth pad for your entire face, just to remove dirt and threw everything in the bin. 

You grinned at him, all sleepy and mellowed out and looking like the angel you were. You were still in your outside clothes — Clark hadn’t gotten to that — and the juxtaposition of your sweet and innocent smile and your clothing was endearing. You could do both so well, and he loved them both a lot, but he always preferred the side of you that felt more like his, the one with no pretenses, no walls put up. Just you and your unfiltered love. 

“All cleaned up, baby. Now we just need to get you into some comfortable clothes and we can go to sleep.”

You looked proud of yourself, even if all you’d done was lean sleepily against his chest and made his job a lot harder than it should. 

Neither of you blushed when he helped you take off your clothes. You were drunk and sleepy, and Clark would never take advantage of you in this state. His eyes didn’t look anywhere he wasn’t supposed to, and his movements were clinical. His hands didn’t linger, didn’t stray.

He loved you and that meant he would never hurt you. 

Then, finally, when you were both dressed and in bed, he gathered you in his arms and listened to your heartbeat until it slowed down. It never took too long, when he held you and you were drunk. You were always out like a light when he cuddled you close to his chest. 

Clark got the idea the next day, when you were under the showers and he saw your phone light up with a notification while he was still in bed. It was a notification from TikTok — he recognized that logo. 

He grabbed his own phone and downloaded the app himself, and struggled for close to thirty minutes just to create an account. Most of that time was spent figuring out a username (in the end he kept the default one TikTok gave every user). 

Then you came out of the shower and Clark forgot about it.

“Wanna go grab brunch?” you asked him, still dripping on the floor, towel around you.

“Sure. Bubby’s?”

“God yes.”

Bubby’s was your go-to restaurant whenever you were hangover — or just particularly hungry.

Clark didn’t waste a second and stood up from his bed, his phone completely forgotten. 

It was only a month later, when he received a notification from the app (that confused him for a good ten seconds until he remembered how he’d downloaded the app) inviting him to join a random person’s LIVE, that he remembered the really stupid idea he had.

He spent one hour learning how to use TikTok and another one trying to make a video. He kept accidentally deleting everything with his stupidly big thumbs and he tried five times before he finally finished.

It was nothing big — it wasn’t even a video. Just a static picture and some text, but he did it himself. He even managed to change the color of the words and add a gif (because he thought that was really cute and like something you would love).

He felt silly for how proud of himself he felt. He just hoped he didn’t do anything wrong, and then pressed on the post button. 

He wasn’t quite sure what hashtags were or even if they were needed, but he added one just in case — the first one that popped up. 

And then he deleted the app, promptly forgetting about it and going back to his usual life. It was either the stupidest idea he’d ever had, or the greatest one. In any case, he was already onto the next thing. Namely, taking you out to dinner in a near future. 

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You woke up to your phone absolutely blowing up. Clark was at work and had been for a few hours already.

It was strange, you thought as you looked at the hundreds of notifications showing up on your lockscreen. You hadn’t posted anything on there in so long, and definitely nothing about Clark (apparently your videos about him always did crazy well). 

Oh no, you thought to yourself. Were you getting cancelled?

Half of your notifications were mentions to a random video from an account with no name and no picture, and only one post.

IS THIS THE BSF?!?!

I KNEW IT!!!!

omg i ship them so bad

Is this @pinkbubbles’s bsf?!?! The girl in the picture looks so much like her

@pinkbubbles GIRL LOOK

LMAO i literally just saw the other pov of this, tiktok knows what its doing 

You clicked on the video. It was silent. It was just a picture, one that you recognized. It was you. A few years ago, when you’d traveled to the beach with Clark and he invited you to diner that night. He’d taken a picture of you, and he wanted to be subtle so your entire face didn’t show. Just your smile and your arms. 

The caption read: she doesn’t know i am so in love with her. 

This had to be Clark. The username and picture matched, and only him had access to that picture.

You burst out laughing when your read the caption and it was just ‘i hope she loves me back #charlidamelio’. But your heart was still hammering inside your ribcage like a crazed horse who wanted to break free.

Clark was in love with you. And he confessed through TikTok. Of all the places. It was so him and so unlike him at the same time, that you didn’t know whether you should laugh or cry or burst inside his office. 

Honestly, the crazier thing was that you had posted something exactly like it a few months ago. It was just a video of Clark, not showing his face, and the caption ‘he doesn’t know i am in love with him’. The only difference was that you’d used an actual song, and you didn’t use any hashtags. It wasn’t meant to go viral. It was just… a letter inside a bottle thrown to the sea. A way not to explode while holding onto what felt like your biggest secret. 

And Clark had the same idea, it seemed. A few months later, but still. You wondered when was it—what had pushed him to publish something like that. More importantly, how he’d even been able to do this, when Instagram as a concept itself broke him.

Oh God. He was in love with you, and his confession had gone viral. It was such a strange thing to say. Clark, going viral. Clark who only had an iPhone so that he could use iMessage with you and match lockscreens and sim card holders. Clark who thought TikTok was a song and not an app.

You think you’re going crazy. Clark Kent was going to be the death of you. 

He was acting like nothing was wrong when you met up with him after work. He had that dopey smile on his face, the one that meant that nothing was wrong and that the world was a beautiful and perfect place to be. He usually had a terrible poker face — just that one time he bought a fake cockroach to scare you and the guilt was written all over his face like face paint for children. One look at him and you realized that the monstrosity you woke up next to was fake, and none other than Clark’s latest childish stunt. 

Now 

So how did the man who couldn’t even keep a surprise secret without blubbering and stuttering over his words look so serene? As if he didn’t just break the Internet and turn upside down your heart in the same night. 

“Hey, baby,” he said, head tilted to the side like a confused little puppy who doesn’t understand why his owner wasn’t acting like normal? “How was your day?”

“Uh… um… it was okay. Thanks! How are yours?” 

He raised an eyebrow with a teasing tilt of his lips. “How are mine? Mine what?”

You’d meant to ask how his day was, but at the same time how he was, and your tongue twisted. Oh God. He was usually the awkward one out of the two of you. Not you. Never you. You didn’t even feel that awkward when you’d hugged him once and he felt your stupidly perk and hard nipples. Admittedly, that was because Clark had done something worse just the day before and by comparison nothing you could ever do could ever be worse. 

“I hate you,” you grumbled, slamming a weak fist against his chest. 

Why did it have to be you who found out? What even were you supposed to be doing with information like this? Kiss him? Offer him a ring?

Clark didn’t look particularly offended by that. His hand merely found its place on top of yours and squeezed. “Come on, let’s go. Where are you taking me tonight?”

Your mind blanked. “Uh. Home?”

“Then let’s go,” he replied, his hand finding its natural position at the back of your neck, warm and present and guiding without being oppressive. He’d done that particular gesture a thousand times and you’d never particularly reacted. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, you were being held by the neck with the knowledge that he loved you. That he was in love with you as well, and that maybe had always been. 

Well, if you were being honest with yourself, you would realize that this wasn’t supposed to be surprising. Clark was Clark and you were you, and the pair of you had always been like this — and your weird heteroerotic friendship had always been this way probably because you were both desperately and pathetically in love with each other. 

But panicking about required love was more dramatic.

“Clark.”

“That’s my name, yes.”

“Smartass.”

He smiled in reply. 

