ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

By the time you found yourself climbing up the old fire escape, your sandals clinking on the iron, your giggles muffled in your hand, you didn’t care about propriety. You didn’t care that it was after midnight. All you knew was you needed him.

You tapped lightly at his window.

Inside, Bucky was sprawled shirtless on his bed, trying to sleep with the sheet kicked down around his waist. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw you crouched there. “Jesus Christ!” he hissed, rushing across the room to tug the window open. “Are you crazy? My ma’s home!”

You tumbled inside, landing on your knees with a giggle, your hair messy from the humid breeze. “Missed you,” you whispered, eyes hazy and dreamy, like you couldn’t focus on anything but him.

Bucky’s heart thudded so hard it almost hurt. He shoved the window down, locked the door, and turned to you, running a hand through his hair. “If Ma finds you in here, she’ll—she’ll skin me alive.”

But then he saw your face. The flush on your cheeks, the dazed look in your eyes, the way you swayed a little like all you wanted was him to steady you.

And he did.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, hands gripping your shoulders as he tried to guide you toward the bed. “You’ve been drinkin’, huh? Shouldn’t be wanderin’ around at night like that.” He quickly closed and locked his bedroom door, both of your voices barely above a whisper.

“I missed you,” you breathed, tilting your chin up, eyes wide and glassy. “Kept thinking about you.”

Bucky’s chest seized. He was eighteen, cocky enough to swagger around Coney Island, bold enough to fight guys twice his size—but right then he felt like a boy teetering on the edge of something terrifying and wonderful.

“You can’t just—” he started, but then your mouth was on his.

The kiss was sloppy, desperate. You tasted like red wine and summer heat, and when you fisted his hair and pulled him down against you, he groaned low in his chest, already hard in his shorts.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed when you pulled back. “You—you can’t just crawl in my window like this. I’m not made of stone.”

“Good,” you murmured, tugging him toward the bed.

His knees hit the edge of the mattress and he almost toppled. You followed, laughing softly as you climbed beside him and pulled him to be half on top of you. His breath hitched audibly, eyes darting anywhere but you.

His elbows dug into the mattress on either side of your head, holding himself above you, heart pounding like it would crack his ribs. You wriggled beneath him, hips pressing up, and he gasped when your hand slid between your bodies.

“Wait—” His voice cracked as you palmed him through his pants. His body jolted, hips jerking helplessly against your touch.

“Feels good?” you whispered, eyes wide, playful but nervous too.

Bucky groaned into your neck, face burning. “God, yes… just—”

But then you slipped your hand into his waistband, fingers curling around him for the first time, and whatever protest he’d had died instantly. His whole body shuddered, forehead thudding against yours, a broken sound caught in his throat.

“Jesus,” he muttered, teeth gritted, breath ragged as you stroked him clumsily. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop.”

You kissed his jaw, his cheek, whispering, “You’re so warm, Buck. Never felt anything like this.”

His hands fisted the sheets beside your head, trying to hold still, but his hips rocked helplessly into your palm. He kissed you hard, panting against your lips, whispering your name like it was the only thing he knew.

He finally caught your wrist, gently pulling your hand away before he lost himself too soon. His eyes were dark, wide, but tender. “Let me—I wanna…”

Slowly, fumbling but mesmerized, he pushed your dress straps down your shoulders, kissing the newly exposed skin each time. His fingers trembled as he slid the fabric down, inch by inch, whispering apologies for how clumsy he was.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice cracking when your slip pooled around your waist and you lay bare beneath him. “So damn perfect.”

He kissed down your collarbone, down your throat, whispering soft nothings against your skin, until his hand slid lower. Hesitant at first, then bolder when you whimpered and shifted for him. His fingers found you, tentative strokes, and you gasped so loud you had to slap a hand over your own mouth.

“Good?” he whispered urgently against your neck, lips brushing your ear.

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut, hips rolling into his touch. “So good… don’t stop.”

He kissed your neck as his fingers worked you carefully, watching your face like he was memorizing every expression. Every little gasp made him shiver, every moan made him whisper, “God, you’re drivin’ me crazy, sweetheart… you’re so soft, so warm.”

When he finally slid a finger inside, you clutched his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. He groaned, kissing you deep, moving his hand slowly like he was terrified to hurt you.

“Just wanna get you ready,” he whispered, lips trailing over your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Wanna make it good for you.”

Your thighs trembled around his hand, the pleasure clumsy and overwhelming, and he kissed you through it, whispering over and over how much he loved you, how beautiful you were.

Bucky’s hand was shaking where it rested on your thigh, his other buried between your legs, fingers moving carefully as you gasped against his mouth. He kissed you like he could swallow the sounds, desperate and sweet, whispering apologies between each kiss.

“God, you feel so good… never touched anyone like this before,” he admitted, lips hot against your neck.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, clutching his shoulders. “I want you, Buck.”

He froze, forehead pressing to yours, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “Sweetheart… if we do this—there’s no takin’ it back.”

“I don’t want to take it back,” you murmured, pulling him closer. “I want my first time to be with you.”

Something raw passed over his face—half fear, half devotion—before he kissed you again, harder, and fumbled at the buttons of his pants.

By the time he was pushing his trousers down and fumbling out of them, you’d helped shove your slip lower, heart thudding in your ears. He settled above you, bracing himself on his elbows, and the old springs groaned so loudly you both froze.

Bucky muttered a strangled laugh into your shoulder. “We’re dead. She’s gonna hear every damn squeak.”

You giggled, tugging him down anyway. “Then be slow.”

He groaned like you’d just sentenced him. “Sweetheart, you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Sorry—God, I’m sorry, does it hurt?” His voice was panicked, tender.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “Just… slow.”

So he went slow. Inch by inch, stopping when you hissed, kissing your face like he could ease the sting away. When he was finally buried inside you, his whole body shuddered.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, forehead pressed hard to yours. “You feel… you feel so good. I don’t know if I can…”

“You can,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Move, Buck.”

And he did—tentative thrusts, clumsy, every shift making the bed creak and squeal beneath you. The two of you stifled laughter into each other’s mouths, gasps and giggles tangled together as he found a slow rhythm.

Each careful roll of his hips grew steadier, every kiss hungrier. The heat and closeness blurred everything until all you knew was him—his weight, his trembling hands, the whispered sweetheart, sweetheart against your lips.

his breath hot on your throat. “Don’t think I can hold on—”

“Don’t stop,” you begged, clutching him tighter.

His forehead dropped to yours, his words tumbling out between ragged breaths. “Gonna marry you one day. Swear it. Put a ring on your finger so everybody knows you’re mine.”

Your eyes fluttered, a gasp breaking from your throat at the sheer certainty in his voice. “Bucky…”

He kept going, like he couldn’t stop himself, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your ear. “Gonna give you a little house somewhere—just us. Fill it with kids. You’ll be barefoot in the kitchen, laughin’, cookin’, and I’ll come home from work and you’ll kiss me just like this—” He kissed you again, sloppy and desperate. “Gonna keep you knocked up, sweetheart, round with my babies all the time.”

The words should have sounded outrageous, but the way his voice cracked, full of awe and hunger, made you shudder beneath him.

“Yes,” you whispered, clutching him tighter. “Yes, Buck, I want that too.”

His hips moved harder, bed squealing beneath you, his lips dragging over your neck. “Gonna make you mine forever. My girl. My wife. My everything.”

You gasped at the picture, shuddering beneath him. “Want that,” you breathed, clutching his face so he’d see you meant it. “Want to be your wife. Want to have your babies. I’ll give you as many as you want.”

You moaned his name, dizzy from the heat, from him, from the pictures he painted so vividly—your future bound together, his body inside you now, his children in you someday.

Clark was already flushed pink from his chest up to his ears, sweat clinging to the curls that had fallen loose over his forehead. His glasses were abandoned on the nightstand, fogged earlier when you’d kissed him too hard, and his mouth was still a little swollen from where you’d bitten at his bottom lip.

He was inside you, thick and stretching, moving in this uneven rhythm that betrayed how badly he wanted to do everything right but how little experience he had. His grip on your waist was almost too careful, like he was afraid to crush you if he held any tighter.

And then he opened his mouth.

“God…you’re so… tight,” Clark groaned, the word tumbling out rough, unpolished. His brow furrowed in concentration as he drove into you a little deeper. “And warm. I.. oh, fuck-”

You whined, clenching around him, and his whole body shuddered. The sound only encouraged him, made him stumble through more words, panting against your mouth.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you. You feel, oh, you feel so perfect. I’ve never,” he broke off with a strangled sound as your nails dragged down his back.

“Clark,” you gasped, and he whined like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear you say his name like that.