He was being so weirdly normal. As if he hadn’t posted his confession for possibly millions to see last night. 

What if that wasn’t even him? What if someone hacked his phone and got his pictures of her? Poor Clark was definitely the kind of person who would fall for a phishing scam. There was a 33% chance of him actually being hacked. This was serious. You had to talk to him about it. 

But… not now. 

Now, you were going home with your best friend of almost thirty years and you were going to make him make dinner and you’re going to light candles and then you’re going to make him take pictures of you. 

It was a regular night for the two of you. Except for the glaringly obvious and impossibly unavoidable fact that made every moment, every look, every touch a thousand times more… charged. More intimate. More… 

You were running out of adjectives. 

“This pasta is wonderful,” you told him and appreciated the way his ears still turned pink every time you praised his cooking. 

“Ah, well, thank you, sweetheart. I wanted to make them from scratch but I didn’t have time.”

“Another time,” you replied. His homemade pasta was to die for, and he always made the best shapes ever. (One time you stole dough from him and made a penis shaped pasta. He couldn’t look you in the eyes without bursting into laughter for the rest of the evening.)

“Another time,” he confirmed. 

Silence fell. The flames were still flickering, unbothered and swaying to the dancing of the air. It cast a particularly romantic light to the whole scene. Which was fitting, considering the two of you were apparently in love with each other, and probably have been for the past two decades.

Oh no. Have you guys wasted two decades for nothing when you could have been happily dating and in love? Perhaps you’d have even been married by now. Yeah, definitely married by now. 

“Clark.”

His fork stilled mid-twirl and looked up to you, his entire attention riveted on you. 

“Could you pass me the salt?”

His sauce was perfectly seasoned but it wasn’t your fault you chickened out right at the last minute. 

“Sure thing,” he replied, standing without a complaint and getting it from the kitchen. 

You were going to talk about the marriage thing another date. Well, you figured you should talk about the confession thing first. 

You can do this. 

You should also do something about those really nosy followers of yours who demanded an update quite literally every hour. 

You really missed life back when you only had one follower — Clark’s account before he forgot the password and gave up on having an online presence. 

You couldn’t post a single story of a cute cat you saw without getting swarmed with messages and comments, and not one of them was about the cute feline. 

“Hey Clark, look at this cute cat I saw earlier.” 

When in doubt (read: lacking attention), always turn to Clark. 

“Oh look at that little fella,” he replied, genuinely excited to see him. You could always trust him to say the right thing. “Was he on your way to work?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied. “He was sooo cute. Almost adopted him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Oh, yeah. He was perfect. 

“Well we hadn’t talked beforehand about bringing a child into this life so I didn’t want to presume.”

“Next time, then.”

“Next time,” you confirmed. 

As easy as that. He’d agreed to adopt a child, so the marriage talk would be easier than anticipated. 

Naturally, you found yourselves at a rescue center, trying to find the perfect fit for them. Clark wanted a dog, you wanted a cat, so you compromised and got a really old cat who’d been waiting for a forever home for fifteen years. 

Her name was Bean (you let Clark pick) and she was both the loveliest and saddest creature you both had ever seen. Her favorite spot to sleep was between the two of you, and she got sad whenever Clark wasn’t staying over the night, so Clark officially moved in. For Bean, of course. 

Clark was, much to your dismay, her favorite, but you understood her. Clark was your favorite as well. 

“You know,” Clark said one day while Bean was busy purring up a storm on top of his large chest (oh how you were jealous), “she really reminds me of you. She always meows outside the bathroom door whenever I take a shower, and she recently learnt how to open the door. Just to stare at me.”

You snorted. “That does sound like something I would do.”

Clark scratched behind Bean’s ears subconsciously. “It’s not just that. It’s… well, she’s quite clingy.”

“I am not clingy,” you refuted automatically, but it was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything. 

Bean meowed in displeasure too. 

“Sweetheart, you’re currently using my arm as a body pillow.”

“Doesn’t mean anything.” Bean meowed. “See? She agrees. We aren’t clingy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scratched the top of your head, and you think he meant to scratch Bean’s head, not yours, but you found that you absolutely didn’t mind. 

“Meow,” you said, just to really sell it in case he suspected something. 

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Clark was pleasantly surprised when Lois told him that she wanted to see you again. Jimmy, of course, heard it and was promptly standing guard at Clark’s desk. 

“I want to see her too,” he said. As always, he was expertly (read: awkwardly) avoiding the looks a coworker had been giving him for the past three days. 

“Uh…” he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure. She would love that. And I would love that too.”

“It’s weird, we thought you would be more ecstatic than this,” Jimmy said. 

“You guys talk about me behind my back?”

“Duh,” Lois replied. “What else are we supposed to do when you randomly and suspiciously disappear at random intervals during a work day?”

He blushed. “Fair enough. But why did you think I would be happier than this?”

Lois and Jimmy shared a look. “How can he be so big yet so dense?” Lois asked. 

“Hey!”

“Honestly, I just want to know what went through his brain at that moment,” Jimmy said, like he was discussing the weather. “Was he held at gun point? Did his phone become conscious on its own? How did he even know how to use the app?”

“I couldn’t have asked better questions myself,” Lois said, nodding wisely as she took a sip from her monstrous drink. “Clark, would you be up for an interview later?”

Clark frowned. “What… what is going on?”

They shared a look. 

“I don’t think he knows that we know.” 

“Or that the entire Internet knows,” Lois added. 

“Or that she knows,” Jimmy appended. 

“He thinks he’s sleek with it,” Lois commented. 

“Stop talking like creepy twins!” he shrieked. His dignity was never left intact around those two. “What is going on? No, I don’t wanna know. I need to take a break.”

“Should we tell him?”

“Yes. I mean, they adopted a cat together. I don’t think he knows the implications of it.”

“What does Bean have anything to do with any of this?”

“Bean is your child. You’re the father, your best friend is the mother. You guys have moved in together, you co-parent a child, and you’re both in love.”

He finally blushed. “No we’re not.”

“Yes, you are. You confessed to her and she confessed to you.”

“Wait… when did she confess?”

“Oh great heavens.”

Taking an impromptu coffee break, they dragged Clark to the break room where they sat him down (he was going to need it) and showed him his video on Jimmy’s phone and her video on Lois’ phone. 

“Who are you and what have you done with our Clark Kent?” 

“The Clark I know would have never confessed like this. Granted, it’s cute, but it’s not something Clark would do.”

“He can barely use the selfie mode on his phone!”

Clark Kent really felt like a hostage being interrogated, with the two of them looming over him like menacing journalists who wanted to get to the bottom of this. The only thing missing was the table and a threatening lamp projected right in his face, blinding him. He could very well see Lois with a foot up on her chair, elbow on her knee as she stared him down so menacingly he had half a mind to confess to things he didn’t even do, just to make her stop. 

 His face was impossibly red, and the only thing he was thinking about wasn’t about how millions of people saw his video, but that you must have seen it, because everyone was tagging you in the comments, and this was definitely not the way he expected to confess to you. 

Beneath it all though, his chest was rumbling with pleasure at the confirmation — finally — that you felt the same. Knowing it was different from being clearly told. 

“Stop grinning like an idiot, this is making me wanna puke.”

“Gross. Maybe we shouldn’t have shown him this. His face is making a very disturbing and off putting expression.”

“I’m just happy and mortified! Can’t I be happy and mortified in peace?” Clark whined. 