He ducked his head, mortified at how much he was babbling, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Every clench of your body around him knocked the air from his lungs and shook words loose from him like prayers.

“You’re, fuck, you’re mine,” he blurted, hips stuttering. “You’re so beautiful, so sweet, I don’t deserve you,”

Your head fell back against the pillows, heat flooding through you at the way he said it. Raw, unfiltered, like he was confessing. He wasn’t even trying to be dirty. It was just spilling out of him, truth after truth.

And when he finally dared to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and desperate, it pushed you over the edge of restraint. You tightened around him, a cry breaking from your throat.

That nearly undid him.

“Tell me you like it,” he begged, thrusts growing deeper, harder, frantic. “Please.. I need to know. I need to know I’m making you feel good,”

You surged up and kissed him, wet and messy, tasting the groan that ripped from his chest. He kissed you back like he couldn’t get close enough, like he’d crawl inside your lungs if you’d let him.

When you pulled back, your lips brushing his, you whispered, “You’re so good, Clark. You’re perfect.”

He made a noise so low it vibrated in your bones, like the praise itself undid him. His big hands finally stopped being cautious. He grabbed your thighs and pushed them open wider, folding you beneath him as he pounded into you with a strength he hadn’t dared use before.

“You’re perfect. You’re mine. You’re everything,” he rambled, almost delirious. “I could stay inside you forever, never leave, I don’t care if I die here, I’d be happy,”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your own body arching up helplessly to meet his thrusts, each one rougher than the last. His hair stuck to his forehead, his mouth falling open as he lost rhythm, lost control, every inch of him begging to give you more.

“Fuck, sweetheart. I’m close, I can’t,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “I don’t want to stop, I don’t ever want to stop-”

And then he broke, slamming deep inside you as he spilled, a ragged cry tearing from his throat. He clung to you, trembling, still babbling against your neck.

“You’re so good. You’re perfect. I love you, I love you, I love you,”

His cock twitched inside you, hot and heavy, even as his body shook with the aftershocks. He buried his face in your skin, embarrassed, panting like he’d just run miles.

When he finally managed to look at you, his lips were red and swollen, eyes wide with uncertainty. “Did I… did I say too much? I couldn’t stop,”

You laughed softly, stroking his hair back from his forehead, still pulsing around him. “No, Clark. You said exactly what I wanted.”

The relief that bloomed in his chest was visible in his eyes, but so was something darker, hungrier. Because even as his blush deepened, you could still feel him hardening inside you again.

And when you whispered, “Why don’t you show me what else you’ve been holding back?” Clark growled, low and shaky, and flipped you onto your stomach like something inside him had finally snapped.

It starts the way it always does with Clark: sweet, unhurried, a little clumsy. He kisses like he thinks too much about it, pausing between every few brushes of lips like he’s worried he’s doing it wrong. His huge hands hover at your waist, barely touching, like he’s afraid of holding you too tight.

You murmur his name, pulling him closer, straddling his lap properly this time. He lets out a low, surprised sound against your mouth when your knees sink into the couch cushions on either side of him, like he hadn’t dared imagine you’d want him this close.

The kisses deepen, mouths opening, teeth clashing once before he laughs nervously into your lips. But then your hips shift, pressing down just right, your clit catching against the solid muscle of his thigh, and your laugh cuts into a soft, broken whimper.

Clark goes stock-still.

His hands freeze mid-hover, his lips stop moving, even his breath seems to catch in his throat. “Wait,” he blurts, pulling back just enough to see your face. His blue eyes are wide, worried. “Did I, did I hurt you? Was that, was I too..?”

“Clark,” you gasp, already chasing the friction again with a slow roll of your hips. “No, no. It feels good. So good.”

The panic in his face shifts into something else, something like disbelief. His mouth falls open, pink lips parted, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. “It… does?” His voice cracks on it, like he can’t quite fathom that’s true.

You nod quickly, pressing your forehead to his as your hips rock again. The pressure makes your thighs tremble, heat sparking low in your belly. “God, yes.”

Clark just stares, stunned, like his brain’s short-circuited. Then he whispers, shaky: “You’re, oh my god, you’re using me for that?”

You whimper, unable to stop the way your hips keep moving. The denim of his jeans is rough against you, just enough friction to make you dizzy.

He makes a choked noise in his throat, his hands finally daring to touch, settling heavy and unsure on your waist. “Does that, does that really feel good?”

You grab his wrists and guide his hands down, planting his big palms firmly on your hips. “Here. Help me move.” Your voice comes out breathless, desperate.

Clark groans like you’ve asked the impossible, but he obeys instantly, letting his fingers splay wide over you. His grip is clumsy at first, like he’s scared he’ll break you, but when you grind down harder and moan, his breath stutters. “Like that? Am I, am I doing it right?”

“Perfect,” you gasp, burying your face in his neck. “Just hold me there. Please, Clark, don’t let me stop.”

Something in him cracks open then. He ducks his head, lips finding your throat in sloppy, reverent kisses, his breath hot and shaky against your skin. “God, you’re so beautiful like this,” he babbles, every word raw and unpolished. “I can feel you, Jesus, grinding on me like that, fuck, you’re shaking,”

You whine, your nails digging into his shoulders, your hips rocking frantically now as he guides you. Every move drags your clit over the firm line of his thigh, and it’s overwhelming. You’re already spiraling.

Clark kisses higher, nipping at your jaw, whispering brokenly against your skin. “You’re, oh god, you’re getting off on me, aren’t you? Just, just using me like this, ”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, trembling against him. “Clark, I’m so close. Don’t stop,”

He moans into your neck, like the sound of it almost undoes him. His grip tightens, holding you steady as his thigh flexes under you, just slightly, just enough. “That’s it, baby. Stay right there, ride me. God, let me feel you, don’t stop till you cum, please let me make you cum, please-”

It tips you over the edge so fast you can barely breathe. Your hips stutter, grinding hard against him as your orgasm rips through you, moaning his name against his mouth.

Clark sounds ruined, his own breath coming in ragged gasps as he holds you tight, kissing your temple desperately. His hands are trembling on your hips.

When you finally collapse against his chest, spent and shaking, he stammers out, almost pleading: “Did I.. was that me? Did I make you feel that good?”

You laugh breathlessly into his collarbone, pressing a kiss there. “Clark, you made me cum so hard I saw stars.”

His ears flame red, his whole chest swelling like he doesn’t even know what to do with the pride in him. He kisses the top of your head, still dazed, still whispering: “Stay here, do it again. Please. I wanna feel you again.”

Clark had you in his lap on the narrow twin bed, your knees straddling his hips, his broad chest flushed pink where you’d raked your nails across it. His curls were damp with sweat, his glasses thrown somewhere on the floor, and his huge hands were clutching your waist like he thought you might slip away.

You rocked down on him, and he let out a sound so loud, so guttural, it startled even him. A low, broken moan that echoed in the quiet room, ripped out of him like he’d been holding it in for years.

“Cl-Clark!” you hissed, half laughing, half gasping as he buried his face in your shoulder. “You’re so loud, someone’s gonna hear,”

But he didn’t even try to stop. His hips thrust up into you again, and another noise tore out of him, desperate and unrestrained. “Oh my god, fuck, you feel so,”

You clamped a hand over his mouth instinctively, muffling him. His moan buzzed hot and needy against your palm, and his wide blue eyes snapped up to yours. Glassy, ruined, begging.

He was shaking his head like he couldn’t help it, his moans spilling out into your hand, his brows furrowed in desperation. The sound was filthy, wet and muffled, each thrust making him groan into your skin like he was being tortured.

“Baby,” you whined, trying to keep quiet even as your walls clenched around him, “you’ve gotta keep it down,”

But Clark just grabbed your wrist and held your hand tighter over his mouth, eyes rolling back as his hips bucked up uncontrollably. He wanted you to silence him, wanted to moan and cry into your palm while he lost himself inside you.

He was babbling nonsense against your skin, words broken by the slap of your bodies, “so good… can’t stop, you’re perfect, so tight,” and you could feel every vibration of his voice against your hand.

“Clark,” you gasped, trembling as you rode him faster, “you sound so fucking pretty like this. Moan for me, baby, I’ll keep you quiet. Just let go.”

His muffled cry when he came was like nothing you’d ever heard: loud even under your hand, desperate and sweet, his whole body locking up as he spilled deep inside you. He held you against him, trembling, still groaning brokenly into your palm until the waves passed.

When you finally eased your hand away, his cheeks were scarlet, lips swollen, breath ragged.