“No,” came their reply in unison. 

“Guys, something came up. I have to go. Tell Perry I’ll work from home.”

He doesn’t wait a second for their answer. Quite frankly, he didn’t care much at the moment. He had a girl waiting for him at home to kiss her senseless.  

Joel’s bed became home long before you were ready to admit it.

It’s where you feel safest. It’s where he tugs you into his chest first thing in the morning, rough hand splayed over your back like it belongs there, murmuring something low and sleep-thick against your temple. It’s where you read curled into his side at night, him propped up against the headboard in that worn old Henley, eyes flicking lazily over the pages of whatever book you handed him, while yours is gripped a little tighter, the latest thriller mystery that has your heartbeat ticking up by the final chapters.

He had told you to stop reading them before bed once, but he didn’t really mean it. Not when you curled tighter into him, not when your hand slid across his stomach and stayed there gripping him like you needed to be close to something steady, something warm. Something like him.

Joel loves you like this. Warm and soft and pliant in his bed.

It’s one of his favorite places. Not just for pressing you down into the mattress and filling you, not just for the pretty, breathy sounds you make when you’re too far gone to think about what you look like or where his hands are. No—he loves the quiet moments, too. The ones where your limbs are tangled up with his, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, your skin still carrying the ghost of his touch.

And every now and then, when you’re asleep on his chest or laughing at something dumb he said, he still finds himself wondering how the hell he ended up with a girl like you.

You’re so much younger. So much softer. He doesn’t know what you see in a man like him—older, rougher, carved from all the years you haven’t had to carry yet. You could’ve had anyone. But you chose him. 

You’ve been together a few months now, and he still hasn’t wrapped his head around it. Still doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, your sweetness, your sharp quick wit when he least expects it.

He tried to keep his distance at first. Tried not to look too long when you smiled, not to follow the sound of your voice like a damn tether every time you were in the room. Told himself it wasn’t right. You weren’t for him. You were good. But you kept coming closer.

And once you started to pursue him—sweet and fearless and so goddamn certain—his resolve didn’t just crack. It collapsed.

The years between you didn’t matter to him anymore. The guilt didn’t matter. The voice in his head that told him to stop, that warned him he was too old, too jaded, too broken to ever deserve you—it all went quiet the second you looked at him like he was worth wanting.

He had to have you. To feel you, hear you, know you. So he gave in.

But there was still something there he didn’t quite understand, even now. Something that never quite leaves him.

Because every time he takes you to bed with the singular thought of getting you naked, of taking you until he gets his fill, until you’re trembling and wrecked and crying out his name—every single time, he sees it.

That flicker of hesitation.

He watches your shoulders shrink inward. Watches the way your hands move to cover your belly the second his fingers slip beneath your shirt. The way your breath stutters like you’re already bracing for something—even if it’s just his eyes.

You never say it out loud. You don’t have to.

And every time he settles over you, broad chest looming, palms sliding down your sides with reverent slowness as he lays you down on his bedspread, you ask him in that sweet, uncertain voice:

“Can we turn the light off?”

And Joel… hesitates.

Just for a second. Just long enough to take one more look at your face—flushed and perfect and lips swollen from letting him kiss them until they’re bruised. He always obliges. Always reaches over and clicks off the bedside lamp without a word, even if something in his chest aches as the room goes dark.

In the low moonlight, he can still see pieces of you. The softness of your belly. The curve of your thighs. The arch of your back when you start to melt beneath his touch. And he reveres it. All of it.

Worships you like you’re something holy.

But even in the dark, he notices everything.

The way your breath hitches when he kisses down your body—not with pleasure, but with discomfort. The subtle tension in your limbs when he trails his lips past your ribs. The way you squirm when his mouth lingers at the tender skin between your stomach and mound. Not because it’s too much. But because you don’t want to be seen.

And it kills him a little every time.

Because he wants to see you. All of you. Wants you to know that there is not a single inch of your body he doesn’t adore.

But still, like many nights before, he obliges you tonight and reaches over to turn out the light at your request.

The room falls into darkness.

Joel wakes to the warm and golden light of the morning, the kind where sunlight filters through the blinds in soft, slatted beams, pooling across the hardwood floor. The kind where the world outside feels far away, like it can wait a little longer while the house stays quiet.

His mind fully catches up to the scent of coffee and the soft creak of floorboards.

The bed is empty beside him, blankets still warm, your pillow carrying the shape of your head. He rubs the sleep from his face and swings his legs over the edge, the weight of last night still humming low in his chest.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re at the counter, barefoot, wearing nothing but his t-shirt—one of those older ones, soft and stretched out, the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair’s a little messy, skin still marked in places from where his mouth had worshipped you in the hours of the night.

You’re so focused on pouring coffee into your favorite mug—the pink one with the little chip at the rim, just big enough to catch your lip if you’re not careful—that you don’t hear him come in.

He steps in behind you, silent as ever, warmth radiating off his chest before you even feel his hands.

One arm slips around your waist, the other gliding up beneath the hem of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—until his hand splays flat across your stomach. His lips find your neck a second later, soft and unhurried, brushing along your skin as he breathes you in.

You stiffen, just a little. It’s not resistance, you could never resist him, but your body goes still beneath his touch, that automatic flicker of self-consciousness rising to the surface like it always does when he touches you in the daylight.

Still, you don’t move away.

Joel’s voice is low and rough in your ear, all gravel and morning warmth, “‘Mornin’, darlin’.”

You smile, small, a little sheepish, but it’s there. “Morning.”

His hand drops lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, then sliding up again, slow and lazy. His other arm tightens around your front, keeping you pulled against him as his lips trail from your neck to your cheek.

“Joel—” you murmur, half a protest, half a laugh, squirming under his touch.

“You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice thicker now, rougher with sleep and want. “So sexy in my shirt, honey.”

You go quiet. Not because you don’t like it. But because it still hits that spot—the part of you that flinches at being seen. You press your lips together, focus on the coffee in your hand, as if the words might disappear if you just don’t look at him.

But Joel sees it. Feels the shift. The way you tense ever so slightly when he calls you nice things. Like the words don’t fit, not yet. Like you still haven’t figured out how to wear them.

He kisses your cheek again, slower this time.

“I mean it,” he adds softly.

You nod once, a breath catching in your chest before you murmur, “I know.”

Joel leans in and kisses the back of your head, just behind your ear, then murmurs against your skin, “Put the coffee down for a second.”

You glance over your shoulder, suspicious but smiling. “Why?”

“Just do it, baby.”

With a soft sigh, you set the mug back on the counter. Before you can ask again, he’s turning you in his arms, hands firm but careful on your hips and over the shirt, as he spins you to face him.

He steps in close, real close, until the backs of your thighs press against the cabinets and his hands come up to cradle your face. Big, warm palms on your cheeks, thumbs brushing the softness there like he’s memorizing the way you feel under his touch. 

Then his hands squish your cheeks between his hands, just enough to puff your lips out like a fish.

Your brows furrow as you try in vain to pull away. “Joel—!”

“Say it,” he says, dead serious despite the ridiculous hold he has on your face.

Your eyebrows knit further as you still. “Say what?”

He smirks, dipping his head until your noses bump. “Say: I’m pretty.”

You groan, giggling despite yourself as you try to wiggle free. “Joel, oh my god—”

He holds on, pressing exaggerated kisses to your squished face—your cheek, your forehead, your nose and your puffed out top lip. “Say it. Go on. I’ll wait all day.”

“Fine!” you huff, lips barely moving from the way he’s still holding your face. “I’m pretty.”

He grins, loosening his hold just enough so you can speak properly, though he keeps his hands right where they are. “Didn’t hear you.”

“I’m pretty,” you repeat, cheeks heating as you say it, soft and unsure but not sarcastic. Not deflecting.

Joel beams, eyes crinkling at the corners, kissing your lips as he loosens his hold on your face. “Damn right you are. Prettiest girl I ever saw.”

You can’t help but smile now, wide and a little bashful. You duck your head, but he catches you again, presses a kiss to your lips again, sweet and unhurried.

And when he backs away and you finally reach for your coffee again, cheeks still warm, he’s watching you like he’s already counting the seconds until he gets to do it all over again.

That night starts like any other night.

Late, quiet, the house dipped in soft shadows. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the evening breeze, the hum of cicadas drifting in with the warm air. Joel’s in bed already, reading glasses sliding down his nose, thumbing through the same page of his book he’s read three times without taking in a single word.

He’s waiting for you to join him, your book is still closed on the side table. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom before you could even cuddle up in bed beside him. You had said you needed two minutes.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

He figures you’re brushing your teeth. Or lost in one of your little bedtime routines—rearranging things on the counter or doing your 10 step nightly skincare. He doesn’t mind. He’s gotten used to your rhythms the more you stayed over. Grown to love them, even.

But then he hears the bedroom door open, and when he glances up, expecting to see you in one of your usual pajamas, his breath catches. You’re not wearing one of his big T-shirts or those soft cotton sets you like so much.

You’re standing in the doorway in white lace, delicate and sheer and almost ethereal in the low glow of the lamp light.

It damn near knocks the air out of him.

He forgets all about the book in his lap—doesn’t even feel it fall to the mattress as his gaze rakes over you, slow and disbelieving. His jaw goes slack as he removes his glasses and sets them on the side table.

The bra—he doesn’t know what it’s called, not that it matters—looks daintier and more delicate than anything he’s ever seen in his goddamn life. Feminine in a way that hits him right in the chest. It wraps around you like it was made for your body, hugging your curves in all the right places. The straps are thin, dipping into the softness of your shoulders, and the lace cups give just enough to let his imagination blur with what’s already in front of him.

The matching bottoms sit high on your hips, scalloped lace tracing the tops of your thighs, giving him a perfect view of the skin he’s only ever touched in the dark.

Your hair is pulled back behind your shoulders—intentionally, he thinks, like you wanted him to have the full view.

Your lip is tucked under your top teeth, and your eyes flick down for a second, uncertain—then back up again.

But then you smile.

Shy, but proud. Like you’re showing him something precious and a little terrifying. Like you finally believe, even just a little, that he might actually mean every word he’s ever said about you.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed, jaw tight with restraint as he beckons you to him. Slowly, you make your way over, and he soaks in the look of your thighs as you move, the way your body is begging to be marked and taken. His hands curl against his own thighs like he’s afraid to touch you too fast, too hard, and shatter the moment.

But when you move to stand between his knees, and he lifts his eyes up to meet yours, you don’t flinch.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. Then his hands lift slowly, reverently, palms brushing along the outside of your thighs, up to your hips.

His voice is low, almost reverent. “Christ, baby… look at you.”

You let out a nervous laugh, eyes dropping for a second—but you don’t cover yourself. Don’t twist away like you usually do. You stay right there, between his knees, close enough for him to smell the soft scent of your lotion and whatever little perfume you’d put on just for him.

Joel lifts his hands, slow and sure, and holds your hips, warm, steady, splayed wide like he wants to cover all of you. His thumb strokes gently over your skin where the lace ends, just above your hipbone.

“You did this for me?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod once, eyes still shy but glowing with something soft. “I wanted to. I…I know I usually…”

“I know,” he says quietly, thumbs stroking your skin under his touch. “Don’t gotta explain nothin’ to me.”

His voice is gentle, but there’s something else beneath it now. Thicker. Hotter. Like he’s barely keeping a lid on what he really wants to say.

You bite your lip again, tucking it under your top teeth as you gauge his reaction. Joel leans in, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss between the valley of your breasts—slow, open-mouthed, just wet enough to make your breath stutter.

You exhale, body already leaning into him, melting under the heat of his mouth, the drag of his stubble, the way his hands are rubbing slow circles along your thighs. His fingers toy with the hem of the lace between your legs, pinching the delicate fabric between them, like he can’t decide whether to rip it off or worship it.

“You know what this does to me? What you do to me, angel?” he rasps, voice rough now, filthy and unfiltered. “You got me starin’ like a damn animal. Don’t even know where I wanna taste first.”

He kisses the underside of your breast, and even though it's covered by lace, he bites softly at the curve, tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. His hands move to grip your ass tightly now, pulling you closer, positioning so your stomach and hips are flush against his chest.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, you go and give me this?”

His eyes flick up, hungry and reverent. You squirm, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips, but Joel doesn't back off. He presses another kiss to your stomach, then just above your belly button, murmuring into your skin.

“Timid little thing—but deep down you like it, don’t you? Like when Daddy talks like this?”

Your thighs twitch under his hands and you nod.

He grins, feral and soft all at once. His hands slide up your sides, palms hot and steady against your ribs, thumbs brushing the edge of lace as his mouth follows—slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing higher, tongue flicking against the fabric covering your breasts. His tongue pokes out over the lace of your bodice right where your nipple would be, teeth grazing over the hidden but pebbled skin. Your jaw falls open as you watch him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, breath catching against your sternum. “You wore this just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

One hand lifts, fingers tugging gently at the strap of your bralette, sliding it down your shoulder. Then the other. His movements are careful, almost reverent, as he peels the lace down and away, baring you inch by inch.

And when your breasts spill free, his breath catches audibly.

“Jesus Christ.”

He sits back just far enough to look. Just for a moment. Just to see you.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he murmurs, thick with awe and heat. He brings his hands up to grip the flesh of your breasts, kneading them together, “Bet you don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”

You bite your lip again, that flicker of shyness still dancing across your face—like you have to physically restrain yourself from trying to cover the revealed skin. But no. Not this time.

Joel leans in and licks a slow stripe over one nipple, making you gasp. He drags his tongue in a lazy circle, then sucks it into his mouth, groaning low in his throat like he’s tasting heaven.

You whimper, your hands flying to his shoulders, fingers gripping him as your back arches on instinct.

“That’s it,” he growls, pulling back just to press a kiss between your breasts before taking the other into his mouth, this time sucking harder, leaving it damp and peaked from his tongue. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear every sound you make when I touch you like this.”

Your hips roll against him, thighs trembling as you stand between his legs.

“Sensitive little thing,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Just needed someone to show you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

He kisses lower, down the underside of your breast, then back up again, licking softly, sucking just enough to leave the faintest mark.

“M’gonna take good care of you tonight, baby,” he breathes, dragging his mouth back to your nipple. “Gonna take my timeand take every fuckin’ inch of this sweet body. You gonna let me?”

You nod, breathless, voice caught somewhere in your throat,“Y-yeah.”

Joel looks up, eyes blazing, lips slick from kissing you.

“‘Yeah’, what? Tell me, honey.”