“Sorry,” he panted, voice hoarse, “I didn’t mean to,”

You cut him off with a kiss, slow and deep, still rocking your hips against his softened cock. “Don’t be sorry. I love hearing you lose control for me.”

And the way his cock twitched inside you at that? You knew you’d be spending the rest of the night seeing just how loud you could make him get.

You’re lying in bed, book balanced on your chest, legs twisting in the sheets like they’re suddenly the enemy.

It’s not your fault. Clark left for the living room over an hour ago, shirtless in just those stupid soft gray sweats, his glasses sliding down his nose, all flushed and post-shower, and he didn’t even kiss you before walking off.

You’re squirming. Restless. The ache between your thighs building, pulse racing just under your skin.

You think you’re being discreet about it. Quiet little breaths. The occasional press of your thighs. Maybe your hand drifts a little too low, but you don’t do anything yet, not really. Just imagining his mouth. That warm, reverent tongue. The way he watches you when he’s between your legs.

And then…

“Baby?” His voice drifts in from the hallway, soft but amused. “You okay?”

Your whole body freezes. “Yeah! Why?”

He laughs. Low. Dangerous.

“You forget what I can hear?”

Your face burns hot. “Oh my God.”

There’s a pause. Then soft footsteps. Then-

He’s leaning in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, glasses glinting. That stupid sexy smirk on his face.

“You’ve been shifting around in bed for twenty minutes. Your heartbeat’s been going crazy.”

You scramble to sit up, flustered. “Clark, I didn’t-”

He crosses the room in two steps. Crawls up the bed slowly, until he’s hovering over you.

“Were you thinking about me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice teasing, warm, hungry.

You stare up at him, breathless. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I’m not playing at all,” he says, and then he’s pulling the sheets down, kissing your stomach, sliding your underwear off with excruciating care.

He kisses the inside of your thigh once, and then twice, and then pauses. Looks up at you with a grin that’s way too pleased.

“You know I can hear your heartbeat change right before you cum?” he says, like it’s a fun fact.

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re such a perv.”

He laughs into your skin. “Maybe. But I’m your perv.”

And then his mouth is on you. Immediately, perfectly, no teasing anymore. He’s so sure of what you need now. He knows the way your breathing changes when he flicks his tongue just right, the whimper you make when his fingers curl inside you.

He’s not just listening, he’s learning you. Every sound. Every breath. Every heartbeat.

And right as you’re about to cum, he groans like he feels it happening in his chest.

“There you go, baby,” he breathes, as you cum around his fingers. “Know you so well,”

♡♡♡

You hadn’t known true comfort until you started dating Bob.

Falling asleep to the sound of his breathing and waking up to his hair on your cheek felt like living inside a dream you never wanted to end.

You’re sitting with him in the living room, music playing softly in the background, a discarded book on his lap as he relaxes against you. Your fingers card through his hair absently, soothing and repetitive, as you massage and scratch his scalp. The tension from his body disappearing with a pass of your hand, Bob felt like it was magic.

Though he thought everything you did was magic. Whether you were cooking dinner or just tying your shoes, he’d follow you around without even intending to, like a sunflower chasing the sun.

You were funny without trying, a little chaotic, beautiful, and had a knack for making the best out of a bad situation.   

How could he not?

Even before you two started dating, you were a source of comfort for him.

You’d found him wandering up and down the halls of Avengers Tower like a little ghost when you popped your head out of your room and said, “A little late for a walk, isn’t it?”

He jumped, startled. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Bob wasn’t feeling great that night, his mind louder than he could bear, thoughts pinging off the inside of his skull.

“Not at all,” you said softly. You didn’t pry, or judge, or push. Just offered friendship. “Wanna hang out?”

And before he knew it, he was lying beside you on your bed, sharing quiet snacks and listening to you tell him stories.

“...and ever since that day, I’ve been scared of parakeets,” you finished with a shrug, like it wasn’t the most bizarre confession he’d ever heard. He let out a soft laugh as your fingers found their place in his hair, slow and soothing, like you already knew exactly what he needed.

Each stroke quieted the noise in his head. The bad thoughts dulled under your touch.

So your relationship has always been a two-way street.

He needed you just as much as you needed him.

It’s not long before you’re hearing soft snores fill the living room. Bob’s now fast asleep on your lap, his weight warm and heavy like a blanket. And you had to say no other blanket could compare.

Ava enters the room, slowing at the doorway at the familiar sight of you and Bob all cuddled up, tangled in each other.

“Not a word,” you murmur without looking up, already feeling the grin tugging at her lips.

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave you two to it,” she says, waving a hand as she walks toward the kitchen. Then she pauses, smirking. “He’s like your dog.”

“What?” you whisper sharply, eyes widening as you try to limit your freakout, God forbid you woke him up. “That’s absurd.”

Ava narrows her eyes in mock suspicion. “You give him head pats and scratches.”

You furrow your eyebrows. Okay, yes… you did that. You often ran your fingers through his hair. But it wasn’t weird! It was soothing for both of you.

“And?”

“You take him on walks to the park,” Ava adds, arms crossing with dramatic flair.

So what? You liked to walk off the stress after a long day with your hot boyfriend. And Bob liked you. And sunshine. And trees. And squirrels. Okay, that wasn't helping.

“You also carry snacks for him. And the way he looks at you like his tail is wagging, the way he waits by the elevator after your missions like a golden retriever waiting for its human—”

“Okay, okay, I get it…”

“I’m surprised you don’t call him your good boy.”

The absurd amount of proof was starting to pile up.

You glance down at Bob, still sleeping peacefully, arms curled around your waist, lips parted slightly in a soft breath.

Maybe Ava had a point.

You had a lot of re-evaluating to do.

♡♡♡

Bob’s confused.

All day, you’ve been off.

He woke up next to you, and instead of your usual good-morning ritual, your hands in his hair, lips brushing his forehead, you gave him… a high-five?

Then at lunch, you sat across from him instead of next to him. You barely made eye contact. Your responses were clipped, your laughter so awkward it sounded almost robotic. Every attempt he made to touch your hand, your arm, anything, dodged like a pro in a dodgeball tournament.

“What are you doing?” he finally asked.

“Stretching? It’s uh… good for circulation,” you replied far too quickly, already taking a step backwards. “I should go,” you added, and just like that, you scurried off.

Then, when he swung by your room later with your favourite smoothie and suggested taking a walk in the park, something you usually jumped at, you hesitated.

He swears he saw you flinch, or wince, like the very idea poked a sore spot.

“Maybe another day…,” you said, avoiding his eyes.

And then the door clicked shut.

Leaving Bob standing there in the middle of the hallway, holding two smoothies with a heavy heart. 

So he was confused, and a little hurt, but mostly scared. What if he did something wrong?

What if he crossed a line without realising it? What if you were trying to break up with him, but couldn’t say the words?

What if this was the beginning of the end?

♡♡♡

You find Bob standing by the window, arms crossed loosely, shoulders drawn tight. He’s staring out like the glass might offer him answers he can’t find anywhere else.

He hears your footsteps before you even speak, and turns around.

You freeze.

Before you can retreat into your room, maybe hide under your blanket and avoid the whole mess, he stops you with a soft but firm, “Hey…”

You give him a small smile, sheepish and hesitant. But he doesn’t return it.

He looks too sad to smile. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, right away with no hesitation or preamble.

You blink, completely startled. That’s not what you expected.

You’d been avoiding him because you thought you were the one in the wrong.

“Are you mad at me?” he continues, stepping closer. His voice cracks, almost imperceptibly.

His hands take yours, fingers curling around yours carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. They’re trembling.

“Bob…” you whisper, throat tightening. His eyes are glossy and so distraught, the dictionary definition of puppy dog eyes, and you feel unbelievably guilty. You never wanted to be the cause of that. 

“I’m not mad at you,” you say, voice quiet. “I just…”

You pause, grasping for words, but they tangle before you can make sense of them.

How do you explain that you’re terrified you’ve been patting him like your little golden retriever?

“You don’t like me anymore?” he asks.

The words hit like a punch.

“No!” you blurt, eyes wide. “I like you so much, I don’t even know what to do with myself. I like your laugh, and the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention, and—and the way you sometimes snort when you’re falling asleep. I like everything that makes you you.”

His expression shifts, a flicker of hope in there, breaking through the sadness. 

“I just… I haven’t been treating you right,” you continue, cringing at yourself. “I realised I’ve been acting like you’re this… this adorable creature. Like a dog. And I don’t want you to feel like I’m babying you or… or making you small.”

Bob blinks, stunned, then cracks a soft, incredulous smile. A little breath of laughter escapes him as he shakes his head. And all you could think was, how could he be laughing when you’re the world’s worst girlfriend?

“You don’t have to worry about that, okay?”

“How am I not supposed to worry?” you exclaim. “I take you on walks. I give you head scratches. I literally carry snacks for you, Bob!”

Sensing your rising panic, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you.

There’s no resisting it. The feel of him, the warmth of his chest and the steady beat of his heart. It all just melts you instantly. Bob Reynolds, the man you are.

“That’s just the way we show affection,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m okay with that. I like that.”

Then he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“What I’m not okay with… is you ignoring me.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle and steady.

“It hurt,” he admits. “Not being able to hang out with you. Not being able to touch you.”

A shiver crawls up your spine as he leans in, nuzzling against your neck like he’s trying to remind your skin of what it’s missed. His nose brushes the soft curve of your throat, and you exhale shakily. He really knew just how to make you feel weak. 

Your heart drops straight to your stomach.

“I won’t push you away,” you say, instantly. Your hands tighten around his. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I just ended up… being stupid.”

Bob shakes his head gently. “You’re not stupid. You’re just… caring. And I love that about you.”

The words hit so softly, so sweetly, they leave you weightless, like your heart’s untethered and floating somewhere just above your ribs.

“But…” he adds, a playful glint flickering in his eyes, “you do have to make it up to me.”

You raise a brow, lips twitching. “How?”

Instead of answering, he leans in and kisses you. It’s slow and deep, making your heart flutter and skip a beat or two. The kind of kiss that makes your knees forget how to function. And before you can recover, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms.

You squeak a little, arms looping around his neck. “Bob—!”

He’s just far enough to grin against your mouth, your noses brushing.

“We’ll figure it out.”

So in his own way him coming to help Chris chop up a body – with no questions asked about the situation or the identity of the person – or him just automatically beginning to clean up his trailer even while Chris isn’t in a good mood/being receptive to that kind action is his way of saying ‘I care about you, I love you. I’m here better because I can make it that way and that means I want to take care of this mess, so you don’t have to. I want your world to be’. Some of this also comes from the fact he hasn’t had much normal social bonding and just casual hanging out so doing something for the people he cares about makes him feel more valuable (whether he consciously realises or not that’s why he does it).

When it comes to having a partner, he’d always be bringing them things they didn’t think about for themselves. He’d grin brighter than the sun if they gave him a little bit of praise even just a ‘Thanks Adrian, you always know what I need’ and quite possibly explode if they gave him a kiss to cheek as a reward. He’d always be quietly fixing little things around his partner’s place or adjusting them in his own. Like putting their favourite coffee/tea/drink in a place slightly easier to reach if he noticed them struggle even slightly. He’d definitely instinctively clean up after sex. Also his whole subby service top thing (which will be further elaborated on in imminent posts don’t you worry – especially with all the acespec Adrian thoughts I’m having currently at this second)

you chuckle at him and he tries to laugh if off, but his voice breaks.

“sweetheart… it’s just laundry.”

but deep down he’s touched that you think that. he thinks you only think he’s strong when he’s lifting cars or saving the world, but when you express that just because he knows how to fold your delicates? his little heart is doing somersaults.

You only moaned around his fingers, tongue swirling greedily, sucking harder like you wanted to pull the marrow out of him. Every time he twitched to take his hand back, you whined and pawed at him, clinging until he relented.

"Five more minutes, honey," he promised through his clenched teeth, fingers flexing against your tongue. "Let me just finish this draft, then I'll—fuck—then I'll give you what you want."

But five minutes were too long. You slipped off his fingers with a wet pop and a pitiful whimper, nuzzling at his thigh until your face pressed against the hard bulge in his slacks. He cursed under his breath, hand trembling over the keyboard.

"Persistent little thing, aren't you," he muttered, reaching down at last. His zipper slid open, and his pulsing length spilled free—already sweetened with pre-cum, flushed, leaking just from watching you ruin yourself on his hand.

"Alright, puppy," he smiled, teasing now, guiding you close. "If you need it that bad, then warm me. Sit pretty with your mouth full and let me work."

You were on him in seconds, lips stretching wide as you sank down his length, spit bubbling and sliding past the gap between your warm cheeks and his slicked cock to drool off your chin. You gagged lightly, throat fluttering around his fat tip, but you didn't pull back—your eyes rolled up at him, glassy and wet, desperate for his approval.

Clark's breath caught, his typing faltering. "Pup," he groaned, left hand tangling in your hair, holding you steady. His cock sat heavy on your tongue, drool spilling freely as you tried to take more, choking yourself just to throat him deep.

"Good puppy," he rasped, hips bucking when you bottomed him out. "You're so messy—so fuckin' messy. You like sittin' there droolin' all over yourself while I work, huh Can't go five minutes without havin' something to suck on."

You whimpered around his cock, spit dripping onto your chest now, strings of it connecting your lips to the thick base every time you bobbed shallowly before sinking back down. He groaned helplessly, glasses all messed up, words on the screen turning sloppy as his focus fractured.

"Supposed to be finishin' this story," he muttered, breathless, eyes locked on the slick mess of your mouth around him. "But how the hell am I supposed to write when puppy's makin' love to my cock like this?"

You blinked up at him, spit-slick cheeks hollowing around him as you gagged again, throat convulsing, saliva gushing down his shaft in filthy rivulets. His chair creaked as he sagged back, one big hand unsure on the keyboard, the other gripping your head like he couldn't decide whether to push you deeper or pull you off.

"Goddamn it," he groaned, biting down on his lip as his thighs twitched under you. "Be a good puppy. Keep me warm—open wide, yeah—fuck—keep me warm 'til I'm done, and then I'll fuck you on the couch, hm?"

And you waited, messy and drooling and obsessed, his cock nesting in your throat while Clark Kent, Pulitzer-winning journalist and part-time savior of the world, tried—and failed—to finish his article with his needy puppy choking happily on his lap.

It starts lazy, like it always does with him. The morning light is soft through the curtains of his tiny Metropolis apartment, his sheets tangled around your waist. Clark’s still half-asleep, warm and heavy beside you, when he stirs and buries his face against your neck.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough, body already hard against your thigh.

You giggle softly, cupping the back of his neck. “Morning, Smallville.”

His lips twitch into a sleepy smile before he kisses you slow and unhurried. The kind of kiss that makes your chest ache, because it feels like he has nowhere else to be but here. But it deepens quickly, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, tugging you closer until he’s pressed against you.

Before long, he’s moving over you, bracing himself on his elbows, his hair falling into his face. You can feel him, hot and heavy, as he pushes inside with a groan.

It’s slow, so slow. Clark fucks like he loves. Steady, careful, almost reverent. His forehead rests against yours as he rocks into you, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips between each thrust. He whispers things he probably doesn’t even realize he’s saying- “so pretty,” “so perfect,” “mine.”

It’s overwhelming, the stretch of him combined with the tenderness. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist. And he doesn’t stop until you’re crying out softly beneath him, shivering through your release while he keeps moving, whispering encouragements against your lips.

When he finally spills inside you, it’s with a groan muffled into your neck, his whole body tensing before collapsing over you. His weight is comforting, grounding.

But when he pulls out a few minutes later and sits back, you can’t hide the way your thighs twitch, your muscles jerking with aftershocks. You try to close your legs, embarrassed, but they won’t cooperate, trembling uncontrollably.

“Hey,” Clark says softly, eyes wide, concerned. He smooths a big hand down your thigh, frowning. “You okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you breathe, face hot as you cover it with your hands. “J-just… can’t stop shaking.”

For a second, he looks uncertain. Then his lips curl into the slowest, smug little grin you’ve ever seen on him, his dimples deepening. “God,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I really did that to you.”

“Clark,” you whine, mortified.

But he’s already leaning down, kissing the corner of your mouth. His hand squeezes your trembling thigh again, as if to prove it’s real. He chuckles, low and rough, before whispering:

“Easy there, Bambi. Didn’t mean to fuck you dumb.”

Your eyes fly open, scandalized. “Clark!”

He laughs outright now, shoulders shaking, his hair a mess as he looks down at you with that maddeningly sweet grin. “What? You’re all shaky and wide-eyed. Like a baby deer finding her legs.”

You smack his chest weakly, whining, but he just catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress above your head, his other hand sliding higher on your thigh. He kisses your temple, murmuring, “My little Bambi.”

The nickname makes your cheeks burn, but your thighs twitch again at the sound, giving you away completely. Clark notices instantly, his smirk turning wicked.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he teases, nipping at your jaw. “You want me to fuck you till your legs give out, call you my sweet Bambi?”

You hide your face in his shoulder, but your nails dig into his skin, betraying you. Clark just laughs again, low and pleased, kissing your hair.