Your begin to squirm as you tell him, “I want you to, Daddy. Please.”

Joel groans like it physically knocks the air out of him. His hands trail back down your sides, slow and reverent, fingertips grazing the lace waistband still hugging your hips.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower. 

He kisses down your stomach, tongue peeking out to trace the little dip of your navel, his hands smoothing down your hips and behind to cup your ass again, fingers squeezing tight. The lace panties are all that remain, soft and delicate, slightly damp already with your arousal. He noses along the waistband, breathing you in.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he growls, teeth catching gently at the fabric. “Bet you taste even better.”

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging gently as he tongues over the lace, not pulling it down yet—just feeling you through it, his mouth wet and hungry over your hips and tummy.

You moan, your hips grinding against him again as he teases you, his one hand reaching down to drag his fingers over your clothed mound, the slick of your folds soaking through. He groans at the feeling before pulling back with a sharp exhale, looking up at you with wild eyes.

“On the bed. Hands and knees. Now.”

You blink, heart leaping, but you don’t hesitate. You scramble onto the mattress, crawling forward on shaky limbs until you’re positioned right where he wants you—on all fours, back arched, breath quick and needy.

Joel groans behind you at the sight, pulling his shirt over his head before dragging a hand up your spine, slow and heavy.

“Goddamn, baby. Look at you.”

Once he’s climbed onto the bed behind you, spreading your knees a little wider, he kneads at your ass with both hands, reverent and gentle. He settles his body lower, shifting on the bed until his face is level with your center. He drags his thumbs along the backs of your thighs, spreading them a little wider, groaning low when he sees how soaked the lace of your panties is—slick and clinging to your folds, a perfect puffy outline of everything he’s about to taste.

“Look at this,” he breathes, like it’s something sacred. “Fuckin’ drenched for me.”

You gasp when you feel his mouth again—not on your skin, but over the lace. A slow, deliberate kiss right to the center of you, hot and wet and perfectly placed. His lips part, tongue nudging against the fabric, teasing your clit through the sheer barrier.

It’s maddening.

He hums, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby… I could spend all night like this. Kissin’ you through these pretty little panties. Smellin’ you. Feelin’ how worked up you are for me.” He nuzzles in deeper, breathing hot against you, licking a wide, slow stripe up the center of your heat—through the lace—then mouthing at it, sloppy and wet, soaking it even more.

You sob, spine arching, thighs quivering where they try to stay upright. Joel groans against you.

“Can’t believe you wore this just for me,” he mutters, dragging his tongue back down. “So fuckin’ soft. So sweet. Pussy’s beggin’ for it, ain’t she?”

You nod frantically, already breathless. “Yes—God, Joel, please—”

He chuckles darkly, biting gently at the fabric. “Please what, baby?”

“Take them off,” you gasp. “Please—need you.”

Joel pulls back, and you feel the shift in the air before you feel his hands—rough palms curling under the waistband of your panties, fingers brushing the skin of your hips as he peels the lace down slow. Agonizingly slow.

“Anything for my girl,” he says.

Joel’s broad, warm hands palm at your ass, kneading every inch as he situates himself behind you. He dips lower, mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses into the flesh of your left cheek, then the right, before his teeth sink down into the soft meat.

You yelp, hips jerking at the sharp nip.

“Prettiest noises too,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing the sensitive mark he left behind. His hands spread your cheeks, thumbs firm as they open you up for him—and when you peek over your shoulder, you find his eyes locked on your center, gaze dark and fixated, the pupils blown wide.

When he catches you looking, his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“She’s flirtin’ with me,” he says, grinning like the devil.

Your face burns, and you let your head drop into the pillows, hiding from the embarrassment that curls through your belly—hot and helpless, tangled with molten want.

Joel’s lips find your skin again, slower now, more reverent as he holds you open. His tongue drags between your cheeks, a deep, teasing stroke that makes your whole body tense. He kisses your slick folds with a wet, lewd sound that makes you gasp.

He hums, low and satisfied, then laps at your dripping arousal like it’s his first taste of water in weeks.

“And the prettiest pussy,” he rasps, lips brushing your folds. “You know that, darlin’?”

You moan, unable to answer, as his tongue pushes deeper. He flattens it and licks slow, wide strokes up your slit before circling your clit. His nose bumps your entrance, barely prodding, teasing you as his tongue works your clit in tight, filthy circles.

Your hips start moving without your permission, grinding into his face, seeking more.

Joel groans like you’re his favorite meal, tongue flattening again, letting you push into him.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, eyes fluttering shut. “Ride my face.”

You mewl, your body bucking, wild and desperate, grinding into him like a goddamn bronco at the fair. Your walls flutter, your core pulsing with pressure as it builds, and builds, and builds.

Your thighs begin to shake.

Joel’s grip on you tightens as he takes over, tongue working your clit with expert flicks, fast and relentless.

The pressure in your belly snaps like a pulled cord, your spine arching as your orgasm crashes over you. You cry out, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as you come, loud and wrecked, your fingers gripping the sheets.

Joel moans into you like he’s the one coming undone, tongue never faltering, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your trembling body. Even as you start to come down, breath catching in your throat, he doesn’t stop. He just slows, letting you twitch and gasp and shake through it.

Then, you feel it. The warm, wet pressure of his tongue pushing up past your folds, over the skin between, then circling your tighter hole. You jump at the intrusion, a sharp gasp breaking from your lips—but the haze of your orgasm makes your body soft, receptive, already melting for him.

You whimper, hips twitching. Joel just groans again, closing his lips around your sensitive rim, suckling gently.

“F–fuck,” you whisper, unable to think, to move, to breathe.

He licks you there once more before planting slow, open-mouthed kisses up your spine, up to the small of your back, your shoulder blades, and finally your neck.

Then he’s curling over you, beard scratchy against your skin, his lips brushing your cheek.

“Turn around,” he whispers, voice low and rough, "Wanna see your face when I stuff you full a'me,"

You can’t help but giggle at the tickle of his scruff against your neck, still dazed, still boneless, but do as you’re told—twisting under him until you’re on your back, staring up at him.

Joel’s eyes, though dark with hunger, hold something else too. Something deep and aching. Something sweet.

And then, with that same steady tone he uses when talking patrol routes or fixing fences, he says, “Now. Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart.”

His lips brush your jaw, then your ear.

“I’m gonna fill you up so deep, fuck you so full of my cock, my cum, me, that when you look in the mirror tomorrow, all you’re gonna see is how fuckin’ beautiful you are—‘cause you’ll still be wearin’ what I did to you tonight.”

Your chest heaves, the words settling deep in your stomach, curling there like heat and honey.

“Joel, I—” you start to say, only to gasp when you feel the hot, thick head of his cock nudge at your entrance.

“You feel this, honey?” he murmurs, pulling back to look down between you, voice rough and reverent. “Feel how bad he wants you? How bad I want you?”

You nod, gripping his forearms tight, your thighs falling open even wider for him.

He notches just the bulbous tip inside you and hisses at the wet heat.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “I feel it, Joel, I—I… pleasepleaseplease—”

“I know, angel, I know,” he pants, his thumb stroking your inner thigh, grounding you. “Now I wanna hear you say it.”

Your brain lags, thick with need, swimming in lust and love and the ache to just feel him.

“W-what?”

Joel watches you, eyes burning into yours.

“Say, ‘I’m pretty, Daddy.’”

Your whole body flushes, lips parted in disbelief, already whining at the way he just knows how to unravel you.

You groan wordlessly, bringing your hands to your face to hide. He is so on your shit list for this.

Joel chuckles darkly, pushing in another inch, and you whimper behind your hands.

“I’m waitin’, darlin'.”

You squirm under him, thighs trembling, skin turning hotter and hotter by the second. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him to move, to fill you, to do something.

But Joel waits. He always waits—until you give in, until he gets what he wants.

You lift your hands from your face slowly, eyes hazy, cheeks heated, lips parted. He’s watching you like a man possessed, one hand gripping your thigh, the other wrapped around his pulsing member with agonizing patience.

“M’pretty,” you whisper.

Joel’s brow arches, lips curling, “Not quite, sweetheart. You know how I want it.”

Your chest heaves. Your pussy clenches around just the tip of him, and even though you see the twitch in his jaw, he still waits.

So you gather your courage, heart pounding in your throat: “I’m pretty, Daddy.”

Joel’s smile breaks across his face, so bright and full of something so tender it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It almost pulls you out of the heat of it, the haze of arousal, until your core clenches and he sinks into you just a little deeper.

You gasp, the stretch sharp and perfect.

He leans down slowly, hands braced in the pillows beside your head, lowering himself onto his forearms until his chest is flush with yours, until there’s no space left between your bodies.

He’s still not fully sheathed in you.

“Again.” 

“I… I’m pretty, Daddy,” you breathe, voice shaky as your pussy tries to adjust around the thick stretch of him.

“The prettiest,” he nods, and his lips mold to yours as he finally pushes all the way in. Your mouth falls open with a gasp, the sound swallowed by his tongue slipping between your lips, hot and hungry, as he bottoms out. His balls press firmly against the slick, wet crevice of your ass, and the mess between your thighs is obscene—your arousal dripping, sticky and hot, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Joel groans into your mouth, loud and wrecked like its been trapped in his chest for hours. His hands come up to cradle your head, keeping you right there beneath him as he begins to move, slow at first, pulling out a few inches before rolling back in, the full weight of him rocking your body with every deep thrust.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “Pussy’s so damn tight.”

He pulls out slowly again, then drives back in hard, enough to jolt you up the bed, the sound of it lewd and perfect. His brow furrows, eyes fluttered shut as he focuses on the way your walls cling to him.

“Fuckkkk,” you mewl as he continues sawing into you, filling you and stretching you around him, buried to the hilt.

Joel grins, feral and hungry, sweat starting to bead at his brow.

“Sound even prettier when you take my cock.”

He sets a rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that hit all the way up, filling you to the brim. His body covers yours, chest brushing your nipples, beard scratching your throat as he nips and kisses every inch he can reach.

“Been thinkin’ about this for so long, baby” he grits out between thrusts, hips slapping against yours. “The way you’re always hidin’ yourself from me, coverin’ up like you’re not the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

“I got you, honey,” Joel pants, head dropping to your neck as his arms wrap around you, pulling you into him even tighter. “And you’re gonna start seein’ it for yourself,” 

His pace picks up, rougher now, slamming into you with the kind of need that’s barely human.

“Gonna fuck you so full you forget every goddamn lie you ever told yourself in a mirror. Gonna make sure the only thing you remember is me—how you sounded, how you looked, when I wrecked this perfect little body.”

You’re gasping, whimpering, shaking beneath him, stars flashing behind your eyes as he pounds into you like he’s never going to stop.

“That’s it, baby. You take it,” he growls. “Take my cock so good, like the good girl you are for me. Fuckin’ made for me.”

“Joel—” you cry, voice breaking.

He lifts his head, eyes wild and tender all at once.

“Say it again, sweetheart. Tell Daddy how pretty you are.”

“I—I’m pretty,” you choke out. “I’m—fuck, I’m so pretty, Daddy—”

He loses it.

His hand slides under your thigh, hooking it up, opening you wider, deeper. His hips slam into you harder now, the rhythm filthy, brutal, perfect.

“I know, baby. I know. Look at you. My good girl, look so beautiful takin’ it so fuckin’ well.”

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you forward as he sits back—craning your head up so you can look down, see exactly where you’re joined. 

Your mind barely registers the softness of your belly, too focused on the thick stretch of him splitting you open, the obscene way you take every inch. You both watch as he drives into you, slick and deep and devastating, a ring of your last orgasm glistening around his cock. The pressure builds again, white-hot and unbearable.

And Joel knows—he feels it in the way you clench, the way your voice goes high and desperate, the way your hands grip him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

“You gonna come for me again, sweet girl?” he pants, fucking you into the mattress. “Gonna let Daddy feel you pulse around his cock?”

“Yesyesyes—Joel, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he snarls, “give it to me.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm crashes through you with a scream as he releases your neck, letting you arch your back, trembling as you milk his cock with spasms so tight it makes Joel curse, a broken sound from deep in his chest.

And then he’s coming, hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, filling you just like he promised. His voice breaks on your name as he grinds through it, hands gripping you enough to leave bruises, breathing ragged.

Neither of you move for a long moment. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled and uneven. His chest heaving against yours. Your legs shaking around his waist.

His hand slides up, cradles the side of your face. His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, even though you’re not crying—but something about the touch makes you want to. Makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice all gravel and reverence. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes still fluttered shut, heart pounding. “Y-yeah.”

Joel presses a soft kiss to your lips—barely a touch, like he’s afraid of ruining you more than he already has. Then another, and another, until you're giggling quietly beneath him, too dazed to hold it in.

He smiles, the kind of smile he doesn’t show anyone else. The kind that barely reaches his eyes, because he’s still looking at you like you’re a dream that might disappear if he blinks too hard.

“Look at me, baby.”

You do. You always do when he asks.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, voice low and rough with what sounds almost like awe. “You know that?”

The words hit you deeper than they should. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to even out your breathing, but your lungs don’t cooperate. Your eyes dart away, suddenly misting and too overwhelmed by the intensity in his gaze—by the sincerity written all over his face. It's too much. Too close. Too real.

But Joel’s hand is already there, catching your chin gently, tilting your face back toward his. His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, soft and steady.

“No,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Don’t do that. Not tonight. Not after everything you just gave me.”

Your chest stutters, emotion building so fast and so sharp you feel like you might spill over with it. Your fingers twitch against his back before finally settling, drifting across his damp skin in slow, absent circles. You take deep, calming breaths to settle yourself. Breathe in, breathe out.

He’s still inside you, still heavy over you, like neither of you are ready to let go just yet. Your limbs are tangled, the air still thick with sweat and heat and something quieter—something softer.

The room is quiet now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Just your shared breaths, slow and unsteady. The low thump of his heart where his chest presses to yours.

Joel shifts only slightly, just enough to press a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then your temple. The way he moves is unhurried, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s kissing more than just skin—like he’s kissing the pieces of you he’s afraid to speak out loud.

It makes your chest ache.

“You’re being so sweet,” you whisper, throat tight almost like it’s a secret.

His lips hover at your lips, pressing gently but not fully,  “I don’t know how not to be,” he says softly. “Not with you.”

You close your eyes, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. His scent wraps around you—salt and skin and something warm and comforting that’s just him. The warmth blooms under your skin again, curling around your ribs, spreading down your spine.

“I love you.” he says, like it’s always been there, waiting. Like it’s not a confession so much as a truth that finally found its way out.

Your breath catches. Not from fear, not from panic, but from the sheer weight of it. The gravity. The sound of those words, spoken into the low light of the room while he's still buried inside you, holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Your eyes flutter open. You don’t move. Not yet.

Joel doesn’t either. But his voice dips low, softer now. A hint of uncertainty laces the edges. “Too much?”

You shake your head instantly, and your hands rise to cradle his face, looking up at him, fingertips brushing his temples like you need to anchor both of you in this moment.

“No,” you whisper, a tear finally escaping your eye. “No, not too much.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently as you pull him down and press your lips to his. And when you pull back, your words are trembling but sure.

“I love you too.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.Then he kisses you—slow and deep and home, his mouth moving against yours like he’s sealing the promise between your bodies.

Your yarn was on the charcoal grey side, so you looked around the lounge and eyed up who was there. Steve sat next to you, sketching and chatting with Nat. Sam was playing a video game with Peter, and Bucky sat off to the side reading.

You zeroed in on him and decided the sweater you’re making will be a perfect gift for him since the arm sleeves are a little larger than normal, which would fit him nicely since he likes the extra room in his jackets and mission vests. You quickly looked away and averted your eyes when he caught you watching him.

Damn.

You saw a small smirk from his mouth before you gathered up your knitting and headed to your room.

You’d been crushing on Bucky for a while now, too scared to approach him to ask him for a drink or food so you settled for observing him instead. Classic chicken’s way to approach the situation, but you didn’t care. You didn’t take rejection well, so you usually just avoid putting yourself out there because of it. You made it to your room and flopped down on your bed, groaning because of your lameness.

“I should just ask him out for a coffee. So, what if he says no?” you muttered into your pillow.

You sat up and sighed then looked at your knitting and smiled. This gift will be the perfect ice breaker to start a conversation with him and perhaps ask him out. You smiled to yourself and began working on it in the hopes you would finish it so he could still wear it in the chilly early spring air.

🧶🐑

A few weeks later…

Everyone was sitting in the lounge relaxing after dinner. There were no active missions so the vibe of the room was pretty chill. You walked in carrying a gift bag and saw Bucky sitting by Steve and Sam. You had just finished the sweater you were going to give Bucky and were excited to see his reaction.

Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but you slaved over it for months and were pleased you made it work. You took a deep breath to calm your nerves and headed over to talk to them.

“Hey guys” you smiled and sat in front of them on a chair.

“Hey” they all smiled and nodded.

“What do you have there?” Sam pointed to your bag.

“Oh this? Well…I um…” Heat started creeping over your face.

“Well, I finished something.”

“Your project you were working on?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, that’s the one!”

You smiled at Steve then looked over at Bucky who was watching you with interest.

“Here.” You put the bag down and took it out to show them.

“I made this for you.” You handed the completed sweater to Bucky whose eyes were wide with shock.

“Me?”

He took the sweater and eyed it up. Sam hid a chuckle with his hand as they looked it over.

“I know it’s not perfect, but this is my first sweater ever and well…I wanted you to have it. Look, the arm holes are wide, just how you like them!”

You gushed at your creation.

Bucky held up the sweater and used it to hide a small grimace from you. The arms were big alright. Perhaps this would better fit an ape at the zoo.

“Wow…” He was at a loss for words.

“It looks warm,” Steve added, and Bucky shot him a glare.

“What happened there?” Sam pointed to the neck of it.

“Oh, well, I messed up a few stiches but fixed them, somewhat. Added a small zig zag pattern to compensate. I think it turned out, ok?”

You were smiling wide.

Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell you this was the most terrible looking sweater he’d ever seen. There was no way he would ever wear this.

“Umm, thanks Y/n,” he politely smiled at you.

“Try it on Buck.” Sam gestured towards it.

Bucky glared at him but then turned to you.

“Oh, well, I don’t want to ruin it. Plus, I have my vest on and well…I don’t want to stretch it out…” he patted his chest.

“It’s no trouble Bucky, try it on” Steve encouraged him.

You were smiling wide and at this point, everyone was watching. Bucky smiled and took his vest off, draping it on the coffee table, then he took the grey disaster and tugged it on.

The arms sure were huge, but it felt also weird and a little lumpy. He didn’t dare pull on a few of the loose strings hanging on the inside in case it would unravel right in front of him. How would he ever wash this thing? He tugged it on and poked his head through the wonky neck hole to look at you.

“I’m glad it fits” you gushed at it.

“It fits something…” Sam was trying to keep from laughing and Bucky scowled over at him.

“Anyways, I thought you could wear this instead of a large jacket. It’s getting nice out and it would still be warm but without the bulk. Well, I’m glad it fits you Bucky” you were smiling and happy, there was no way he could tell you it was terrible, and he’d never wear it for a s long as he lived.

How was he going to avoid wearing this? He saw you knit this for hours and he didn’t know what to do.

“Well, I should go. There’s a show I want to start watching with Wanda. See you.”

You smiled and walked out of the lounge.

🧶🐑

Bucky let out a huff, shrugged off the monstrosity of a sweater, and leaned back in his chair.

“So…” Steve looked at Bucky who glared at him.

“It’s a nice sweater…” Sam added.

“Shut up, not a word.” Bucky rubbed his eyes with his fingers. You'd be crushed if he told you what he really thought of it.

“Why me?” Bucky groaned and flopped down.

“Why didn’t she make you guys anything?”

Sam and Steve looked at each other and chuckled.

“She likes you.” Sam simply said.

Bucky had thought you were interested in him, but he wasn’t sure what to do. It had been a long time since anyone had shown him any interest, he wasn’t sure what to say or how to act.

“She made me a scarf.”

“She made me ear warmers,” they both said.

“And? Are they terrible too?” Bucky asked.

“Well, the scarf is small, but it’s nice. I think a few more inches and it would be good.” Steve shrugged.

“My ear warmers are huge, but I’ve used them as extra hand warmers in my pockets.” Sam thought about it.

Bucky stared at the grey heap on the table and sighed.

“It’s not so bad.” Steve was trying to help.

“Yeah, I mean see if Dr. Strange can use it when he you know…” Sam wiggled his arms around and waved them in the air making him and Steve giggle with each other.

“Ugh.” Bucky snatched it up and walked out of the lounge in a huff.

🧶🐑

The next morning, you stayed in bed a little longer, eager to enjoy the fact that you didn’t have anything on your schedule planned. You slowly got yourself ready and made your way down to the kitchen for something to eat when you stopped to listen to the voices that were coming from breakfast.

“Where’s your sweater Buck?” You heard Sam’s voice ask.

You stood in the hallway outside the kitchen, curious as to what Bucky’s reply was going to be.

“Shut up Sam.”

“Thought you’d be wearing it, or should I say it would be wearing you,” he teased.

You stood straight and peeked around the corner. They were sitting at the table eating their breakfast.

“It sure is ugly.” Nat said making Sam snort.

You saw Bucky tense, but he didn’t say anything, not even to defend you.

“If you want company in helping you fill out the sweater, I’m sure Steve could join you while the two of you ran errands or trained.” Clint joked from the stove.

“There’s a lot of loose threads on it. Maybe you should just pull them instead, then if it unravels, you won’t have to wear it.” Peter tried helping.

Your heart sank at what your friends were saying. Sure, the sweater wasn’t your best work, but you were proud of it and excited to give it to Bucky.

He obviously hated it, it was that obvious, but no one was stepping up for you, or had your back, especially Bucky. A small tear escaped your right eye you quickly wiped away.

You composed yourself and entered the kitchen.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Everyone looked over at you but didn’t say much apart from a few mornings that were answered back. You looked over at Bucky who seemed uncomfortable then you grabbed an apple and granola bar and sat at the end of the table, away from your usual seat closer to everyone.

“What do you have planned today?” Steve asked you.

You shrugged and continued scrolling through your phone. You finished your apple and placed it down then looked over at Bucky.

“Where’s your sweater?”

You saw him visibly tense.

“Oh, well…I was going to…wash it first before I wore it. You know, break it in and all,” he lightly smiled at you.

In the past, you would have swooned for any attention from Bucky, but not now. You could see the smirks on the faces of the table, and you glared at everyone then you stood.

“Anyone have anything to say?”

They looked at each other but didn’t say anything.

“Really? No one has anything to say. You did 10 minutes ago. Care to tell me about it?”

Everyone looked anywhere but at you.

You were still waiting for anyone to acknowledge you, but no one did.

“I heard what you all said before I got here and frankly, I find that rude,” you gritted out.

Bucky’s eyes widened and Steve coughed in his hand. The vibe of the room had shifted to slightly uncomfortable.

You sighed.

“Look, I know it’s not a perfect sweater, but I was proud of it. I was proud of something I made, and I wanted to share it. Sure, it’s a little wonky, but…well…I just wanted to do something nice, and no one could see it, only the sweater.”

You looked over at Bucky who seemed like you had cut him deep.

“I can’t believe you all made fun of it. No one stepped up for me and had my back, and that is something I won’t soon forget.”

You glared at everyone then left the table.

“Y/n, wait” Bucky called but you didn’t stop, you headed to your room and locked the door.

You were beyond sad, and now you were just hurt. If Bucky really didn’t like the sweater, he should have just told you instead of accepting it. You thought it was something nice you could give him but made the mistake of giving it to him in front of everyone. You’re never doing that again.

Bucky glared at the table and let out a sigh.

“She’s right.” Steve looked around the room.

“No one had her back, so I’m going to go and apologize to her.”

“She probably wants space. I’ll apologize too, but maybe this afternoon?” Sam said to the group.

Everyone shuffled their plates around and agreed.

“Wait.” Bucky looked over the group.

“I have an idea…” he said as everyone listened to him.

🧶🐑

It was after supper when you heard a knock on your door. Earlier, you had shoved your knitting bag under your bed, unable to look at some of your unfinished projects.

No need to subject anyone else to them since they don’t appreciate it. You got up and went to the door to find Steve standing on the other side of it.

“Hi,” he flashed you a small smile.

“Hi Steve.”

You stood with the edge of the door between you.

“Look, Y/n, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not standing up for you. You were right, no one had your back and for that, I apologize.”

You smiled at him.

“Thanks Steve,” you watched as the tips of his ears turned a light shade of pink.

“Come to the lounge, we’re planning on a movie night. We’d like you to come.”

They brought out the big guns. You always had a hard time saying no to Steve, or Bucky for that matter since they were always so nice to you.

“I don’t know. I’m a little tired…”

Steve pouted a little and you chuckled.

“Are you giving me puppy dog eyes?” He grinned and asked “Did it work?”

“Ugh, Steve!” you groaned, and he chuckled.

“Come on.” He offered you his arm and you took it.

Damn old-fashioned manners.

You walked down the hallway towards the lounge when you heard voices making you stop.

🧶🐑

“She’s going to freak out.”

“Shhh.”

“How is this?”

“Fine, now keep going,” you heard Bucky whisper.

You looked up at Steve who shrugged and gave you a small wink.

“What is going on?”

You wondered out loud when you walked into the lounge and gasped at what you saw. There, sitting on chairs, and the couch were the team, all with knitting needles in their hands, knitting things.

“What the?”

You looked around and a small smile appeared on your face. Bucky walked up to you, and you froze. He was wearing your sweater.

“Everyone is learning how to knit,” he blushed a little.

You saw his sleeves were rolled up showing his hands. Damn, you really overestimated your measurements.

“Really?”

You looked around the group and had to hide a laugh. Sam sat on a chair and his tongue was out while he struggled with casting on. Nat and Clint were sitting on a couch, she had a few rows of what looked to be a scarf started and Clint was beating her at what he had started. Peter was organizing the wool, and you could see a small area he had set up himself with some how to videos he had paused to help him start.

“Why?” You blurted out. Bucky turned to face you.

“We wanted you to feel good about knitting. We know you’re starting out and making things for us. Everyone feels bad about what happened earlier and wanted to do something for you.”

“Yeah, we’re sorry,” Nat had said which followed a whole bunch of ‘sorrys’ from everyone and a ‘we’re a bunch of dumbasses’ from Sam.

You looked around and smiled at everyone. Steve walked back to his station where he had what looked to be a few rows started and Peter started a movie in the background.

Bucky took a step towards you and asked, “Did you want to join us?” You looked around and smiled.

“Ok,” then you headed to your room to get your knitting bag from under your bed.

Bucky followed you.

“Need help?”

“Come on in.”

You walked into your room.

Bucky looked around and smiled. Your room was perfectly decorated and full of things you had made for yourself.

“Here, let me.”

He reached to get your bag you held but he had to pull up one of his sleeves making you chuckle.

“That really is a terrible sweater.”

You pointed to his sleeve. Bucky looked down and shrugged.

“It’s actually warm,” he admitted making you chuckle.

“I think a few more practises and you may get the hang of it,” he winked at you making your insides squish.

“So, if you want to practise more, I’ll take another one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You thought about it and smiled.

“Well, ok then.”

“I’ll just give you my measurements first though to avoid this.”

He showed you his arm that the sleeve was rolled up tight on and the other he held up and it flopped down making you snort. You looked up at him and blushed hard.

“Yeah, I kind of winged it on this one,” you pointed to his sweater.

When you were making it, you felt weird asking him for his measurements, especially if it was going to be a surprise, and forget you going up to him with a tape measure, you’re pretty sure you would have died from embarrassment if you put your hands on him. You blushed thinking of it and Bucky smiled.

“You’re thinking of measuring me yourself?” He teased.

“What? No!” You squawked out in an unusually high voice making Bucky chuckle.

“Come on then.”

You walked back to the lounge and Bucky had a spot for you next to him on the couch. You smiled when he helped you sit and place your knitting bag next to you.

You pulled out your project and started to get organized when you felt Bucky sit next to you. You looked over at him and smiled wide, making him blush a little. He liked it when you flashed your smile at him. You looked around and everyone was concentrating on their stitches, so you smiled to yourself and started your project.

“What are you making over there?” Sam asked.

You looked at your green wool and smiled.

“I’m making you a sweater,” you joked, and his eyes widened.

“Oh…ok…” he said a little unsure.

“Give her your measurements Sam.” Bucky glared at him.

“I can get them,” you waved over at Bucky.

He leaned towards you and whispered in his deep voice only you could hear

“You’re not touching him,” then he leaned back and started knitting. Your mouth popped open, and you stared at him in shock.

He looked over at you and winked, then he went back to his project.

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin