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attendsquoi · 2 days ago

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fuckable

pt. ii of suckable summary: you and clark break the "don't fuck your roommate" rule.

tags: 18+, smut (so much smut), roommate!clark, established friendship, f!reader, clark is older than reader (non-specific,) reader doesn't know clark is superman, slight angst, more mentions of clois past, fwb shenannigans, blowjobs, m!masturbation, accidental voyeurism, finger fucking (m!receiving), pillow humping, there’s a dildo, comeshot, facial, titty humping, big butt!clark, big boobs!clark, big dick!clark, sub!clark

a/n: special thank u to @joeloverture who lets me be a comebrain in her dms 24/7. this fic is 4 u <3

wc: 8.4k

my masterlist - my askbox

It’s been weeks since you first tried to suck all eight inches of Clark Kent’s dick. You still haven’t managed to make it all the way down. You’re not giving up.

“O-okay, mm– don’t choke,” Clark sighs. He’s finally managed to feel comfortable putting his hand in your hair, but only barely. It rests at the crown of your head, not pushing or pulling, just touching. He just wants to touch you.

Your throat contracts uncomfortably as his tip pushes at the back of your throat. You’re really trying your best not to choke on him since he hates that, but it’s difficult to open up. Something about this challenge is so exciting, especially seeing how much Clark enjoys it.

He’s like a puppy. Each time you even begin to suggest the idea of “practicing” again you can see his dick jump in his pants. Clark’s expression is always formed into a shy look, but the shimmer of excited horniness can’t be hidden in the blush of his cheeks and the light of his eyes. He always says “we don’t have to, it’s okay,” but the fact that you want to practice sets him off every time. He’ll scamper off to the couch while shoving his pants down his thighs, usually leaving his boxers on since he likes being teased through the fabric.

It’s exactly what happened earlier tonight. Clark’s boxers lay beside him, of course with a small stain of precome on the front, and his pants are forgotten somewhere on the kitchen floor. You had caught him washing the dishes and something about him being so responsible had your jaw tingling with a need to try fitting him in your mouth again. He’s fully leaned back on the couch now, his eyes trained on the ceiling as he breathes with an open mouth. One hand is still tangled in your hair, but the other one is cupping his own breast. Clark kneads the tit in his fingers, only letting his thumb brush over his nipple when something feels particularly good. You know why this is, and it’s why you’re keeping your hands to yourself as you kneel with his dick enveloped between your lips.

Clark has a problem with coming. Not coming too fast, but too much. And he can’t recover very quickly from it, which is terrible for practicing sucking his dick. Even though he’s around the same size while soft, it goes down much easier which feels like cheating. So you have to keep your hands to yourself, or at least he’s asked you to. It’s kind of okay, but you really miss the feeling of his skin in your hands, the weight of his pretty tits.

At least you get to watch.

His skin looks glowier than usual tonight. It’s hotter than usual, so there’s a chance he’s just sweating, but his breasts are glistening in the yellow light of the lamp. The darker hair that’s smattered between his tits is slightly sweaty and you wish you could pull off him and lick at it, but then you’d lose progress. As if this is even about that anymore.

Finally your throat opens a little more and you manage to fit another half inch down. It makes your eyes roll back for a second, the pleasant feeling of a full mouth and throat shooting a thrill up your spine. You’ve mostly been using your hands to measure how far down you get on him, starting with both your hands wrapped around almost all his firth, then removing fingers as you ease down. Tonight you’ve finally reached the last three fingers wrapped around him.

“S-slow,” Clark whines softly, his hips desperately trying not to lift off the couch. “Slow, you’re good, you’re doing so good.”

Everything in you wants to push yourself further, to say fuck it and just suck him down your throat and bury your nose in that delicious little patch of hair at his base, but you won’t. He wants it slow, and you’re not even supposed to be getting him off. You’re proving a point.

“Geez,” Clark says. He seems to be grateful for the lull in your practice as you try to get a hold of yourself. “I don’t think anyone’s ever gotten… that far.”

Stupid Clark and his mouth. Each time you do this you tell yourself you cannot be getting yourself off while you suck his dick, but the heel of your foot always ends up pressed against your crotch. Your foot drags underneath you as you try to stealthily slide it to where you need it most. He hasn’t caught you doing this before, or at least he hasn’t said anything about it previously. Your eyes flutter again as the heel of your foot finally presses to your core, and your fingers press into his thighs. It feels like just enough to keep you satisfied until you’re done here and can go back to your room to fuck yourself properly.

Your breath finally evens out as much as it can with over half of Clark in your throat and he rubs your head gently, telling you again that you’re doing well.

“So good, you’re getting further everytime,” he sighs faintly. His head is tilted down to look at you while his hand rests on his belly. “Wish I could repay you for this in some way. Mmh–”

A hot rush crawls across your cheeks as Clark says that. He has mentioned “repaying” you once or twice, but it’s not… something you can allow. Sucking his dick is one thing, spreading your legs for him is another. It can’t go farther than it has, not when he’s still so freshly out of a relationship, so you don’t reply. You keep your mouth full of him and just enjoy the weight of his thick cock in your mouth, let it drown out the noise of what this could mean, or accidentally lead to, and focus on him.

—

The normalcy after these practice sessions used to feel comfortable and normal. At some point last week though, Clark had kissed the top of your head before he had ducked out of the bathroom and gone to bed. He had said “good night,” and pressed a kiss to the top of your head as you brushed your teeth. And you just had to stand there, foamy mouthed from toothpaste and throat still raw from his dick, and accept that this is what you’ve created.

And it isn’t going away.

Clark isn’t home a lot of the time still, though you do know he has time off coming up. You’re kind of banking on him not being home during that time too, maybe going back to see his parents in Smallville, and leaving you alone. The fact that Clark is so easily affectionate with you is starting to make you scared. All at once you want to suck his dick as far down your throat as you can, but also you’re desperately trying to pull away from him. It’s terrifying that this big man is suddenly under your thumb, silently whining for more even though he never says anything at all. Is it you that’s needy, or is it him? You don’t know. This isn’t worth figuring out, you’re roommates that experiment with his huge body. It’s fine.

Everything about this would be fine if he wasn’t in a long term relationship just seven months ago. You might even be willing to break the roommate rule of “absolutely no fucking.” The idea that you could be Clark’s rebound is something weirdly scary, preventing you from letting yourself admit that you might have a crush on him. Putting any feelings into this only sets the rug under your feet, allowing a chance for it to be pulled right out. Fumbling Clark after seeing his polite boy attitude and sucking on the anaconda in his pants would feel like… like you don’t know. Every time you think about it you feel dumber.

What you do know about Clark and Lois Lane is scarce. You know that they broke up amicably, that they were together for almost a year, and that they’re managing to maintain a friendship. Clark has previously said that a lot of their friendship is solely so Jimmy doesn’t feel awkward and so things don’t get ugly at work. But if he isn’t talking about her more than this, then what is being left unsaid?

You don’t want to care, but can you help it?

Something seriously must have been wrong with Clark for things to go wrong. The hurt on his face the first time he mentioned her told you that it was him that definitely screwed things fully over. You can’t imagine what, though. Clark doesn’t seem very argumentative from what you can tell, and with how quiet he gets about the breakup you can’t imagine that he cheated. Did he have some evil alter-ego that ruined everything? In all the safety you feel in Clark and his ways and his energy, something feels like it’s squirreled away. It must be Lois, is what you’ve concluded with.

Not that it should matter.

It shouldn’t pop into your mind ever. You shouldn’t wonder if he’s thinking of her when his eyes are closed and you’re massaging his dick in your mouth, you shouldn’t wonder if he wishes she was there when he opens his eyes to look down at you, and you definitely shouldn’t wonder if he ever called her baby. He’s never called you baby. Only your name. (is Clark a “baby” guy?)

This wondrous jealousy only festers into something uglier as Clark’s week off approaches. He keeps talking about how much he feels like he’ll miss work and his friends. You know he loves his job, but that’s where he sees Lois. You’re frustrated with him and yourself at the same time. It feels like you’re upset that he has another best friend, not even that there’s another woman but just the idea of him missing someone else is overwhelming. He isn’t even yours. You have the possessiveness of a petulant child, though you know that Clark is so much more than a toy you don’t want to share. He’s a friend. What would the loss of Clark feel like now? After you’ve lived with him, experienced him, and found yourself accustomed to his presence in so many ways, how could you survive the loss of a friend and somewhat-lover like him?

—

It’s making you push him away.

You don’t realize it at first since he’s out of the house a fair bit still, but you’re not acting on your wants anymore. The amount of time you spend in your room when he’s home isn’t just noticeable, it’s agitating him. He keeps knocking whenever he gets home from work, or from going out with Jimmy, and asking if you’re okay. You keep telling him yes, you’re busy, you’re on the phone. So long as you’re too busy to pay attention to him, you don’t have to look at him. Even if you are thinking of him the whole time you’re laying in bed, aching to have him in your mouth again.

Of course, you could just talk to him. You could sit him down and set boundaries for this weird thing you have. But then there’s more questions. It never ends.

If he were over Lois, you aren’t prepared to take on a relationship. You’re terrified of the idea that Clark might want you to be his something and then there’s a whole other world of problems that could come with that. Dating your roommate is a terrible idea.

If he weren’t over Lois though, and you are just a rebound, then… what? Maybe you’d cry, feel angry, and tell him that you’re never sucking his dick again. Well, you don’t want that either. You do want to keep sucking his dick. But you don’t want to be his rebound.

You wallow in your room for hours, listening to him as he comes home and leaves again and again. There is no reassurance for your indecisiveness, only guilt for avoiding him for so long.

Clark is really hurting over this. He hasn’t told you, obviously, since you haven’t spoken to him yet this week, but he keeps asking if you need anything through the barrier of your bedroom door. The times you’ve left your room while he’s home he hasn’t said much, just stared at you with this look of “what did i do?” And the apartment is so annoyingly clean. Never a dish in the sink, never a speck of dust on the sidetables, and the shower is spick and span. It only serves as a reminder of what you’re pushing away. It hurts so much you wonder if you’re really even protecting yourself from harm.

—

Friday, the day before his time off begins, you decide to slink out of your hole of guilt and jealousy.

It only took a full week of neglecting all of your roommate duties, showing up to your job with only half your brain in your head, and completely ignoring Clark, to realize that ignorance is not bliss. Clark is too nice to hurt like this, and you don’t want to screw up your friendship with him just because you’re scared that you’ll be a rebound. You knew what you were getting into when you offered to put him in your mouth, consciously or not. Clark wasn’t a stranger with a history you didn’t know about, you knew. It’s time to face the music and let this mess ride.

So you decide on starting dinner a little earlier. It’s Friday and you know he might be tired, and he’ll be hungry. God can that man eat.

You pull out the frozen dumplings from the freezer at around 5pm. He gets off work around 5ish usually, so hopefully by the time he’s home you’ll have your “i’m sorry clark” meal ready for him. He’s been in love with these lately and you can tell. The packaging has been filling up the garbage for the past month because each bag only has “approximately 22” per bag, and Clark can eat the whole bag if he wants. It used to baffle you, but after seeing what he looks like beneath his clothing, it’s no longer confusing. His body puts that food away good.

The bag turns out to be about three quarters of the way full,which should be enough, so you pour in all the dumplings. Hot water scalds your forearm for a moment when they splash in, but it only hurts for a second. You can’t believe you’re doing this anyways. Clark won’t be mad at you, but he’ll want to talk about stuff. There’s no game plan for his questions, you’ll just answer honestly and hope that he’ll be able to look at you the same.

A bubbling noise is the only sound in the whole apartment as you cook. You end up boiling some vegetables and microwaving some fried rice that Clark must have made while you were hate-hibernating. The dumplings dance in the bubbles of the boiling water as you watch them. It smells good in the kitchen, something that would normally cause you to be hungry, but right now you just feel nervous. You’re either about to lose the dick of your life, or the friend of your life, or maybe both.

But there’s no time to overthink.

Clark comes stumbling through the door at 5:10, a surprisingly early showup considering he typically misses his bus.

It doesn’t seem like he realizes you’re out of your room at first. You listen to the soft sound of him slipping off his work shoes, hanging up his shoulder bag on the hook, and slipping his ancient laptop out to put away in his room. He’s breathing a little heavily but his steps are still gentle, like he’s afraid of being too noisy.

Finally, he steps into the main part of the apartment, and you turn to face him.

He looks surprised to see you, but he also looks… like Clark. Not even Clark, but clark, with a lowercase c. The guy looks exhausted, not like bags under his eyes tired, but the-life-has-been-sucked-out-of-him tired. Dead behind the eyes. And he’s still so handsome.

Usually Clark wears a suit to work, with ties varying in plain colours. He says that it’s important to him to feel professional and “in uniform.” He’s super anal about this uniform too, you swear he’s the only man you’ve ever seen iron his clothes. But today, he’s a little more casual. There’s still a dress shirt and a tie, but rather than a suit jacket, he’s opted for a dark grey sweater vest. Not like a dorky one, but a loose one that hangs on his frame enough to conceal his hugeness yet exemplify it at the same time. He looks cute, but hurt.

“Hey,” he says. It isn’t all the way normal, slightly hesitant. You give him a smile that feels weird. The dumplings are sitting on a big plate behind you, the sauce packet laying beside it on the countertop. “You’re feeling better I guess?”

You nod. Clark nods, placing his laptop on the dining room table.

“You wanna eat dinner together?” He asks as he slips into his designated seat. You nod again, and there’s the fond smile you’ve been missing. Clark’s cheeks push up his face, his eyes squinting up, and those dimples. God, he makes everything in you a conflicted mess.

—

Dinner is quiet. Clark takes his time eating all but five dumplings on the plate, leaving them for you, and then scarfs down the rice and veggies. He seems really happy to be sitting with you again, but there’s still a certain amount of mystery in his eyes. You can’t bring yourself to eat, too afraid that the mystery you’re seeing behind his eyes is the same one you’re trying to solve.

He’s zoning out, staring at his plate, when you speak.

“Sorry I um… was like that, for a bit,” you say stiltedly. You’re kind of hoping he just lets this go and also doesn’t want to think about it. This could be so easy if neither of you thought about it.

Clark looks up, almost alarmedly, and shakes his head. “What? No– no I don’t, it’s fine that you needed a bit. We all get into slumps sometimes,” he reassures quickly. His hand is fidgeting with his napkin, scrumpling the paper up in his big palm. “I’m not like this,” he gestures around his tired face, “because of that. I’m glad you’re feeling better, honest.”

Clark swallows the saliva in his mouth and breathes deep. His chest fills, then releases, and his fingers start to tear at the edges of the napkin.

“It’s Lois, at work,” he admits.

Oh. Your jaw clenches but you try to look like any normal concerned friend would rather than a jealous roommate whose mouth he occasionally fucks.

“I don’t like talking about her,” he prefaces, “because I think she knows too much about me. I was really, really, in love with her. Like spectacularly in love, and so I just was vulnerable all the time and she knows everything about me ever. And it was fine when we were together but…” He turns his head to the side, raising his arm to rest his cheek in his hand. “But now we aren’t together. And she still knows everything about me. And she still doesn’t love me.”

Again, Clark never talks about her. All you previously knew, was that they were together, and now they were not, and that they are co-workers still. You probably could have figured that Clark is the type to fall hard and fast considering everything about him, but now it’s coming from the horse’s mouth.

“She just keeps talking to me, y’know? And she just knows me. The things she says, the inside jokes, the knowing looks,” he shakes his head, sighing again. “Lois knows me, but she never made me feel seen. I saw her and it was like cupid had struck me or whatever, but when she saw me she just saw me. I just wish someone could see me, like how I saw her.”

His arm falls back down to rest on the table and he turns his face back to you. Clark looks significantly less dead inside now but more vulnerable than ever.

“I think I just need to sleep this off, right? I have the next week off so I won’t have to feel her eyes on me for a bit,” he decides. You feel bad for not saying anything but you’re honestly speechless. He’s just resolved your insecurities about his ex without even knowing you were insecure in the first place. “You’ll probably be the only one I see,” he says.

—

He told you to leave the dishes from dinner in the sink, and that he’ll do them when he gets up tomorrow morning, but you need to do something with your hands. You’re not shaking, or really feeling anything in particular, but your problem was just… resolved. It’s no longer an anxiety that Clark might be hanging on to Lois. If anything, it seems like he’s tired of being around his ex constantly.

The soap from the dishes rings up around your wrists as you scrub the plates. It’s thrilling to know you’re not really a rebound, but things are still somewhat in the air. You should have brought it up at dinner, you should have asked him if there’s boundaries and rules that you two should be talking about, but you didn’t. He looked too comfortable, finally opening up to you after he’d stuffed himself full of dumplings, maybe subconsciously you didn’t want to ruin his moment of vulnerability.

You ponder on it as you scrub each dish, spoon, and fork. There’s nowhere you really want to, or don’t want to, take this. A serious relationship doesn’t sound like a good idea, but an idea of what this is overall would surely alleviate the headache you and him have created. You’re sure he feels the same way, you know he must.

The last fork is placed in the drying rack, and then you scrub around the edge of the sink and stove, then wring out the sponge of soapy water. And then you turn to the direction of Clark’s door. He had showered after dinner, then scampered into his room. You didn’t turn around just in case he was only wearing a towel. No distractions right now, focus.

Last month you would have knocked on his door, y’know, before you knew what he looked like naked. You’re pretty far past that now, so tonight you just creak open his room.

Your eyes find him before your mouth gets the chance to open.

Clark’s bed is to the side of his room that’s closer to the window. It’s a double size bed, and you’re pretty sure his feet usually hang off the end if he stretches out fully. His bedside lamp isn’t on for once, and his book is abandoned on the floor.

Clark is placed in the center of his bed, facedown. His knees are drawn up and one of his pillows is folded in half and shoved beneath his lower abdomen, where he rocks into the material with shaky thrusts of his hips.

But you can’t focus on that, it’s not the focus right now.

The focus right now is that one of Clark’s thick arms is reached back, sprawling down his muscular back, guiding his fingers into himself. He’s stretched out on two of his fingers right now, but it looks like a third is what he wants. His pointer finger keeps bending, trying to find its way into him, but he just isn’t ready yet.

You should speak up, or maybe close the door quietly and leave him to get himself off. You can’t.

It’s entrancing. You had no clue that Clark was into this, he never mentioned it. Yes he was always more submissive but you didn’t know the extent of it.

His fingers push particularly deep and he whimpers, hips rutting so his cock (assumedly) rubs against the soft material of his pillow. Pervertedly, you wish there was more light in this room. You want to see how the soft rim of his asshole stretches around his fingers, want to see the sweat that’s surely rolling down the indent of his back, and you also really, really, want to be the person whose fingers are in him. Clark’s pace is slow, but he’s pushing pretty deep into himself. The flex of his wrist is fluid and you can tell he’s curling his fingers, searching for the right spot.

You can’t leave the room, not yet. You wonder if this is how he usually gets off, if this is normal.

Your eyes leave the sight of his pretty ass for one second, glancing to the windowsill to the right of him. There’s a pretty sizable bottle of lube placed there, and it’s only half full. Okay, maybe this is how he usually gets off.

Clark is totally lost in the feeling of his fingers. He seems to find the right spot inside himself and begins to thrust his fingers faster, curling them harder. You’re familiar with his moans by now, but it’s so much hotter tonight with how he keeps trying to hold back. His hips rut into the pillow desperately, the seesaw of pleasure between his fingers and the pillow is driving him wild. Unfortunately you can only see the mess of curls on his head since his face is buried in the mattress.

His fingers continue to push into his hole eagerly, each thrust forcing his hips to jump forward into the pillow. You know how close he is just off his sounds, and you aren’t wrong. Clark suddenly jams his fingers into himself as far as he can and then begins to hump the pillow wildly as he comes onto the material. It’s like he’s purposefully overstimulating himself, panting and groaning, and… whining. He’s always whiny, but this breathiness is different. He’s puffing out a word, your name, as he humps into his pillow and then back against his fingers.

Fuck.

Now is when you back out, shutting his door quieter than you opened it, and then rushing back to your room.

Clark is fucking himself to the thought of you. He looked so miserably good as he fucked himself on his fingers, his pretty cheeks spread to make room for those big hands that have been in your hair time and time again. He let his cock be neglected on purpose, poor boy. Maybe he was thinking about you beneath him, stroking it, or maybe he was thinking about you behind him, thrusting into his sensitive hole. Oh god, oh god.

You’re laying flat on your back in your bed when you hear his door creak open. He has no clue you saw what he was doing. The tap in the bathroom runs as he washes his hands and you listen to his shaky steps when he makes his way back to his room and shuts the door again.

In your mind, the roommate rule was about not fucking Clark, that being Clark not being in you. It never crossed your mind that you might want to be the one in him.

—

Getting to sleep was hard, but getting up is almost harder.

The last conversation Clark had with you last night was about how he wanted to feel seen, and you’ve definitely seen him now.

Yup. Seen him with his fingers knuckle deep in his butt. Great. It will be very easy to look him in the face today.

You manage to get out of bed at around 10am, hoping that Clark is out of the house. The apartment is quiet when you cautiously step out into the main room. You’re safe. Safe from having to face Clark who fucks his butt and thinks of you. Clark who has unleashed a new worm in your brain, alongside the one already in there that begs you to suck him off all the time.

Clark who is walking through the front door right now, not taking his shoes off because his arms are full with two very full, paper, grocery bags.

There’s no fucking breathing room for you in this apartment. Shit, he’s right there, he’s right there and you know what he did.

“Hey, you’re up!” Clark says cheerfully. He places the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, turning his back to you. “The early bird catches the worm, you know.”

He says… something after that about french toast, or breakfast. Something vaguely breakfast related. You don’t know, you can’t focus because Clark is wearing shorts today. Not lazy basketball shorts, or cargo shorts, but athletic shorts. Maybe a 5 inch inseam, but they look like a 4 inch inseam on him, and they’re hugging his ass. They’re not meant to hug his ass, but the fabric can’t really contain it all.

He turns.

“You hungry?”

Clark’s wearing a plain grey tee, the printing is rubbed off on it. Did he run to the store? There’s sweat under his boobs, he has fucking underboob sweat stains. You start feeling dizzy and there’s a weird pull in your pussy, like an ache that’s guiding you.

It’s been a shitty week. It’s been a shitty week of being separated from him, and not having him under you and in your mouth, and wondering if he’s secretly in love with his ex. And now all you want is to fuck him stupid, especially after seeing what he was doing last night.

Clark tilts his head at you. “Hello? Earth to–”

“Go to your room and take your clothes off.”

The words themselves are demanding, but your voice is strained. A feeling like stress is balled up in your chest and you’re worried it’s not making you as authoritative as you can be. But Clark is who he is, and he loves to lay down and take it deep down, so he listens.

The grocery bags are abandoned on the counter as he quickly walks to his room, mumbling something like “yes ma’am,” under his breath as he goes.

You watch from the kitchen, into his open bedroom door, as he shuts his curtains and then starts to strip. His shirt is first, tossed onto the floor, and then his slutty little shorts follow, being tugged down at the same time his boxers are. He isn’t hard yet, but he’s still massive.

Clark looks at you as he sits down on his bed, thighs a little bit apart. His chest is puffing a little rapidly. You’re sure you’ve taken him off guard, but he’s not saying no. He looks deliciously willing.

With confident anxiousness you stalk toward him. The door is shut with your foot as you eagerly approach him, shoving your own pajama bottoms down to leave them in a heap. You’re down to your undies in a moment, just that and your sleepshirt.

“I want you on your back,” you say firmly. Clark’s eyes go wide behind his glasses and he nods, making himself comfortable in the center of his bed.

You walk around the right side of his bed, then grab the pillow that he was using last night. If you were to look to your left you’d see the stained pillowcase in the laundry bin there. Holding the bare pillow, you kneel on the bed and awkwardly crawl to the space between his legs.

“Wanna try something,” is how you preface this. Your hand comes down, touching the side of his hip and tapping it. He lifts up right away, letting you place the pillow beneath his lower back and the top of his bum.

He’s looking up at you with the same nervousness you saw the first time you experimented with him. Clark’s eyes are curious as he watches you position him, but he’s pliant like always. It doesn’t matter to him what happens here, he knows he can trust you to make him feel good. So far, for him, this is fairly familiar territory.

That changes quickly.

You lean down and start to press kisses from the tip of his cock downward, lower and lower, until you’re at his balls. Gingerly, you press kisses to them. He’s extremely sensitive there and you don’t want to hurt him, but they’re in your way. One hand reaches to stroke him gently while the other lifts his balls up and out of the way. He tenses at this, a little nervous about what you’re doing, but then you begin to dot kisses along his inner thighs.

“Looked so nice in your shorts,” you say quietly, still stroking him at an easy pace. Your lips start to press more lingering kisses into the hair that grows thicker toward his most sensitive area. “You’ve got such a nice butt, Clark. You know that?”

You pull back after saying that, just enough to catch the nervous look on his face. The hand that was jerking him comes off his cock, then slides along his hipbone, down his leg, and pushes his thighs further apart.

Then, you lay your eyes on his hole. It still looks a little tender from last night, when he was furiously fingering himself to the thought of you doing this exactly. You watch as his pucker tightens shyly, and he gasps. Your name falls off his lips again. You press another kiss to his inner thigh, this time even closer to his hole.

“I saw you last night,” you confess. Clark is breathing so heavily now and his body is growing hotter with shame. A stutter fails to help him explain himself, he doesn’t know what to say.

“I watched you,” you continue, “and I really liked what I saw. I want to try, Clark,” you admit. Your own chest is heaving with nervousness too. The pair of you are just wrecks over the idea of you in him, indulging in the perversions the both of you yearn for.

“Yes,” Clark breathes out, voice almost cracking.

You didn’t even have to ask. He’s already said yes.

Clark reaches over the side of the bed, opening his bedside drawer and grabbing the lube. He extends the bottle out to you and you take it easily. His legs prop up in a better position, allowing even easier access to himself.

The first finger slides in with no resistance. You don’t know how late it was last night when you ended up walking in on him fucking himself. It took you a long time to do the dishes since you were so busy pondering what the pair of you talked about, so it might have been less than 12 hours since something was last inside him. It makes it feel even more natural to be doing this.

You make yourself comfortable between his legs, kneeling so that your legs won’t fall asleep under you, and so that you’ll be able to see his face. His eyes are closed tightly shut as he takes in the feeling of your finger opening him up, sweat starting to sprout beneath the hair on his chest.

“Good, does that feel good?” You ask. Clark nods, one of his hands balled into a fist as the other one lays flat, palm up, and twitching slightly.

His hole is desperate around your digit, so warm and eager as it sucks you in over and over again. He already feels like he’s ready for more and you test it, pressing your ring finger to his hole when your middle finger slides out enough. Clark nods eagerly, a whimper catching in his throat.

“More, need more please?” He asks sweetly.

You don’t blame him, you’re sure that your fingers are not comparable to the size of his fingers at all. You could probably fit your fist in there if he prepped himself with four of his own fingers.

“It’s so easy to open you up, Clark,” you tease softly. His chest huffs with an embarrassed laugh, but then his brows scrunch again as you start to curl your fingers inside him. “Were you just prepping for me last night? Is that why you were fucking yourself?

He nods first, then shakes his head.

“N-no,” he manages. “I was trying to prep myself for a–nnh, there, there please!” He interrupts himself, letting his hips buck back into your fingers. “I was trying to prep myself for my toy.”

A thrill is sent up your spine at that. A toy, Clark has a toy.

“I just came too fast, I came too fast cause I was thinking about you,” he keeps rambling, both hands balling into fists now as he tries to keep himself in his mind. “Been wanting this, but I wasn’t sure if you’d… be a fan.”

God he’s so cute, you’re so glad you’re the one fucking him.

“Where’s your toy?” You decide to ask. He motions to the drawer that he grabbed the lube from and you hum. “Go on and get it then. I don’t think my fingers are big enough for you.”

It takes him a couple tries to actually get a grip on the toy. His fingers keep slipping off since you purposefully curl your fingers extra deep each time he actually manages to grab it. You think about teasingly apologizing, but you figure he’s embarrassed enough as is.

The toy Clark has isn’t that big, not in comparison to himself. It’s a plain, traditional, dildo. The skin tone of it is strikingly similar to your own, but that’s probably just coincidence. Its girth isn’t much more than what he was taking last night. He holds it out to you, but you hesitate, slowing your fingers a moment.

His cock looks so neglected as it lays hard on his belly. You kind of miss it.

“Can you prep yourself now?” You ask, letting your fingers slip out of him. “It’ll be faster if you use your bigger fingers, I think.” Clark looks surprised but then drops the toy, grabbing the bottle of lube right away. He’s so sweetly obedient to you all the time.

Clark fingers himself with ease, reaching underneath his thigh so he can stuff his hole while your mouth wraps around his cock. The familiar ache in your jaw feels so much better than usual as you try to swallow down as much as you can. You’ve lost a week's worth of progress, but you’re still able to take him farther than you could in the beginning.

He works himself quickly but gently, eagerly upping himself to four of his thick digits as soon as he feels ready. You pull off once you feel him twitching a little too much, knowing that you don’t want him to come just yet.

His arm crosses his body as he reaches for the toy, his hole still stuffed on his own fingers while he holds up the toy and looks at you pleadingly.

“You’re ready?” You ask carefully. It’s not like you’ve done this a lot, and you don’t want this to go wrong.

Clark nods, pushing the toy closer to your hand, and whining “please?”

Willingly, you take the toy and then generously lube it up. Clark’s fingers remain in his hole until you have the toy lined up, ready to switch it in. His fingers make a nasty little noise as they slip out of his hole, but you can’t enjoy it for long.

He takes the toy so quickly, his hole sucking it in as his back arches off the bed a little. A guttural groan is torn from his chest as he finally gets the fill he’s been waiting for since last night.

You hold it still in him, waiting for him to feel ready for this. You’re sure he could take it rough, but you also don’t want him to come right away. This is something he’s been wanting and so you want to make sure it was worth all those fantasies he probably thought up.

“You want me to start?” you ask.

His face is totally lax, his mouth open as breaths puff out, and his eyes are rolled back under his eyelids. “Y-yep, start, please start,” he gasps.

Beginning is easy. You start at a slow pace, easing the thick toy in and out at a speed which has him squirming. There’s no resistance from him, despite how tight he is around the toy, his body is completely open and ready. He’s so into this his hands are shaking at his sides. Slowly, you begin to increase your pace and start to snap your wrist a little harder. It’s important that you don’t give yourself an arm cramp early if you want to make this as good as you’re imagining. Clark seems more receptive to this pace, nodding his head and letting his eyes open a little more, searching for you.

“L-like that,” he nods encouragingly.

His glasses are starting to slide up his face and he shoves them back down a little, almost like he’s trying to distract himself , and it makes you smile. Cute boy, cute, cute, boy.

“You’re smiling at me,” he says nervously. You nod. “Cause I’m looking at you,” you respond teasingly.

Things feel easy again now, like you really are just two roommates that are fucking around. God, god, it’s just him and you, and you’re fucking, and it’s so hot. It’s so hot watching him writhe while you fuck him, unable to control the way his breathing stutters and his mouth parts with silent gasps.

“Y-yeah,” he smiles back, eyes crossing a little, “you see me.”

The implication of his words, the words that feel too reminiscent of last night, feel heavy for a moment. But you can’t let that distract you from what you’re doing right now. Think later, fuck him now. You nod along with his words.

“I see you, I see you baby,” you say encouragingly. His hips keep lifting off the bed, his eyes fluttering and rolling back at the same time. Clark is so damn close and you aren’t even touching him. The tip of his cock is flooding precome now, all over the soft fuzz of his belly, and you want to lick it up. The only thing keeping your lips from wrapping around his cock is the fact that it might be too much for him. He looks starstruck whenever you catch his eyes. You can feel the tightening pressure of his hole as he clenches down on the toy, making it harder and harder to thrust it in and out of him. Tears blur at the corner of his eyes as he begins to try to speak. His lips are moving, but only gasps of air come out. His hips tilt higher.

“Doing so good, you look so nice like this,” you whisper more to yourself than him. The weight of his cock can’t stop the crazy twitch it does, the shaft jumping off his tummy. It almost sounds like he’s choking on air as he fists the sheets in his hands.

“Y-yours,” he finally manages to talk. “Your cock, y-yours to see. I’m yours t-to have, I need this– I want you to see me.”

You’re seeing him alright. It’s hard to ignore any part of him, his big body spread out over the bed as he thrashes in pleasure. It’s unusual how long he’s lasting, but he might just be holding back. Your eyes focus on the space between his legs, where his balls sit and his asshole grips onto the toy. The ring of his hole stretches around the girth of the dildo so prettily, like it was just made to take it, like it was made for you to see it. His confession only spurs you on to continue fucking his hole at the same pace, but with harder movements. The tips of your fingers push into the plush of his cheeks as you jam the toy into him over and over, the movement rough but clearly exactly what he needed.

“Keep looking, please keep looking at me,” Clark begs. You don’t meet his eyes, you couldn’t if you tried. His glasses are fogged up and crooked, shielding his gaze. Instead you keep your eyes on his hole and his dick, exactly where he wants you to look. Clark’s thighs tremble as his hips lift up higher than ever before again and you ignore the cramp in your forearm as you follow his movements. He keeps pushing higher and higher, almost like he’s looking for friction on his dick that he won’t find.

Then, as his hips are fully extended upwards and his cock is pointed down his abdomen, Clark begins to come. Untouched, with nothing but the toy you’re pistoning into his hole, he starts to shoot his load everywhere. His orgasm starts so strongly that his come completely misses his tummy and chest and instead shoots onto his own face. You watch as some of it gets into his own mouth while he’s panting, and then you watch as he swallows it down without hesitating. He isn’t slowing down though, his hips are attempting to jam back into your still-in-shock hand as it holds the toy still. Come spills out of his cock in thick spurts, coating first his cheeks and chin, then stuttering down to his chest and belly. He isn’t coated in it, but he looks like a glazed donut by the time his orgasm subsides.

Clark’s hips fall down into the bed heavily once he’s done. It’s beautiful, he’s made the most perverted, disgusting, mess of himself. He came off how good the toy in his ass felt, how good you fucked it into him, and now he’s covered in his own come and whimpering like it’s taking effort to breathe.

“Ah g-gosh,” he mutters as he looks down. You lick your lips, eyes staring at his glistening chest.

This must be how guys feel. This must be why titty comeshots are so popular in porn.

Clark’s tits are sitting so prettily on his chest, slick with his come, and shining in the light coming through the crack in the curtains. You want to lean down and lick it all off of him, but also you have other plans.

You’ve basically broken the roommate rule, right? You fucked him, now you can release this hold you have on yourself.

“Clark,” you breathe. His eyes manage to focus on yours, pinching slightly when he feels you release the toy but leave it in him. Your hands rip your shirt off your body, then you awkwardly pull down your undies as you start to crawl up his body, higher and higher. You fit one leg so your knee is almost tucked into his armpit, and the other knee is on top of the meat of his bicep, angling yourself perfectly above his tit.

Your chest is kind of in the way of viewing Clark’s face, but you can see that his eyebrows are pretty high on his head now.

“Just… gonna use you for a second,” you explain before seating your cunt on his tit.

The fat of it is so soft on your core and you instantly start to rut your hips back and forth, using the come left on his breast as lubricant. It wouldn’t typically be a good place to hump, not rigid enough, but you’re so desperate for him right now that it doesn’t matter. You love his tits so much, love seeing how his dress shirt strains over them, you loved the sight of his underboob sweat earlier, and you love how sensitive they are. His nipple grows harder as your slit grinds up against it, almost nudging against your clit.

One of your hands reaches down and slips into his hair, winding the curls around your finger as you use his head to anchor your movements. You’re so close already, overly worked up from going all this time without getting anything from him. No more hesitation, no more not using his huge body to get your own. He likes it, you know he likes it.

Your hips switch angles, grinding down harder on the downstroke of your humps so his nipple does finally start to rub your clit.

“You’re so beautiful,” Clark gasps, staring up at you. He probably can’t even see your face, but he sounds just as breathless as you feel. “You’re so beautiful, please come on me.”

It’s all you need, apparently, for Clark to call you beautiful. Your body flushes with heat from your feet all the way up your neck, choking you for breath as you start to shake on top of him. His nipple sits right by your clit, hardest you’ve ever felt it, and you rub into it as you ride out your high. One of Clark’s hands is on your thigh, rubbing it soothingly as he watches you fall apart on top of him.

It takes you at least a minute to catch your breath, but even then your breaths are still choppy and your eyes are dazed. Clark manages to coax you down to lay beside him, but is careful not to get any more come on you than there already is.

“Uh,” he says, awkwardly reaching down to pull the tip of the dildo out of himself.

You look down at his body, which is now somewhat covered in your come and his mostly dried come, and stifle a laugh.

“You should shower,” you tell him teasingly. “You’re kinda dirty right now.”

“Probably,” he replies, frowning down at himself. Clark doesn’t make any move to get up though. Instead he seems a little lost in thought. His hand reaches to touch yours where it lays, but then falls short about an inch.

“If I ask you to shower will you promise me that you’ll never make me go a week without you again?” Clark asks suddenly.

A laugh pulls itself properly from you this time, your head falling sideways to look at him.

“You better not be falling in love with me,” you chide jokingly. Clark smiles, shaking his head.

“I’m not! I’m not, okay?” He replies playfully. “I just like seeing you.”

What a dork. Good thing you like seeing him too.

>///<

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#clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #attendsquoi recs

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attendsquoi · 8 days ago

Text

emergency contact.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader. mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. you and bucky are friends... or, at least you were 2 months ago, before he cut all contact. if you had known an injury and a hostage situation was all you needed to finally get some answers out of the stubborn soldier, you would have handed yourself over to karli morgenthau months ago. requested through dm by @theslayerofthevampires warnings. smut ( unprotected piv, shower sex, silly/sappy sex, doggy style, clit play, switch!bucky with mentions/callbacks to sub!bucky, electricity kink? bestie idk but bucky's gone and got himself his own personal shock collar aka you, implied choking kink - m receiving ) , no use of y/n, reader+bucky's pov, ex-friends to lovers, mutant!reader, ex-avenger!reader, nurse!reader, slow burn, mutual pining/yearning, protectiveness, arguments, does this count as hurt/comfort? idk, implied anxiety+panic attacks, trauma, hostage situations, vomit, canon violence, fire, injuries, blood, mentions of death, angst, fluff, one (1) joke about electro-shock therapy & one (1) use of the word cripple, lord(e) free me from the hell of writing action scenes 😩. this fic ghosts over many of the events in tfatws, please keep this in mind while reading as it could effect it’s readability/the flow of the plot if you are unfamiliar with the events of the show! reader inclusivity. the reader in this fic is implied to have been part of the same program as wanda and pietro, i'm not the best at describing superpowers but, basically, she can manipulate and conjure energy/electricity through her hands. the request did not make it clear if smut was wanted, so i included it at the end of the fic so anyone who doesn't want to read it can skip it <3 wordcount. 11.7k hyde's input. diva down, y'all, send help (it's been a sad week so i decided to haunt y'all with my presence) fic playlist,, for anyone who cares 👉🏻👈🏻 besties aka taglist. @yes-ilovetowrite @strawberryforks

The last time you saw Bucky Barnes, he broke your heart.

Factually, this statement is inaccurate. You could not actually see him when he did it. Yawns have lasted longer than the phone-call, an abysmal fourteen seconds of cold, scripted, rehearsed words fed into your ear through a scratched speaker. Then the line went dead and all that remained was the static sound of silence.

“I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Befriending you was part of my efforts to make amends. I’m sorry.”

He wasted no time in blocking your number.

Life takes no prisoners, rolling on and demanding you move forward, trudge through the quicksand of confusion before it swallows you whole and condemns you to a lifetime of wondering why.

Why he walked out your life. Why he chose that day to do so. Why he apologised.

The mind can be a wicked thing in times of distress. In the wake of Bucky’s departure, the rose-tinted frame of friendship cracks, allowing all your memories together to spill over the floor. Picking them up and wiping off the dust, you find yourself staring at captured interactions in a new light, different shades of words and shadows over gestures than you originally remember being there.

Had you hurt him, had you been the one to open the exit door, had you done something wrong that night — even now, you are none-the-wiser to what led him to sever ties.

You’ve always hated police stations.

There’s something sinister about them. A stain on the world, too much grey, and white, and blue lit beneath a sterile light. Metal always seems to clang, all voices fight to yell louder than the rest, and there’s a pervasive stench of bleach — like the building is one big, dirty secret the world is trying to wipe its fingerprints from.

Lump in your throat, you stomach your discomfort for the sake of the soldier. As easy as it was for him to block your number, he forgot to scrub you off his legal records. An emergency contact, a trusted confidant the courts had required him to provide as part of the pardoning agreements — a fail-safe, that’s what you are, someone to call up and pin the blame on should the Winter Soldier ever dare come out to play again.

When the call came in, a tempting siren to rip you from the boat of sleep, a sickness flushed over you, mind racing and heart bracing to hear those awful words. Mr Barnes has fallen off the grid. Reflecting on it now, trapped inside a claustrophobic interrogation room, you’re unsure if fiction would have been worse than the reality of the situation.

Mr Barnes has been arrested. As his registered contact, we cannot release him from custody without your signature. Please make yourself available at the earliest convenience and-

“This only works if you’re all willing to be honest,” declares the woman sitting across from you.

With the little facts you learnt about Dr Raynor, you never pictured her to look so… homely. The blouse almost fools you into thinking this isn’t the sharp-tongue, sharper-minded woman the soldier complained so much about.

“Okay, I’ll go first,” you surprise even yourself. The men sitting at each side of you just about snap their necks as they turn your way. “I honestly do not know why I’m here.”

The soldier was never one for grand displays of affections. Nor minute displays, either. His friendship was not one felt through hugs nor pats on the back, but seen in reassuring glances and the kind of smiles that told you he was still relearning how to form the shape with his lips

Knowing all of this, some foolish part of you had still hoped he would have missed you enough these past few months to lose a little of his composure the moment you walked through the station doors. You’ve flown across state lines just to sign him out of jail, for heaven’s sake!

The least he could do is pretend to still care about you.

“Genius here still has you listed as his handler,” Sam mutters. At least he had been happy to see you, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in for a side-hug, an silent apology in his eyes.

“No,” you adjust yourself atop the uncomfortable chair. It creaks, far too loudly for a room thick with this much silence. “Why I’m here. In this room. Part of this… weird couples therapy session.”

“Because if James has truly been freed from me by dime-store Captain America, he needs to tie up some loose threads before I let him leave,” the man in question can’t, or won’t, even meet your eyes, stare glued to a corner of the room.

Still, you can feel how you’re infecting his peripheral, can see the way his eyes almost drift towards you, like you’re a magnet drawing them in.

“Oh, trust me, I’m no loose thread. James,” his name is a hiss from your tongue, burning with a foreign flavour. He’s always been Bucky to you — he always was Bucky to you. “Cut me off long ago.”

“I know. That’s exactly why you’re here.”

The guerilla therapy session unfolds about as well as one would expect: in a hypnotic disaster, like a car-wreck you can’t quite tear your eyes away from. Dr Raynor adopts methods used on couples, introducing a seemingly simple prompt: “Suppose that while you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something you would like to see that would make your life better?”

While the two men busy themselves with snark, you bite back your answer. I’d like to go back in time, to two months ago.

Then a soul gazing exercise comes up, and you’re quick to scoot your chair backwards, out of the soldier’s line of sight, a freshly sharpened knife that promises to pierce the plastic wrap around your heart. But distance can’t save you from the crack in his voice.

“And if he was wrong about you then he was wrong about me!” It would have been less painful to have him dig into your chest and rip your heart clean out from it’s cage.

Hand gripping at the chair beneath you, your fingers jump, a silent plea for your composure to dissipate and allow them to lay themselves atop his shoulder, his brutal aversion to comfort be damned.

You reinforce your hold on the chair, instead, and face Sam, who is halfway through a speech in defence of his decisions. With the blink of an eye, he rises to a stand, smacks a hand atop Bucky’s arm, and turns his sights on you.

“You still a human light-bulb?” The teasing nickname awakens an ache in your soul — Tony used to call you that in the early days of the compound, free for the first time in years and still learning to control your powers. Warmth sizzles through your veins as a crackling light-source ripples from your hands, burning tendrils of electricity warping and dancing between fingertips. “Good, cause I got a favour to ask.”

With that, Sam leaves and lets the door slams on his way out. You’re a moment away from following after him, curiosity itching at your skin that you know he’ll satisfy — unlike the soldier, Sam actually answers when asked a question.

Dr Raynor is quick to intercept, “Ah, no. You sit back down and face James.”

Body barely lifted from the seat, the drop back down still manages to knock the wind out of your lungs. There’s a chance Bucky is to blame for that, a heavyweight gaze that’s pinned itself somewhere past your shoulder, melting you into a blurry stain within his line of sight — not fully in focus, a nuisance in the way of the wall he seems so interested in.

He blinks. Slowly, carefully, an intentional pause taken as he fills his lungs with a stabilising breath. When eyelids reopen, Bucky is finally looking at you.

Blue eyes that do their best to lack any hint of a soul, frozen and robotic in their stare. Humanity, unbeknownst to the soldier, bleeds out of him. It’s in the tightening of his jaw. It’s in the stiffening of his shoulders. It’s in the widening of his pupils.

You itch to ask him how he’s been.

“Now, James, time for a little honesty. And, do me a favour, would you? Really try. You need this more than you think.” The therapist is a horrible reminder of where you are, why you’re here. Bucky doesn’t even flinch at her voice, long ago conditioned to accept being spoken at instead of spoken to. “You crossed her name off your booklet. Why?”

The golden question.

Three simple letters that have shaped your past, present, and future days since the line dropped and Bucky’s number stopped being the one you could dial at any time of the day. Habits die harder than most would think; you sometimes type out the digits, just to tease yourself with the thought of pressing ‘call’ and actually having it go through.

“I completed the assignment you gave me, doc,” Bucky’s response is directed towards Dr Raynor, yet he remains fixated on you, watching you like a predator stalks its prey — too afraid to turn his back, lest you run back off to the burrows with the rest of the cottontails and strays.

“What I told you to do was make amends,” Dr Raynor crosses her arms over her chest, the image of a mother scolding her rebellious teenage son. Any minute now, you expect she’ll drop the classic ‘not mad, just disappointed’ line. “What you did was make a mess. At least tell me you told her the reason.”

Shame overcomes him, casting his stare down to where gloved hands sit fiddling in his lap.

You breath, and it’s like a building has been dropped on your chest. Skipping breakfast is starting to feel more and more like a strategic decision instead of one made on impulse; the cloud of nausea floating around your oesophagus is but an empty threat, no contents in your stomach for it to projectile rain over Bucky’s scuffed boots.

The soldier won’t answer, so you do it for him, “He didn’t.”

“Really, James? I mean, what have you been taking from our sessions? We both agreed her forgiveness would be monumental in your path to reconciliation-”

“I forgive him,” you interrupt, partially because you can’t stand how the pinch between his eyebrows deepens the more she chastises him, and because, as desperate as you are to understand what dictates Bucky’s decisions, you want to hear it from his own mouth, not from the stranger that’s been assigned to analyse his mind. “If that’s all he needed me for, then he’s got my forgiveness.”

The tips of his brows are just about kissing one another.

The soldier lifts his gaze once more, colliding with the intensity of your studying eyes. Red rims the borders of his, spider-webbed and bloodshot with lack of sleep. Who does he call now, when the nightmares leave him stranded and in need of a human life-jacket?

Selfish as you can be, you hope he at least is calling someone.

His lips part slowly. Cracked and bit ridden, a lack of life stains his mouth. He seems none-the-wiser to the state of it, living like there’s still a muzzle covering that half of his face and shielding his voice from the world.

“I don’t need to know why you’re sorry,” you interrupt him before he can possibly begin. It’s a lie you tell both yourself and him, but if you say it with enough conviction, perhaps you’ll start to believe it. “If you don’t want me in your life, I’m not going to force myself into it.”

The chair screams as your stand from it. His head follows your ascent, bending backwards to maintain eye-contact.

This would be easier were he not so naturally attentive. A weapon built to observe, and watch, and study the movement of others as an act of survival.

Is he trying to survive you?

Or, are you another target he needs to exterminate?

The light flickers overhead, product of your own discomforting thoughts as you let them delve into memories best kept concealed in an airtight safe, where all the bad of your past is free to slaughter one another to death. At the first spark of electricity between fingertips, you clench your first shut.

“I’m not like them, James. And neither are you.”

When the door closes behind you, the interrogation room’s light goes back to a cold white, the colour of one’s breath in the chill of winter. The breath Bucky pulls in is ice, a cool burn down into a hollow chest.

“Sorry doc,” his lips pull tight with dishonesty, pain at the edges of his mouth as he forces them to stretch wider. “I broke rule two.”

If anyone was going to drag you back into the fight, of course it would be Sam Wilson.

You had sworn to never step foot back onto the battlefield after the events with Thanos, the war to end all wars. While victory had been secured and families were reunited, too many faces you’d come to admire and adore had perished. Not into particles of dust, but as lifeless bodies strewn across a muddied field. Casualties that no number of glowing stones and no perfected time travelling device could ever bring back.

Cowardly as it may be, you hung up the mantle of hero. Secured an apartment in New York, enrolled as a nurse, and carved out a life of normalcy. Warmth still flowed through your veins, a daily itch that begged to be unleashed, but you learnt to mute it. Dull it. Serrate the weapon implanted into your DNA.

Befriending the soldier had helped take your mind off of it, gave you both common ground to tip-toe over like a mine-field, an unaddressed understanding between two tortured souls. Then he up and left you to fend for yourself.

You could not return the favour when Sam presented you with his plea, fervour behind each word he described the situation at hand with.

A group of mercenaries turned revolutionaries. Gunning for a good cause, yet turning violent. Altering their bodies with a serum, tearing the fabrics of their being apart and stitching it back together with a strength that did not belong to them. The Flag-Smashers are a force to be reckoned with.

Who better to reckon with them than an escaped super-soldier hating convict, the bionic super-soldier, a retired avenger, and the man who passed on the role of Captain America? From Earth’s mightiest to Earth’s most-unlikely, what a fall from grace your career as a hero has taken.

Let the record show, to whom ever it may so concern, that you were staunchly against the liberation of Zemo.

Voicing this was futile, of course, when the man himself was already stepping into the limited light of the warehouse and shooting all three of you an easy smile, like he had not just changed out of an orange jumpsuit.

Through high and low, in a plane bound towards Madripoor and on the ground running from bounty-hunters convinced you had a hand in killing Selby, Bucky has not spoken to you once. You’ve heard his voice, through one-word answers to a cautious Sam and in threats aimed at Zemo, but not once has it been directed to you.

Nor have his eyes, until now.

Neon strobes flash all around you, a dizzying sight that has you craving a drink and the permission to capture the light source and watch it implode on itself. Sharon’s instructions had been to blend in, unfortunately, so you weave through bodies and ignore the pain blooming from your temples.

You feel Bucky’s attention before you spot him. It hovers over you like a force-field, a protective bubble that seems to push the surrounding crowd one step back, heads turning to glance over their shoulders at the man, the myth, the nightmare. The Winter Solider, back pressed to a wall and arms crossed over his chest.

Someone did not get the memo on blending in.

A hand brushes against you. First a whisper of a touch, the kind that makes you doubt you’ve even felt it. And then it’s as loud as a scream, a faceless limb curling over the curve of your waist and entrapping you back against the stiff outline of a stranger. Possessive, yet inviting, coaxing you to sway in a rhythmless pattern to the music blaring throughout the room.

One look across at where he stands is all it takes for Bucky to move. On the prowl, he drifts through the crowd, finding pockets of space to slip past strangers. It triggers a reaction in you, one that yearns to prove you don’t need his help.

Super-powers on lock-down, you lay your own hand atop the stranger’s, who entangles their fingers into the fabric of your clothing and presses themselves closer to you, like they’ve spotted the green-light they were looking for to smother themselves against you. One steadying breath and a quiet mantra on repeat in your mind — disarm, disengage, disappear — you launch your attack.

Taking a deathly grip, you feel as the stranger’s hands mould beneath it. There’s an uncomfortable grunt at your back, one that deepens as you twist a wrist and pair it with a stomp of your foot atop their own. Free from any unwanted touch, you dash out into the crowd, leaving a slew of foreign curses and an aching hand behind.

You steal a look over your shoulder, confirm no one is following you, and run head first into someone else.

The chill of vibranium kisses one elbow, while the heat of flesh burns the other. When your eyes meet, the soldier appears more rattled than you. The red flush in his eyes has grown darker since the police station, the dusting of facial hair now a shadow of brown over his face.

It takes you a moment to register the shake in his hand.

Nearly unnoticeable, Bucky fails to ground himself in your skin. There’s no method behind his breathing, no in and out, no dance of the rise and fall of a chest. Instead, his breathing is scrambled all over the place; inhaling on what should be an exhale, and holding far longer than ordinary lungs would deem survivable.

You’re not sure he’ll hear you over the music. You’re not sure you want him to.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” the first thing he’s said to you in months and it’s a lie.

You don’t call him out on it.

You don’t let him rest thinking you believe it, either.

You do press a hand to his heart.

It races beneath cotton, beneath his suit jacket. A marathon of chaos thrumming throughout his arteries, spreading something dangerous to every cell that encompasses him.

And now he’s watching you, pinning you with a look so disturbed and vulnerable that you ache to flea. From him, with him. A game of tug-of-war between your desires and rationale.

Swallowing down a mouthful of your own nerves, you match the panic in his eyes with a softening of your own. Pressure against his chest, your free hand guides his to lay flat against your sternum.

And then you inhale, slowly, let him feel the rush of air expanding your lungs beneath his fingerprints. He tries, and fails, to do the same.

Holding your breath, you mouth a slow count of seven, making sure he reads over the words you don’t quite speak, and then you exhale. Slower than he does, chest deflating beneath his hand.

Where failure occurs, dust yourself off and try again. That’s exactly what you do with him, beginning a second inhale and forcing him to feel it once more.

Three, four, five breaths are pulled and pushed out both your lungs, slow motions amongst a crowd of pounding hearts. The soldier falls in line, synching himself to the timing of your rise and fall. Upon inhales, the distance between you both diminishes, bodies lingering closer for a counted pause in time, until you exhale and the space returns.

Your hand loosens atop his own upon the sixth breath. Bucky holds it still against your chest, not even a twitch of a finger. Your eyes widen, brows jumping with the proposal of an unspoken question, a nonverbal check-in. He nods, affirmative and slow, confirming the calming of his restless soul.

As you itch to step back, his metal hand clasps over the one atop his chest. You yield to his grasp, let him drag it north to where metal dangles from a chain. The soldier encases both of you around the dog-tags, a tight squeeze that brings no physical harm yet terrorises you with the branding of his name into your skin.

Your breathing is now the one out of line, falling behind in the steady pace you set.

The shape of your name forms over his lips. Before he can speak it, Sam beats him to it, emerging from the left with Zemo hot on his trails and the claim that Sharon has found the intel you were all hoping for.

Hours later, dodging bullets and taking cover amongst shipping containers, it remains stained over your palm.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Chaos does as chaos does best: it spreads.

You chase after it alongside the three men, trailing from one end of the Earth to another. Exhaustion stitches itself into your features, becomes a prominent descriptor for your face. And the silence between you and Bucky persists.

The avoidance is purposeful now, on both each other’s part. An agreement to keep out the other’s way. Yet presence is not something either of you can suppress.

When lights flicker on through every room he enters, Bucky says nothing.

And, when you wake up each morning to find an extra blanket shielding you from the cold, you say nothing.

Somewhere in Europe, an early morning, all hell breaks loose. Minutes from talking down the leader of the Flag-Smashers, Sam has the rug pulled out from beneath his feet by a self-entitled John Walker, storming on the scene with a barrel pointed at the girl’s head and a demand to surrender.

The ensuing events are a blur. An unchoreographed chase-down. Each pounding of your feet to the ground, the electricity pleading to be set free grew louder, warmer, a constant buzz frying your brain with the need for release. Another defeat notched onto all your belts, your meagre team of four dragged itself back to the Baron’s home.

Another fight awaited you there.

The Dora Milaje had their sights set on Zemo, yet they wound up wrestling against Walker and his sidekick. Despite your intentions to remain out of the fight, Sam and Bucky’s interference landed you a bruised cheek and your hands pinned behind your back.

You let the warrior fool herself into believing she immobilised your powers when, in truth, you never intended on using them.

Walker’s bruised ego and Zemo’s fleeing later, the silence between you and the soldier shatters.

“You’re bleeding,” of course you’re the one who has to swing the verbal axe.

Unaware of his injury, Bucky begins to inspect himself. He spots it in the mirror: a gash down his right shoulder blade.

“It’s a flesh wound,” and he’s an idiot, with skin torn open and spilling a river of red into the black cotton of his shirt.

“It would be embarrassing for a super-soldier and war veteran to die from tetanus,” so, maybe you’re being a slight hypochondriac. Working the wards does that to a person, steals any room for doubt when it comes to health and safety. “Don’t be so bull-headed, come here.”

Sam long gone in search of a calming breath and the will to not implode with anger, only you two fill the space of Zemo’s hideout. No other eyes are there to witness nor question as the soldier sits quietly in a bar stool, shirt off and back facing you.

A bowl of cold water and a damp rag, you swipe over drying blood and watch it revive itself, pink rivulets rolling down the stretch of his skin. You catch them before they can reach the waistband of his jeans, and accidentally brush a finger over the silvery mark of a scar long healed yet the pain it brings remains fresh.

You almost apologise.

Bucky almost says it’s okay, your hands could never hurt him.

Instead, you return focus to his open wound and he clamps his teeth down on his tongue.

The mending process is impromptu, the ultimate display of working with what you have. Or, rather, what you find. A half-drunken bottle of vodka to cleanse the wound, a sewing kit to stitch the flesh back together, a bandage to dress it.

The soldier struggles to dress, incapable of angling his arm correctly and pulling the fabric of a fresh shirt over his skin. Against your better judgement, you step in and help, looping over his head and feeding his arm through the sleeve.

“Thanks,” his smile is sheepish, false. A placeholder for whatever he’s really feeling. It sparks something in your heart. Something ugly, and dangerous, looming over all four chambers of the delicate organ, and feeding itself into your bloodstream. “I forget how hard the Dora Milaje hit-”

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” it snaps out of you, cruel and aiming right for the soldier with intentions of killing the smile on his face. It doesn’t even waver but his eyes do, sinking to the floor like a kicked puppy. You feel sick with pity, yet ripe with anger. “Not after putting so much effort into proving we’re not.”

“You’re right,” why doesn’t it fill you with victory to hear him say it? “I’m sorry.”

“Stop!” You get him to flinch, but at what cost? It only deepens the nausea in your soul. Still, you press on with irate words. “I’m sick of hearing you apologise. When have I ever asked you to be sorry?”

“It’s not something you ask,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s something you’re owed.”

“You know what? Yes, I am owed an apology!” The pacing begins before you truly realise, boots scuffing over carpet and kicking up a storm in their wake. “Two months, Bucky! I haven’t heard from you in two months! And then I come here, I go out of my way to give up the peace I’ve worked so hard to bring into my life, and you won’t even look me in the eye!”

Tears sting, blurring your vision yet you won’t let the dam break, won’t let him see you so emotional when he’s the poster boy for stoicism. Fog in your eyes, you fail to notice the way his are suddenly pinned to you, following the back and forth pattern your steps engrave into the floor.

“I mean, who does that?” The words are practically ripped from you, painful as you bring them into fruition. Heaviness clogs your throat with a sob, another degree of distraught you have to fight to contain, reducing your voice to a whisper. “I thought we were friends.”

You’re not exactly sure what reaction you were hoping for.

A yelp of pain? A howl of anger? A whimper of sadness? Backed into a corner and speared by you words, the soldier gives you no such thing. He just stares.

Wide-eyed, unblinking, slow-breathing.

“If I deserve an apology, you deserve a ‘thank you’.” The laughter that tears through your chest possess not a trickle of humour. Instead there’s only grief, mourning for the friendship he left to rot. Dead and unburied, you’ve wandered the last few months desiccating through the streets of the city. Now, you reach for the knife he placed in your back and turn it on him instead. “Thank you for reminding me I can sleep through the night, if you’re not there to tear me away from it. Thank you for showing me I’m capable of doing this all on my own. Thank you for liberating me from… this. Us.”

As high as you get off of cruelty, the comedown is a complete crash of your system. Shoulders that deflate, hands that squeeze shut, and lights that flicker like an electrical storm. When one of the light-bulbs shatters under the heat of your ire, your eyes flinch shut and the barrier of tears snaps at last.

The first to roll is the warmest, lulling you in with the promise of oxytocin.

Bucky inches closer and, on reflex, you flinch back. Images flash quicker than all the surrounding lights, memories of the early days. Confinement, experiments, men in lab-coats.

You never forget the first life you take. In your case, you knew nothing about him. Not his name, not his age, not his favourite colour nor his dearest relative. All you have to remember him by is the smell of his body, blood spilling through every orifice and the stench of electricity convulsing his limp body.

Before the guilt could fully creep in, one of the lab-coats clapped and set off a chain reaction, overcome with a joy that did not match the territory of having just watched their colleague unexpectedly die at the hands of a child.

Of course, you were no longer a child to them, but a weapon.

“There’s something wrong with me,” Bucky starts, and pauses instantly to pull himself together, armour almost cracking under the pressure to reach out and wipe the next tear away before it can trail down your face. “Something in me, it… It hungers. I can’t watch it devour you.”

You hiccup over a sob, the gentle tone of his voice a blanket over the chaos of another light smashing. The soldier does not even react, he just keeps looking at you.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that everyone I’ve ever cared about has either died,” the first thorn in his field of roses appears, a twinge of distress staining the calm of his voice. Not fear of your powers, but a plea to be understood. “Or I’ve made them hate me through hurting them. I can’t watch that happen to you.”

“Don’t worry,” you wipe at your cheek with the back of your hand, a futile attempt to dry tears that only spread further over your skin. “You hurt me by making me hate you.”

The events in which your life falls apart are quite simple.

First, there’s a threat posed against Sam’s sister. Second, an agreement to meet with Karli Morgenthau — she demands an audience of one, Sam brings her three: Bucky, him, and you. Third, Cadet America and Battlestar Galactica — or whatever John Walker and Lemar Hoskins are running around calling themselves… The point is, they show up uninvited and wreak havoc. Fourth, a fight ensues.

Despite the work put into suppressing that tingle in your bones, it feels good to finally let it loose.

No fear of frying someone into cardiac arrest, the strength that courses through the Flag-Smashers acts as a padding to your touch. For every punch thrown your way, you block it with an electrifying grip, hand closing over fists and watching as faces flush with fear while you zap a bolt of light through them.

A fist flies at you from the right, crashing against your cheek with a crunch that has your jaw aching and open, a thrum of pain echoing up the side of your face. Before you can unload the ball of electricity conjured in your hand, a Vibranium one interferes, grabbing your attacker by the scuff of their neck and knocking them unconscious.

“You’re okay,” the words carry relief, but it’s unclear who they’re aimed at: you or him. Barely two days have passed since you confronted him, yet Bucky stands before you now, right hand inspecting your jaw, like nothing between you has changed. Like these last few months have been nothing but a bad dream that he’s finally called and pulled you out of. “‘S not broken, just gonna bruise.”

If you have the will to answer, you’re not given the chance.

The fight around you both continues, three fighters caging you against one another. Back to back, you fight your way through them. Bucky is all brawl, fists thrown with his entire weight behind them and slamming into the Flag-Smashers with the intention to deescalate, not kill. You, on the other hand, continue the approach of defence, waiting for them to attack first before you unleash shock-waves over their system.

The fighting comes to stand-still at the first casualty. Lamar lays slumped over, a fountain of blood pouring from his mouth as he stares onward, void of life.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey... c’mon... Lemar, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar...” Walker’s voice fills the hall, frantic with denial as he checks over his fallen friend.

At Karli’s command, Lemar’s killer flees the scene. Walker is hot on his trail, tightening his grip on the shield of America as devastation and heartbreak settles over him in a blinding cloud. Bucky moves without much thought, dashing to follow the fight and capturing the attention of a handful of Flag-Smashers.

Too many for the soldier to take on his own, instinct comes over you as you raise both hands, eyes squeezing shut in an attempt to channel the power from every flickering light, every outsource of electricity scattered throughout the dilapidated building.

Pain. It infects you like a poison, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your eyes fly open with a cry, and find Karli’s hands crushing one of yours in both their grasp, bones snapping like twigs under her strength. The amber tendrils flicker in your other hand, unruly and unwilling to bend to the demand of shocking her, as the super soldier continues to hold you within her deadly grip.

“I’m sorry,” the girl is so soft spoken, you want to believe her. “But I can’t let you get in my way.”

The stitching of your shirt’s neckline snaps beneath Karli’s grip. You barely have time to spew any version of Bucky’s name before she slams her forehead into yours.

The light in your palm burns out and the world goes dark.

There’s this street in Brooklyn.

The floor is cobblestone and uneven, a hazard to cross when rain runs a river over it. Trash compacts and lives deep within the crevices that divide road and sidewalk. Business ends before twenty-two hundred hours, a paradox living within the city that never sleeps. No light guides the way — burnt out decades ago, the streetlamps sit as a landmark of time and not as a beacon of safety.

“You know,” you muse, the midnight breeze brushing over your skin in a sweet caress. “You don’t have to walk me home every time we go out.”

“This street is darker than my past. It’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t have to worry about my safety,” even so, the thought heats up your cheeks. “I’m a walking taser, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Not even you can help but laugh, reminiscing your first encounter. Amidst the chaos of the Sokovia accords, his feet escaped confinement and your hands wrapped around his throat in a mock shock-collar. “It’s not your safety I worry about. Someone’s got to be there to call an ambulance when you electrocute a poor unsuspecting criminal.”

Despite the strength that separates him from the confines of normalcy, Bucky gives in to the shove you give his shoulder, drifting several steps out into the empty road only to be sucked back into your orbit, an arm hooking over your shoulders and offering an apologetic pat.

Both your strides grow shorter as your building comes closer. If you hadn’t already taken two unnecessary laps in the search of more time, you’d ask for another walk around the block. But it’s late, way past any reasonable hour, and he has therapy in the morning. You can’t take more from him.

“I want to,” the soldier confesses, gentle tongue and smiling mouth forming the words. “That’s why I walk you home. Know you don’t need me to, but I think I need it.”

A comforting quiet carries you both the rest of the way, delicate thuds echoing as you travel up the steps to your building’s doorway. A moment of panic passes over you as you struggle to find your keys, hand rustling through your purse in search of the precious metal, only for something to jingle in Bucky’s grasp.

“Lookin’ for these?” He drops them into your open palm, a vibranium key-chain glinting beneath the moonlight — a souvenir from his recent visit to Wakanda, Shuri made sure to send you a scathing text detailing how the soldier blackmailed her into making it. “You left them on the bar. Wanna tell me again how you don’t need me?”

“Technically, I never said that,” while you verbally push at his buttons, your pointer finger pushes on his chest. Solid and warm, you’re overcome with a foreign urge. “But, oh thank you, my knight in vibranium armour!”

Standing one-step higher than Bucky, you meet no difficulty in throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a hug. He, on the other hand, goes stiff as a board, smile melting into a thin line as the rest of him freezes. You double down in light of his non-reciprocation, squeezing your arms a little tighter behind his neck and leaning further over the ledge of the step — nothing but trust for the soldier as you unload the responsibility of bearing your body onto him.

Slowly, the arms glued to his side loosen. Rise over your mid-back. Take their own hold around you. His movements are awkward and full of insecurity — when was the last time he was hugged?

You let him decide when enough is enough, unfurl your arms when his slip from your waist. As you shuffle back over the step, however, the moonlight catches over something else.

“Oh, I forgot,” he’s receptive to your voice, patient as he waits for you to continue. “The book I’m reading, it’s set during a fictional war and, well… I’m sorry if this is a bit silly but, do soldiers really gift their dog-tags to people?”

There’s every chance the question catches him more off-guard than the hug you just imposed on him, for it takes a few second for him to answer.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he nods to his own words, flesh hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “To family, friends… Loved-ones. The tags, they have our names, our whole identity engraved on a metal plate. I guess that’s why they usually go the person you’d want to be remembered by the most.”

The beauty in your friendship has always been the lack of curiosity. A safe haven from each other’s histories; neither of you ask things the other would not want to remember.

And so, you swear you do not mean to pry.

“Do you have anyone like that?”

Instead of a name, the soldier gives you a look.

A single trail of his gaze down your face, something unspoken etched into the way his forehead wrinkles with a frown and his throat swallows.

“It’s late,” the distance between you both remains the same, yet his voice sounds miles away. Gone. Removed. Detached. “You should go up. I’ll call you in the morning.”

And then you never see him again…

You wake with an itch in your palm. World still shutout behind the darkness of eyelids, a pained groan coughs out of you when you try and close your fist. Fingers, swollen and bruised, brush against one another in a failing attempt to curl inwards.

“I’m tryin’ to help,” a voice calls out from the left. “Bit pointless if you keep movin’.”

Consciousness crashes down on you like a sledgehammer, reawakening your nerve endings to every ache and throb, ghosts from a fight long gone and passed.

You let the light seep back in, eyes peeling open to face the rays of warmth piercing through a shattered window. But your veins feel empty of it, hollow as you attempt to conjure that familiar lick of heat.

Karli Morgenthau sits at your bedside — a dirty mattress on the floor — gauze threaded through her fingers as she uses it to tighten a plank of wood to your crushed hand, broken bones screaming out in pain as she forces the fingers flat. A makeshift cast, the kind one would expect to be given while shackled in the hideout of an evil mastermind.

Except, no cuffs bite at your wrists and there’s no inch of her that appears evil. She’s just a girl, barely grown past a child, and the weight of the world has already engraved itself into her tired face.

“Where are we?” Your own voice rings in your head.

“The city you call home,” Morgenthau offers up freely, securing the bandage with a knot.

What she lacks in nursing skills, she makes up for with her bedside manners, unscrewing a bottle of water and holding it out for you. Rising slow, you take hold of the plastic and welcome the sweet relief of moisture to sandpapered lips.

Barely a sip slips down your throat before you gag, body rejecting it and spewing down your chin. The pounding in your head feels like it grows tenfold.

“How long was I asleep?”

“A day or so,” Karli surprises you, delivering soft pats against your back and aiding you in your throat’s need to relieve itself of the burning bile. “You’ve been slippin’ in and out, especially on the plane. D’you know you talk in your sleep?”

The dream replays in a montage, memories of Bucky and you on that dark street stabbing you in the gut with embarrassment. What nonsense had you said aloud?

“I think I’m concussed,” unbroken fingers push into your temple, massaging in a circular motion as you try to coax the agony out of your skull. “You need to get me to a hospital.”

“I can’t do that,” the girl’s demeanour shifts, the once soft stare of a child lost in a sea of madness now hardening with ice and sending a chill down your spine. “You’re my leverage, it’s the only way to keep your friends in line.”

“Karli,” as calm as you keep your voice, there’s panic coursing through your system. Your body won’t cooperate; you can’t summon a single wisp of electricity in your non-maimed hand. “This could kill me. And if I die, my blood is on your hands. Are you sure you can live with that?”

“We’re so close, don’t you get it?” Any sense housed within her has departed, leaving nothing but a crazed look upon her features. “The GRC are meeting tonight. We’re going to put an end to the Patch Act, and then we’ll set you free.”

Outside the window, New York is sunny. A blue sky with no clouds, birds fly through the air, and the Sun paints a golden hue over every inch of land it touches.

It wouldn’t be a bad day to die.

Bucky feels like he’s choking.

Perhaps his jacket is too tight, leather wrapped around him like a casket and confining him beneath the rigid material. Maybe adrenaline is stealing his breath, using it as fuel to propel him onwards through the GRC building, eyes scouring for anyone running around like a headless chicken to direct them towards safety. Or, possibly, his lungs can’t remember how to pull in air when you’re not around.

Days have blurred together. Nights have been restless. Helpless and hopeless, it’s taken everything to not turn towards a familiar comfort in your time of danger. A part of him longs for a time where those ten words still hovered over him like a threat, so he could command Sam to unleash the colder side of him and send him on one last mission.

The Soldier would have had you back by now.

Without him, Bucky is nothing but a man frozen in time. A veteran, a cripple, and a man who’s woken every day with torment in his chest.

Self-inflicted, the kind of pain one can only hope to heal with pressure and time.

There’s a call of the soldier’s name. A stranger wrapped in a pencil skirt and sporting a badge around her neck passes him a phone, declaring the call is for him. Before speaker even meets ear, Bucky knows who awaits him on the other end.

“Ain't you tired of fightin’ for the wrong side, Mr Barnes?”

“I've done this before, kid,” lights flash outside the windows, red and blue, and oh so reminiscent of that dance floor in Madripoor. For a moment, he feels you on his chest, like a phantom limb, lulling it to rise and fall with the rhythm of your own. “I know how it ends.”

“It doesn’t matter if I don’t survive this. I’m fightin’ for somethin’ bigger than myself.” Karli spits down the line as he trudges down a flight of stairs. “And with all the bodies you’ve collected, have you ever been able to say the same?”

That strikes a nerve.

Bucky resists the bait as well as he can, “You don’t think I ever fought for something bigger than myself? That’s all I ever try to do, and I failed twice.”

“Three times, if you think about it hard enough. Do you think she’d still be willing to die for you,” his muscles stiffen, every bone in his body locks, and his grip tightens on the phone. “If she knew what you did?”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

“Yes, you do. I’ll do you a favour and tell’er all about it, right before I kill her.”

“Touch a hair on her head and there won’t be anywhere far enough you can run that I won’t find you,” he can’t bring himself to say your name, a cocktail of fear and desperation. Karli can tell you his dirty secret. She can tell the whole world, for all he cares. What she can’t do, what he won’t survive her doing is taking you from this world. His world. “You don’t want to do this, Karli.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Finally, a full breath of air. “Well, thank you. I'm glad you took my call. You've been a big help.”

The line drops and Bucky’s left with nothing but his own reflection, a face of agony in the window as he realises that, despite his efforts, he took the bait.

Hook, line, and sinker.

When you were a child, you loved the smell of gasoline.

Your father was a busy man. Time with him was rare, fleeting, something you had to fight to obtain. Being his daughter did not grant you premier access to him, you had to compete alongside all of his business associates; all those men in suits versus a little girl with skinned knees.

But road-trips, those were the only instance where he put down the pager and gave you all the love and attention any normal father would. Gas stations became a vision of home on the horizon, the promise of lukewarm meals, toilets that had never once been cleaned, and the sweet, sweet burn of petroleum deteriorating your brain cells.

The vehicle you sit in now is not manned by your father, yet it smells of gasoline.

Blindfolded and bound, your body sways blindly as tires screech over asphalt. Polyester slices at your neck, seatbelt fastened too tightly against your body. You know better than to complain.

It’s amazing how quickly old survival instincts return, slipping on like a cable-knit sweater you’d long kicked under the bed and forgotten about. You may not be in a literal cage anymore, dragged out for a routine poke and prod of chemicals and needles, but the process of being a hostage, all these years later, remains the same: sit still, be quiet, and do as you’re told.

What do you do, however, when your captor abandons you?

Bedlam overruns the scene. The vehicle comes to a halt, a door slams to your left, heat begins to pool over your skin. At first you tell yourself it’s nerves, a marker of the anxiety coursing in your veins. But it grows warmer, the air around you scolding to breathe and riddled with smoke.

There’s a ruckus of voices, all loud and none familiar, as several bangs ring out.

“Hold on!” A voice stands out amongst the noise.

Fists bang against metal and glass, pounding over and over, desperation thrown behind every punch. Hinges screech and snap as a door is pried open at the back of the vehicle, followed by the flee of feet over a metal body.

“Go, go,” the liberator of captives commands.

You test your own voice, a wail of distress that’s not loud enough, and your chances of being saved are halved.

Breathing grows weaker as the heat grows higher, a fire burning bright enough you see it in flashes behind the dark of your eye-covering.

“Thank you for saving us,” sleep calls to you through the rush of strangers, begging you to let yourself drift off back to that street in Brooklyn. “But there’s a girl! She’s trapped in the passenger seat!”

Eyelids reunite as your head lolls to the side, a ringing starting back up in your ears at the same time as the throb in your head. Your hand went numb hours ago, wrapped in gauze and tied tightly to your other. The voice of resilience inside your head, one that sounds alarmingly like a certain soldier, is screaming at you to fight.

To pry your lungs open with air. To tear your eyes open again. To let the buzz of electricity simmer from beneath your nail-beds, electrifying your touch enough to burn the bindings scratching at your wrists and to tear the blindfold from your face.

Your attempts leave you empty-handed, control lost from the moment Karli crushed one of your palms, abandoned in a time of need by your own powers.

All that pressure has put Bucky in a race against time.

Fire blazing on along the right side of the getaway car, smoke grows thicker as he rounds the driver’s side. Behind the window lays a cloud of grey, a storm that rolls in and obscures his view of the passenger seat. There’s a blurry shape, a figure slumped over.

The soldier’s fist slams through the glass.

And then he’s reaching inside, two hands grappling a hold of the passenger and hauling her over the van’s console. It’s messy, and graceless, and no doubt a bruising ordeal as he takes the weightless body in his embrace.

Brain switched off to outside stimulus, the only thought that passes through him is safety, get away from the ticking time bomb that is the burning van. Only then can he concern himself with trivial matters, like the state of the girl in his arms.

The girl who stirs, face turning into his chest as her ribs shake with the assault of a coughing fit. The girl whose blindfold slips down her nose and pools around her neck, a noose made of rags. The girl who’s capable of putting him into a state of cardiac arrest with one look alone, starlight sewn into the sparkle of her eyes.

“Took you long enough to rescue me,” you croak up at him between a cough. “Knight in vibranium armour.”

Bucky lowers your feet to the ground at your own unspoken request, squirming in his hold until the tips of your toes step over solid road and he’s loosening the bindings around your wrist.

If the world around you is at war, the soldier is dodging draft, too caught up in the battle of assessing what state you’re in. Wrinkled clothes, and dried blood, and the ash of a fire that’s still burning behind him. A grin creeps onto your face and sparks uproar in his chest.

An overjoyed imposter in a crowd of disaster, something in the stretch of your lips feels off; the corners do not quite reach your eyes. Exhausted and drained, pupils that stare past his own and plea for the gratification of sleep, the blessing of rest.

“Need you to follow my hand,” Bucky can’t help himself, palm cradling your face and a thumb soothing over the bags weighing heavy on your eyes. A cold sweat clings to your skin. “Think you can do that for me, darling?”

“Don’t call me that,” the words fizzle out into a giggle. With a slow wave of his metal hand, he watches as your stare stutters along in a failing attempt to catch up with his movements. “Makes my heart-”

You cut yourself off, body melting against his own.

Bucky won’t let himself make the same mistake, won’t have this moment be a repeat of that night in Brooklyn where his arms froze at his side instead of satisfying the craving he’d been feeling for months, scratching the itch to wrap you in his embrace.

The soldier’s arms slot around you with practised ease, like a lock sliding into place to conceal the greatest treasure. Touching you spreads warmth not only over his hands, but his soul, at long-last finding a breath of ease after months of drowning in himself. Slumping deeper into him, Bucky accepts you with every fibre of his being, heart lurching into his throat as he shuts out the chaos, for just a moment, and rests his head stop your own.

“Bucky.”

“Gimme a little longer,” his mumbles into your scalp, resisting the urge to tighten his biceps as the full weight of you presses into him. “Just wanna hold you, feel you’re okay.”

Karli and all the rest can wait.

If a fight is what they want, he’ll give them it. He’ll kick, and punch, and do all that he can to hold off until back-up arrives — Sam is somewhere out there, wings spread and a shield at his back. But not now.

Now, he’s going to memorise the song your heart sings, and anchor his worry in the wholeness of your existence, and sync his inhales to your exhales.

“Bucky, it hurts,” foolishly, he hums in response, not yet cognisant of what you said.

Until your breath trips over itself.

He lets the world back in too quickly, numbing his vision with flashing lights and a shadow cast from a Flag-Smasher standing ten paces behind you and sporting shock all over his demeanour. When you come into focus, he’s staring down at your back and bearing witness to the spreading of a disease, a dark mass spreading over grey cotton.

And his hands… They’re not just warm, but scolding. Contaminated with a peculiar wetness that’s viscous and sticky, slipping between the crevices of his fingers like a syrup, thick streams that drip from his skin and stain the road a darker shade of black.

Bucky catches you as your knees buckle, soaking hands submerging themselves back into a pond of blood. The logical part of his brain is failing him. Lower-rib, left side, rebar impaled through shirt and flesh. So much blood. Too much blood. It is your spleen? It has to be your spleen.

He’s back to drowning again.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, forcing down the lump in his throat as he pulls back to find you calm, not a single ripple in your features while tears surface over his own. “Eyes on me, remember? Follow my hand.”

Metal plates scream into place as he raises the vibranium to the level of your face, repeating a waving motion. At your back, the stain of you on his flesh is a bloodbath, a sickening sight he knows better than to subject you to.

Bucky’s own private hell grows.

Distant yells move closer as he tunes back into the insanity swirling around you both. Flag-Smashers are fighting tooth and nail with John Walker, flames have completely engulfed the wreckage of the van he pulled you from, and, worst of all, the other vehicle of hostages dangles by a thread atop the shell of a building, bars of metal that are slowly bending beneath the weight of wheels.

“You have to go,” you speak calmly, like every second that passes isn’t making it harder to stand up straight.

“No.”

“You have to stop them-”

“No!” Bucky shakes his head, hoping to block out the screeching of metal and the slamming of fists against skin. He just wants to hear you. “I’m gonna get you somewhere safe, okay? Get you in an ambulance and to a hospital. And I know you hate being a patient but, you don’t gotta worry ‘cause I’ll be there to hold your hand and-”

“Bucky,” there you are again, pushing him away and forcing him to let the noise of everybody else’s terror in, like he too isn’t watching his fears come to life before him. “Those people need you, please.”

“But I need you.”

Unlatched from him at last, you drift a few steps back, head shaking when he tries to reach for you.

A handful of civilians, the very same faces Bucky rescued from that burning van, crowd around you, carefully slipping your arms over their shoulders and hauling your slumping figure up.

“I’m fine,” you choke over a sob, tears to match his own sliding down your cheeks. “Go.”

All Bucky has ever tried to do is the right thing. He chased down the hostages. He pulled them from the van, a man even thanked him for saving them. So, why does it feel like he’s failed once again?

The taste of stale breath.

The smell of peonies.

The sound of a clock.

The touch of a paper gown.

The sight of the soldier at your bedside, one arm folded over the bed and under his head, and the other outstretched, an inch or two of space living between where his fingers end and yours begin.

Bucky snores, a soft whistle floating out with each exhale, while a monitor turns the beat of your heart into a muted beep, a green line pinging across the screen. The muscles in your neck are stiff, protesting as you try to get a closer look at him, but the moon is out and no light is on; you’re left to admire the shadows cast over his skin and the slow ebb and flow of his breathing.

A hiss shoots to the back of your throat.

Blue eyes that open in an instant, from deep sleep to a state of alert in less than three seconds. The hand he lay resting closest to yours shoots for the call button, but you intercept before he can press it.

“Don’t,” even as you coax him back into his chair, there’s conflict in his stare, like any minute now he’ll call the nurses into your room and cause a big scene you don’t need. “I just sat up too fast. Help me?”

Bucky nods, thumbs hooking under your arms and slowly tugging you up the bed while you busy yourself pressing the incline button and delighting in the way the mattress rises.

“When did you wake up?”

“Barely a minute ago,” you finally manage to pull in a full breath of air, and that’s when you feel the scratch of gauze around your torso. “You never told me you snore.”

“You never asked,” the chair creaks beneath him as Bucky struggles to get comfortable, elbows resting over knees only for him to straighten his spine and grasp a hold of the arm-rests.

“That’s kind of a hard thing to do when my number’s blocked.”

It’s an evil thing yet possessing no real malice, said completely out of the desire to see him squirm under the microscope of your eyes.

“How, uh,” he leans forward instead, right arm on the bed, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “How d’you feel?”

“Like someone took the knife you stabbed in my back and decided to replace it with rebar instead,” this time, your words make him flinch. His fist clenches, retreating from the bed until you hook your good hand around the wrist and stop it in its tracks. “Bucky, I’m just messing with you. You saved my-”

“That night, outside your apartment, I realised something.”

The mask of composure he wears is starting to crack, the shine of something earnest and vulnerable slipping through and forcing you into silence.

“Your life-” Bucky pauses to correct what he’s saying. “I told myself that your life would be better off without me, but I was just being a coward instead of being honest with you,” he’s squirming, uncomfortable with the weight of the truth in his mouth, and it makes you feel sick with the need to comfort and cradle.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if-”

“I’m the reason you ended up as one of Hydra’s experiments,” he practically throws it out, like a grenade that’s one wrong word away from detonating and exploding in both of your faces. “Your dad, he was one of my handlers. I’d been out of the ice too long, I wasn’t taking orders properly, and I… I killed him.”

“I know.”

“They realised his death would leave you orphaned, and so they took you,” not even the dark engulfing the hospital room can hide the shine of wetness his gaze, an visible ache splotching over a palette of blue. “All that pain, all the torture they put you through-”

“I know.”

“It was because of me.”

“Bucky, I know,” your hand engulfs his own, fingers threading like knots you have no intention of letting him loosen. “Steve told me years ago, right before I agreed to fight against the rest of my friends for you.”

“I’m sor-”

“I told you I’m sick of hearing you say that,” you almost lay your other hand on his cheek, only to find a cast — a real one — obscuring it. You settle for tugging him closer with your good hand, until he’s all but hanging off the edge of his seat. “Hydra made a weapon out of both us, Buck. The pain, the torture, all the bad… That’s on them, okay? I would never blame you-”

Soft and sweet, his lips land on yours like a secret.

Not the sinful kind, the ones that tear families in two and bring all but ruin to those who dare keep them. But the giddy kind, the ones that fill people with childish glee and leave them biting at their lips in an effort to contain it, the fear of ruining the greatest surprise.

His kiss is a question, iterations of ‘can I?’, ‘should I?’, and ‘how could i not?’ speaking directly to your heart. If his mouth is wax, then yours must be the stamp, moulding his affections into shape and making something meaningful out of him.

You answer with zeal, covering his cheek in your fingerprints as you pull him in, pull him closer, pull him onto the bed. It creaks in protest as the soldier presses a knee into the mattress, back curving over your body and shielding you away from the rest of the room.

You’re giggling into Bucky’s mouth like a fool, so much so that you barely feel the jolt of your shoulders as he bumps against broken ribs. It’s subtle, yet the soldier notices all the same, mouth tearing away and head dipping to make sure your injuries haven’t mysteriously worsened under the weight of his touch.

“What was it you realised,” you pull his attention back to your face, where your eyes are waiting to trail over the kiss-bitten blush of his rose-bud lips. “Outside my apartment?”

You ask it with every intention of pulling him in for another kiss, so long as he answers.

“That you’re the person I want to be remembered by most.”

There’s an apartment in Brooklyn.

It lives on a street that’s never lit, where the world falls quiet come twenty-two hundred hours, and the neighbours are forever complaining about flickering light-and power-cuts.

It’s insides are full of clutter. Keys strewn across the dinner table, books stuffed unceremoniously in crevices where they’re bound to be forgotten, vibranium trinkets made through blackmail congregate as litter around the TV unit.

A junk-drawer full of movie tickets — dates that end with him monologuing about the death of cinema. A bowl overflowing with arcade stubs — he’s adamant it doesn’t matter that it would be cheaper to just buy the bear, he’s going to earn you it through blood, sweat, and many tears. A bedside table has gained another strip of photos for it’s growing collection — he’s a fiend for dragging you into photo-booths and kissing you until the flash of the camera is a distant memory.

“Stooop,” you’re whining pathetically for all the wrong reasons, slippery hands losing grip and sliding down a tiled wall while you’re bent at the waist and grinding your cunt back against his cock. “This is supposed to be sexy, not sappy.”

“I’m not being sappy,” not even Bucky believes himself, voice trailing off in a chuckle.

He’s cruel, the most evil man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, so of course he grips at your hips and forces them still. Like a punctuation mark ends a sentence, the tip of his dick is poking at that stop-talking-coherently spot inside your walls and threatening to make you gush more than the shower head spilling water over you both.

“Yes, you are,” you somehow find the will to form a sentence, only to gasp something akin to his name when cold vibranium presses into the arch of your spine.

“Maybe I am,” he finally admits, and if you weren’t halfway through a hail-Mary in an attempt to fight off an incoming orgasm that he’s definitely not earned the right to yet, you’d let out a cry of victory. “If admiring how resilient you are makes me sappy, then sure. Arrest me officer, I’m guilty, again.”

That ‘again’ prompts a kaleidoscope of events from Halloween night… Bucky, naked and shackled to the headboard, sporting literal tears in his eyes as he watches the buttons of your sleazy cop outfit strain while you make yourself cum for the third time without a lick of help from him. In your defence, the punishment was well earned — he’d been a little too proud of the number of eyes that had lingered over his gladiator costume.

You're back in the shower the moment fingers kiss over your scar, delicate promises sealed into the caress he brushes over the raised tissue.

It happens more often than not — you raise your arm to grab something out of a cupboard and suddenly Bucky is behind you and trailing over the mark; you wear a dress that cascades down your back and Bucky spends the whole evening brushing his thumb over the scar while holding conversations with friends across the table; you let him bend you over the nearest surface and expect him to have you seeing stars and, while stars are definitely seen, Bucky’s stare burns brighter along your left side. You’ve wondered if it’s a form of torture for the soldier, a bookmark on your skin for the night where your blood stained his hands.

That’s not how you remember the night — the pain, the bleeding, the rebar puncturing through bone and spleen. You remember the strength in his hands as they pulled you from the van, and the relief that fell over his face when you spoke, and the way he held you close while the rest of the world burned away in a cloud of chaos.

“I love you,” who chokes up with tears while standing eight inches deep and damn-near marking up a new blue-print for your organs to reorganise themselves to make more space for him? Bucky, that’s who, and you wouldn’t have him any other way. “So much.”

Okay, so maybe you would have him one other way.

The good man that he is, Bucky slips his cock out of you after a push back against his abdomen, already moulding his hands to the shape of your waist as you turn around to face him.

“That’s it, Barnes,” you try your best to sound authoritative. The shampoo burning at your eye makes it a little difficult, but you pull through and drag him into your hold, arms curling around his shoulders and a leg hooking itself over his hip. The tiles are cold, pressing into your back, a welcome contrast to the heat of Bucky. “I’m sick of you and your wimpy attitude. You’re banned from doggy style, standing or otherwise, until further notice.”

“Don’t be mean, darling,” he drags a thumb over your slit, kissing it against your clit with the practised ease of a man that’s spent the greater half of a year getting to know you inside and out, in every and any position. “Or I’ll cum. And I was really hoping to do that while I bury myself inside you.”

Left palm hovering over his sternum, a muted crackle of electricity burns into his skin, only to fade at your command, “Then I guess you better hurry up and give us what we both want.”

“Hmm, have I ever told you you’re my favourite electro-shock therapy?” He’s laughing at his own ridiculous joke, while gripping your wrist and guiding you up the path to his neck, locking your fingers around him like a collar he’s more than proud to wear. “Now, think you can spread your legs a little wider, baby? Wanna make you cum so hard you blow the building’s fuse.”

+ extra hyde.

· thank you @theslayerofthevampires for your patience and for trusting me to fulfil your fic idea! i hope the wait was at very least worth it <3 (the request prompt, for anyone interested: Well I was thinking that it could be where the reader goes with bucky and sam to after the flag smashers. Bucky is really into the reader but he's dealing with his inner demons that he doesn't let himself grt too close to her. Things change when karli and her followers take y/n hostage and that really pisses off bucky. Sam and bucky save y/n after that when y/n is thanking bucky for saving her bucky just grabs and kisses her which leads to bucky opening up to y/n about himself and he also confesses his feelings for her) · one of my personal pet peeves when it comes to fics is when it simply reads as a copy and paste of the source material with the reader forced into the scenes, hence why i skimmed over the events of tfatws as much as possible. hopefully this was enjoyable and bucky and reader's relationship felt like a story separate from the show's plot <3 · slowly working my way through requests, please tell me you're all proud of me! ( i have so many left to get through )

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #attendsquoi recs

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attendsquoi · 10 days ago

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it rained today! ❤️👽🐱

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attendsquoi · 11 days ago

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KILLSHOT

Clark Kent scores an interview with Bruce Wayne's infamous sister — you. Except you don't make it easy for him.

TAGS: 18+, smut, reader is batman's sister, foot job, bulge rubbing, exhibitionism, clark cums in his pants, teasing, he gets flustered, reader is lowk dom/millionaire heiress vibes (1.8k wc) 𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

The ding of the elevator had everyone on the floor anxiously looking towards it.

Black heels are what they see first. A silvered dagger acting as the stilettos. It cuts through the silence in the air. Perry is already by the entrance, arms outstretched to shake her hands.

"Miss Wayne. It's a pleasure to have you here." You tip your cat like framed shades up and through your hair. A hint of displeasure on your expression at the visible crumbs on his hand. You merely nod at him in acknowledgment.

"Miss Wayne is my brother. Just my name will do." Perry roars an overly-exaggerated laughter at your dig, gesturing toward the hallways as he guides you ahead.

"Oh, you're as funny as the tabloids say." He coughs when you side-eye him. "I-I mean. As they papers say."

You look around at the room, the maroon leathered walls creating a ghastly look. Not even the floor-to-ceiling library saved it. "Pray tell, do you interview everyone in…this asylum-esque room…?"

Your vague gesture to the room has Perry floundering while pulling out the leather cushioned arm chair for you. "We — well, only for the ones that matter but, if it's not to your liking, we can have it torn down, change the walls. Make you more comfortable for your next visit perhaps."

The insinuation is clear, but all you do is let out a displeased hum.

"What of the boy?"

Perry blinks at you and then chortles out a laughter, which you immediately reel back in a cringe.

"You mean Kent? Yes! I forget that you specifically asked for him. God knows why." He's looking at his phone nervously, muttering the end of his sentence. Perry turns to tap aggressively on his phone.

The doors damn near gets taken off the hinges when it swings open. Clark stumbles in, halfway tugging his tie up. Choking himself when he over-tightens it. You're turned halfway over your shoulder, sizing the taller man up.

"There he is. Man of the hour." Perry stomps over, patting Clark with a harder than necessary pat, he's tipped his head to whisper something in a hushed anger. Forcing him to straighten up.

"My apologies, I was —"

"The boy was out interviewing 'Superman', you see." Perry interrupts, as though the additional 'celebrity' name drop would impress.

Your eyes narrow a tinge, glancing down at his buttons that was mis-matched, and the overall sweat-slicked presentation he had going on.

"Interviewing or being Superman?"

The room falls to a silence, especially Clark, whose mouth was opening and shutting like the wind was knocked out of him. Perry's even louder laughter had both your attentions. "She's hilarious! Take good care of her, Kent."

Clark turns to you. Taking a moment to survey you with his head tipped. He shakes his head visibly, "please, sit", palms outstretched to show you to your seat. You turn heel, tucking your skirt underneath you in a poised manner.

You catch Clark sneaking glances at you, fumbling to get his recorder out and onto the table. He nearly knocks the decor off the desk, but your palm snaps out, grabbing the ornate sculpture.

"Sorry. Thank you." He mumbles sheepishly, his hand dwarfing yours when he places it back onto the desk.

The chair groans beneath his weight, aligning the notepad square on the table. A pencil gingerly placed parallel to it, you place your hand over his knuckles when he attempts to press the recorder.

"I do not wish to be recorded."

His breath stutters, "Right," he manages with a clear of his throat, "so, Miss Wayne." He looks to his empty notepad, immediately realising he brought the unedited questions with him, he's already mumbling a 'oh gosh, give me one second.'

The words are on the tip of your tongue, to correct him, but the tinge of exasperation that rumbled deep from his throat at the way he says it. Had you holding yourself back.

You liked it.

Clark is blissfully unaware, biting the tip of his pencil, and then spinning the the flimsy pencil that looked comically small in his hand, like a toothpick he could've snapped if he so wished.

He was woefully unprepared, so you opt to let your mind wander. Gaze tracking the solid girth of his wrists, down to the veins visibly flexing on his knuckles when he scribbles on the notepad. "Sorry. So — uh, what…brings you to The Daily Planet?"

"Curiosity." You say vaguely. But your attention is entirely on Clark. Your hands fold, and you lean forward while resting your chin on your knuckles. "Boredom," you continue, "Bruce thinks I need good press." You lie, easily.

Clark looks up, mid-word and stops. He really takes a good look at you this time. Mind catching up with the initial visual impact of you. His pencil rolls from his fingers, clattering onto the desk. He manages to snatch it before it hits the floor, though his big figure makes the action look clumsy.

"Are you usually this bad at your job?" You say simply.

He's speechless. The tips of his ears going pink. "I —…no." Clark exhales, adjusting his glasses as though to ground himself. "I'm just not used to…having a guest like yourself."

You tilt your head with a raise of a brow, letting the silence between the two of you stretch. Your crossed legs brushes past Clark's underneath the table, and you hear slight pause in his breathing. He pretends to keep busy with his notes, but all you can do is let your mind wander about what exactly those hands could do if they weren't holding back.

"I liked the piece you did." He looks up when you speak again, lips going tight with a questioning look. "The one about Batman." You let your words hang, watching the faint shift of his posture.

"You wrote about how he isn't the cold hearted vigilante people assume him to be. Something about him leaving clues for the police, that being his style and all." The cap of your heels grazes on his shins.

He swallows thickly, saying nothing.

You leaned in, "stuff people only ever notice when you're close enough to someone."

Clark clears his throat again, pushing his glasses up to his nose. "I…have good sources."

"Mmh." You tilt your head, hooking the tip of your heel beneath the hem of his slacks. His breath catches at that, and his eyes darts towards you. Questioning, but not stopping. "Anyway. Go on. Ask me what you need."

He loosens his tie, nodding. "Y..Yeah. Okay. Pardon my forwardness." His tongue catches his lower lips, biting down onto them before speaking.

"Miss Wayne. You've been on the headlines of…tabloids often."

Your brow twitches at that. "They exaggerate."

"They do." He assures, scratching the side of his nose, "but you've known to have philanthropic endeavors."

The corners of Clark's lip curl up just enough to incite the indent there as he reads his notes on you.

It makes you perk up slightly, transfixed on the way his cheek dimples. "Children's aid in Jarhanpur, playing a big part in re-structuring the schools…it's an endless list. Why don't you speak on them more?"

You straighten up suddenly at your mental slip, quashing the feeling that followed when your heart thrummed at his smile. "I don't do it for praise." Clark's lips part with a bated breath when you drag your heels higher up his leg.

"W…What…for then?" It comes out terse.

"I like how being good makes me feel."

Clark blinks at you, not expecting your answer. It's a feeling he relates to, he thinks.

"I…see. And you don't think it makes you sound like you're just doing it for self-gratification? "

You subtly shift out of your heels. Humming in thought.

This time, Clark feels the softness of your toes slide higher up his shins. Pressing enough to draw a startled breath from him. You keep your expression composed, letting your actions do the speaking for you.

"Uh…Miss Wayne." His voice cracks, and his thighs are bouncing, restless at the vague twitch he feels in his gut. "Perhaps I'm misreading but are you doing that on purpo —"

Clark shudders with a soft gasp. Looking down to see your manicured toes, rested on his bulge.

"Like you said, I seem to do things for self-gratification, do I not?"

Your toes part on the outline of his bulge, lifting it higher to drag down his length. He's hesitant when his hips subconsciously edging to your touch. "It's not…necessarily what I think."

Clark's hand rounds around your ankle with a firm grip to catch your attention. You think for a moment that he might stop you. But he just has his gaze trained on you, at your chest, your face, and the glint in your eyes.

You're smiling, amused. He wanted you to look at him. You apply a little more pressure. and the growing throb beneath your digits sends a delightful shiver down your spine.

"What do you think, then?"

"I think," his jaw visibly tenses, hold on you relaxing, letting you rub at his bulge with just the right amount of pleasure. Clark's head lowers, he's rambling under his breath — goodgoshthat's… "I-I think that…you're a good person. B..Because no one inherently selfish would do more for the less privileged."

Your lips twitch at that, teeth catching the soft inside of your cheeks.

"And what about you?"

Clark looks to you, fists curling into a clench on the table. "Me?…" he croaks, voice higher than he intended it to be.

"Do you feel good when you're doing good things?"

You emphasize it with a particularly harder nudge, and he's gasping out, "yes! gosh—yes, i feel good." Your lips part to let out a content exhale.

Clark's had falls lower, breath strained, growing slower. He's fully bucking into the friction your feet was providing him. "Miss Wayne," his voice drops lower this time, low and guttural. A tone he takes as Superman, and not as Clark.

His broad shoulder twitches while he hunches over. Eyes fluttered shut, panting deep in stutters — holding tight around your ankles. The wetness you feel blooming beneath has you drawing your feet back, sliding back into the black heel left abandoned beneath.

He doesn't register when you stand up and round the table, tipping his jaw up with your thumb and fore fingers. "Call me. For a proper interview."

Clark's gaze rakes over at your retreating figure, dazed still. And he looks down to see a perfumed ruby red name card, with gold scripted fonts that curled your initials.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #attendsquoi recs

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attendsquoi · 13 days ago

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suckable

summary: a routine fire alarm inspection leads into you proving to clark that he does have a suckable dick (kinda.)

tags: 18+, smut, roommate!clark, established friendship, f!reader, i broke clois up (sorry,) clark is older than reader (non-specific,) reader doesn't know clark is superman, fire alarm inspections, clark kent is a DORK, reader just barely realizes she has a crush on clark, blowjob, messy blowjob, big dick!clark, big boobs!clark, big arms!clark, sub!clark, size difference (sorta?), m!nipple play, reader swallows but there's also kind of a facial, begging for like two seconds, sweet!clark, aaannd he picks reader up one time.

a/n: yayy my first clark fic !!! (facedown drooling twitching)

wc: 4.5k, reread once by my eyes

my masterlist - my askbox

You’ve been roommates with Clark for approximately… seven months.

It’s been great really. No complaints, especially since he’s never home long enough to be annoying. He does the dishes, he takes the trash and recycling down every Thursday, and he usually makes enough food that there’s leftovers for your lunches the next day. The friendship between you two is easy, but not intimate. Clark, to you, is personable, but not personal.

You do know that he moved in with you after moving out with his ex girlfriend, and that the relationship ended as amicably as possible for “professional reasons.” Clark also works at the Daily Planet and being a writer may or may not be why he needs a roommate in his thirties. He grew up somewhere not Metropolis to your knowledge and he goes back home usually one weekend a month.

And that’s it. That’s all you know about your roommate of seven months. It’s kind of nice to live with a dependable man, especially when he’s not just kind but also sort of intimidating. Your last roommate was a young woman around your age, and though she was fun, you were always a little worried about the weird neighbor down the hall. He really liked talking to you when you’d take the recycling down, or god forbid, when you’d have to do your laundry in the basement of your building. As soon as Clark found out about that he made a point to start taking the trash down for you and coming with you to do your laundry. The weirdo neighbor backed off pretty quickly when you began walking around with a 6’4 grown man who gave him the stink eye any chance he got.

Obviously you’d rather be living alone, or with a romantic partner, but neither of those things seem like they’re in your cards at this point. Clark is a good alternative. You get plenty of alone time when you have a day off since Clark is at work until five most days, and on top of that sometimes he goes out with his friends. Alternatively to the time you get to spend alone, you also get to feel just a smidge safer at night. Metropolis is nowhere near as dangerous as Gotham is, at least not at night, but you can never be totally sure. Superman can handle whatever huge creature is toppling buildings over, but you can’t really call Superman if there’s someone trying to break into your apartment. You can call Clark though, or rather, knock on his door. Usually.

Tonight Clark is out. He’s actually out a lot later than usual, which is strange. He said something vague this morning about having to go to a meeting later tonight with his friends after work and he’d “be back aroumd smghmsgh.” His voice muffled at the end of his sentence because he had stuffed a cinnamon swirl eggo in his mouth. Helpful!

Around ten you finally peel yourself off the couch. It feels strange to get ready for bed without Clark being around. You aren’t dependent on him, but like, it’s routine by now. You brush your teeth, he brushes his teeth, and then you both go to bed. Sometimes he showers, but that’s not your business to think about. At all. Clark is your friend and roommate. Your kind, dependable, tall, handsome, buff, protective, roommate. You walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water, telling yourself you aren’t prolonging the time before you get ready for bed sans-Clark.

The water pools in the sink as you run the tap for a moment before sticking your glass under. It fills a little too quickly. You chug it, pour more water in the glass, then let your eyes flit to the overhead cupboards. A notice is taped to one of them, one which you taped up.

NOTICE: Fire alarm inspection

Dear valued tenants,

This coming Saturday the MFD (Metropolis Fire Department) will be entering your apartments to test your fire alarms. These tests will happen between 8am-11am. If you are unable to be present this Saturday please let me know by e-mail so we can rearrange a time.

Thanks.

Ugh. Your landlord is a nice person but is it necessary to start fire alarm testing at 8am on a Saturday? You were kind of hoping Clark would get home early tonight so he could be the one to let the fire department in tomorrow morning, but you guess not. He’s going to end up sleeping in late if he’s not home soon, so you better set your alarm.

—

It’s 7:59am. And they’re already here.

You had woken up to a strong knock on the door of your apartment that had you gasping for breath as you stumbled out of bed, throwing a more presentable shirt on. Thank God the fireman that you opened the door to looked worse for wear than you did. If you had opened the door to a sexy fireman while wearing your somewhat holey Snoopy sleepshirt, which you’ve had since middle school, you might have lit yourself on fire to test the alarm.

Now you’re sitting on the couch backwards, staring at the fireman as he stands on a ladder in the kitchen. You’re kind of wondering if the fire department needs to do this. You’re pretty sure Clark could check the fire alarm without using a ladder, which you’re tempted to tell the fireman, but he seems nice enough. It’s just early, you’re grumpy.

“I’ve been doing this for almost a decade now,” the fireman says. You hum in an interested tone, watching as he uses a screwdriver to unscrew the panel of the fire alarm. It falls down into his other palm and he checks the batteries.

“Expired,” he says disapprovingly.

Okay fire alarm guy.

He takes a couple batteries out of his shirt pocket and replaces the old batteries. Then he screws the panel back on. It kind of feels like watching you dad or uncle fix something, which would be sweet if you weren’t sleep deprived and annoyed that somehow this guy made his way to your fourth floor apartment before these tests were even supposed to start.

The fireman puts his screwdriver back into his toolbelt and then looks back at you from where he’s standing on the ladder.

“Might be loud,” is the only warning you get.

A shrill beep screeches through the apartment as he presses the “test” button on the alarm. It wakes you up all over again, making you jolt upwards. You’re close to cussing, but then you hear a different loud noise. Two loud thuds echo from behind Clark’s bedroom door.

Oh shit, he was still sleeping.

A couple more thuds sound out before Clark’s door is ripped open. There’s a wild look to him as his chest puffs anxiously.

“Fire?” He asks at the same time the fireman says “alarm works now!” Proud as ever.

No, there’s no fire. But it’s starting to get warm.

You’ve never seen Clark straight out of bed. Typically he showers at night, after you go to bed, so that you can have the bathroom in the mornings. That means that by the time you see him each morning he’s already dressed for work, curls tamed, and he’s all put together. Right now though, he’s the least put together you’ve ever seen him.

His hair is somewhat screwed up, the curls flat on one side of his head from how he sleeps, and his glasses are a little crooked from how hastily he must have shoved them on. Clark is also shirtless, which is surprising. You kind of took Clark as the kind of man who has old fashioned cotton pajama sets considering he wears a suit to work everyday. You very much wish he was right now.

Clark is obviously a strong guy. He’s got great arms that you’ve been able to admire multiple times over the last seven months, and sometimes you’re able to see how big his chest is when his dress shirts strain just right. But right now, you’re getting a full view of everything, and he’s so, terribly, attractively, big. Clark’s arms are much bigger than you thought they were, but so is everything else. His stomach pushes against the stretchband of his pajama pants just right, making you think of the time that he had shared the fact that “Ma fed me well,” over dinner. Fuck yes she did. Thanks Ma. His stomach looks dense with strength, like he’s been bulking his whole life, and his tits… Lord. Never in your life have you ever thought that a man having tits could be attractive, but Clark Kent doesn’t seem to be able to be unattractive. They look heavy and the skin looks soft and for a split second you think about what it would be like to run your hands up his body and cup them.

You notice that you’re staring at him, but he doesn’t. Instead, Clark seems to realize that the guy in your apartment isn’t an intruder, but is actually checking the fire alarm. He walks over quickly, and in typical Clark fashion, strikes up a conversation with this guy. He’s distracted fully, giving you more time to kind of drool over the new angle you’re getting of his arms.

Normally you wouldn’t do this. You’ve purposefully been avoiding being attracted or generally objectifying Clark no matter what because when he moved in with you he was sorely broken up over his last relationship ending. Clark was much too sweet for you to think about in that way, no matter how delicious he is to stare at. But it’s been months now, and he seems more okay, and damn it he’s shirtless and it’s 7:30 in the morning and you’re pissed! You deserve a little eye candy, no?

You let your eyes drop back to his stomach as he stands while talking to the fireman. The profile of his tummy almost hanging over the waistband is making your whole body heat up, but then your eyes drop lower and it gets worse.

He’s not wearing underwear.

There’s literally no possible way that he’s wearing anything beneath the pajama pants. You can see the outline of what you think is morning wood, but you aren’t entirely sure. If he had a boner that big right now he wouldn’t just be casually talking to a stranger in your apartment, right? But then again, there’s no way he’s packing something that much. It wouldn’t be human to be that big soft. He must just be oblivious. Fuck, you’re perving out right now.

It’s pressing against the plaid pattern of his pants in a way that maybe is camouflaged to the poor fireman who now looks like he’s trapped in a conversation with Clark. You watch as the fireman slowly packs up his ladder and moves unsubtly toward the door in an attempt to drop a hint that Clark isn’t picking up. It, yes it, isn’t camouflaged to you though. You watch from the couch as his pants tent around it, the thickness of it pressing against his leg as he moves toward the door with the fireman. Sweat starts to form at your brow as you swallow dryly.

Maybe his last girlfriend just couldn’t stand the hospital trips after they had sex? That’s the only plausible reason you can see someone dumping Clark. He’s suffering from the success of all those inches.

The fireman finally shuts down the conversation Clark had started with a gentle “I have to go test other alarms now,” and slips out the door. Clark turns to you now, still clearly oblivious to the third leg he seems to be showing off.

“I totally forgot about that inspection, geez.”

You are braindead. His words don’t even seem like words anymore as you get another full frontal view of his less-than-normally-clothed body and the inside of your skull feels fuzzy. It’s too early for all of these emotions of frustration and then sudden insatiable heat. Maybe you’re getting close to ovulating or something, but Clark is triggering you badly.

“Are you hard?” You ask.

Clark instantly reaches his hands down, covering his crotch.

“What? No, I just– I just threw these on. They must be too small.” He sputters.

Just threw those on? Your brows scrunch together in confusion. If he just threw those on before coming out of his room and he’s not wearing anything else (other than his glasses…)

“I sleep naked,” Clark admits flusteredly. Your eyes widen just as your mouth hangs slightly open in surprise. This is not something that you thought Clark would ever say, nor admit if it was the case. His ears are turning pink as his hands cover his crotch area still, though you doubt he’s actually covering all the square footage of his downstairs property.

“I started sleeping naked when I moved away from home. It was like a freedom thing, I think.”

Oookay. Coolio. Packing that tidbit of info into your brain and saving it for later when Clark isn’t home and you have a certain something charged. You nod with your mouth still open, then swallow back the dryness on your tongue before speaking again.

“Why do you…” you start speaking but then he moves toward the couch and your voice trails off. He sits opposite you, looking a little ashamed as he shoves a pillow over his lap. “Why do you still sleep naked?”

He can’t make eye contact with you now, he’s too embarrassed. It almost seems like he never really thought about the fact it might be strange to still sleep naked, and now he has to face the music.

“Clothes just… restrain stuff,” he admits quietly.

Stuff.

“Stuff?” You reply. “What stuff?

He shakes his head, says your name quietly like he wishes you’d forget this. “You know what stuff. My stuff.”

This is insane. There’s no way he’s that big all the time. That’s not something you believe.

“You’re seriously not… that’s not just morning wood or something?”

Clark shakes his head again and seems even more embarrassed now. His fists push into the throw pillow on his lap nervously. “I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “I know it’s strange. Or scary, I’ve been called scary.”

Aw. You feel kind of bad for him amidst all your curiosity about this newfound limb on your roommate. The best comfort you can offer in this awkwardness is a shrug.

“It’s okay, Clark,” you attempt a normal voice, “it’s just a surprise.”

He laughs quietly, thank goodness. His smile is always a ray of sunshine but right now it breaks up the insanity of the situation. “Golly, it’s a surprise to you? Imagine growing this thing,” he chuckles. Like it’s normal.

The honesty is somehow scarier than the fact that his dick is really that big. That’s just Clark’s life, he has to have that in his pants all the time, and now you have to know that he has that in his pants all the time too. What the fuck? What is this morning?

Clark finally works up the courage to look at you again, though you can still see the remnants of his flustered expression from moments before. His eyes stroll over your face and he seems to realize your befuddlement.

“Are you okay?” He asks. You raise your head to nod, but then feel the tug of a question caught in your throat.

“How big is it?” You ask. The tables turn again and Clark is back to being the one caught off guard. He sputters some breaths and attempts words but you shrug. “I’ve already basically seen it, Clark. I’m just curious.”

The last thing you say seems to ease him some more, as silly as it is. It’s true, you’ve basically seen the outline of the whole thing now, so he has less reason to be shy. Clark, again, nods. Then he picks the pillow up off his lap and places it on the ground beside his feet. This gives you a chance to see the way his stomach pouts out from his body while he sits, and the way his tits sit. They still look so soft, but you can’t make Clark any more uncomfortable than he already is, so you try your best to maintain eye contact.

“Eight and a half inches,” he manages to spit out. God, he sounds ashamed of it. Why is he ashamed?

You gawk at him. “I don’t even think I could fit half of you in my mouth.”

Why did you say that? Oh my god, why did you say that?

“That’s… fair. Nobody ever has,” Clark admits shyly. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

It sounds like a challenge. Your eyes drop back to his lap, searching for a moment until you can finally focus on the visible outline against the worn fabric of his pajamas.

“I could try,” you suggest. Clark’s head tilts down a little as he tries to meet your eyes that are currently feasting on the sight of his lap. He starts to say “what” but you stumble out more words. “Like just to see. Not in a sex way, but in an experimental way. Just to see.”

He seems a little speechless, his mouth forming the shapes of words that don’t come out, seldom for a shocked whisper of your name. Clark swallows the saliva in his mouth and then leans back against the couch, nodding.

“Not in a sex way,” he repeats as you slide off the couch and maneuver yourself between his legs. “Aw geez.”

Stupid cute man with a stupidly big cock. You aren’t technically breaking the “roommate rule” of don’t-fuck-your-roommate at least. You’re not fucking him, you are both just trying to see how much of Clark’s dick is humanly possible to suck.

He lifts his hips for you as your hands reach up and slide his pants down his legs, pulling them off with little struggle. It exposes his thighs to you, the hair that feathers out from his pubic area into a softer dusting around the outer area where his dick lays. It’s too heavy to even stand up on its own, it just lays against his thigh. He’s uncut but the foreskin is pulled back slightly, exposing the deep pink of his tip and how it’s starting to drool pre-come.

“Sorry, it’s um, been a bit. I’m a shower so don’t worry about,” he swallows nervously again, “about it getting any bigger than this.”

It is a little comforting to know you won’t have to deal with any more than you signed up for, but mostly you just want to soothe him. Clark seems so ashamed of how big he is, which isn’t totally unfamiliar. He always seems awkward in social situations, like a mega block in a world of lego bricks, but this is something you can help. You’ll prove to him that he is suckable.

But you’ll prove it in a moment. First you focus on what your mind, what’s left of it, wants to do.

You lean down and nudge your nose against the side of his cock, inhaling a little bit. He smells clean, just like the rest of him, but also a little different, a little more Clark than everywhere else. Your eyes meet his as you let your tongue loll out of your mouth and drag up his shaft, then lap at his tip as his head falls backward.

“Y-you said it wasn’t a sex thing,” he protests weakly.

“It isn’t,” you protest. It’s not a total lie. “I’m making sure you’re as hard as possible. You have to be fully hard for me to–” “Please just put your mouth on me,” he blurts out. “Please? You wanna figure this out too, right?”

Holy needy. You weren’t really expecting Clark to be this submissive. He’s probably just desperate because, as he said, it’s been a little while, but he’s already begging.

“Yeah,” you mumble against his tip, “yeah okay.”

He’s so much more than a mouthful. You were expecting it to be a lot, but you can’t breathe at all once his tip is fully in his mouth. Clark isn’t just long, but he’s thick too. It feels like you bit off more than you could chew, literally, and you’re just desperately swallowing around him. It’s especially hard to focus on not choking because he keeps making these little sounds and grasping at the arm of the couch. Clark clearly doesn’t want to push you at all. The hand that isn’t on the arm of the couch is gripping the couch cushion ferociously and his hips keep trying to buck up but he resists it, though just barely.

It isn’t a sex thing, it’s an experiment, you need to focus.

Your eyes slide shut as you decide to lock in, tuning out the noises and movements he’s making. Most of your focus goes into relaxing your jaw to fit more of him in. You know you’ll ache later, but it’s worth it. He’s so heavy in your mouth and in your hands as you hold him. The wetness of your mouth doesn’t seem to be enough and so you keep drooling out more and more saliva, trying to lube your throat so he’ll slide in easier, with less resistance. It doesn’t feel humanly possible, he’s completely right.

You attempt to say his name, but just gargle around his cock. He struggles back a “yeah?” and that’s when your eyes open again.

You’re far enough down on his dick now that when you open your eyes and look up at him, you’re met with a slight underside view of his stomach and tits. Clark looks back down at you with clouded eyes and a sweaty brow, meeting your own accidental doe eyes. It’s hard not to look pathetic and needy when you have a dick in your mouth, it’s just what happens. You maintain eye contact as you work your throat, attempting to open it up more to take him further and he whines while looking into your eyes.

Clark breathes your name once, then shuts his eyes tight as his chest heaves.

“Are you trying t-to make me come?” He asks. His voice sounds pained, but his cock throbs in your mouth as he asks the question.

Well, are you?

He looks close already, even more wrecked than five minutes ago when this “experiment” began. Obviously you want him to come, you’re sucking his dick for gods sake, but he’s just making sure. He’s just being good and making sure that he’s allowed to come. The two of you are losing any inhibitions about this pretense of an experiment and you’re ready to fully let loose.

You can’t respond to his question without pulling off his cock, and you sure as hell don’t want to lose the progress you’ve made on his length, so instead you give in. Reaching up from the floor with your hand, you trail your fingers up his body and then cup his left tit in your hand. His breath catches as he looks down at what you’re doing, and that’s when you rub your thumb over his nipple. It hardens immediately and he lets out a rough moan as you nod, resuming bobbing your head up and down his cock.

Yes you’re going to make Clark come. You want to make this big, delicious, kind, man come his brains out, either in your mouth or on you, or both.

Whatever efforts you were making previously tenfold as you start to start to jerk off whatever you can’t fit in your mouth with your free hand, the other one still entirely focused on groping the soft fat of his breast and toying with his nipple. Clark starts to let his hips buck up more as he begins to repeat your name, whining each time you stimulate his nipple just right. Drool leaks out of your mouth and onto your balls as you let the back of your throat get pummelled relentlessly. It feels like your brains are melting in your head each time you feel him throb or taste him leaking a little more pre-come. “I’m gonna come,” Clark warns. He says it again, but makes no move to pull you off him.

Your eyes meet his with some sense of determination, and you hope the bob of your head and the nod of your head don’t look too similar as you try to reply with a nod of “yes, yes, come.” The message, thankfully, is received. Your hands work relentlessly to stimulate him fully through his orgasm as he spills down your throat. You try to keep up with swallowing but it starts to feel like if you don’t pull off of him you’re going to have come drip out of your nose. Finally you jerk back, watching as his cock doesn’t slow down at all, shooting ropes not just on your face and neck, but dripping onto his own thighs too. He’s so noisy as he comes, on top of all the things in motion he’s moaning your name and thanking you.

“Thank you, thank you,” he whimpers, “m sorry it’s such a mess.”

It is such a mess. You didn’t take into account that him having a big dick might mean him having bigger balls, which you certainly won’t neglect if the two of you ever do this again, but now he’s coming so much. Some of it is already half dried on your sleepshirt by the time he’s finished.

Clark’s head rolls back again, his legs falling even further apart, as he catches his breath. He has half a mind to hand you the pants you peeled off him earlier, apologizing for not being able to clean you up properly. It’s a sweet gesture, and you’ll excuse his lack of aftercare since it seems like he just emptied his entire bloodline down your face and shirt. After somewhat cleaning the come off you, you’re surprised as he lifts you up onto the couch, moving his spent cock out of the way so you can sit on him.

“Thank you,” he says again, pushing his nose against your shoulder, “sorry I ruined your experiment.”

It seems that despite what just happened, Clark will always be the considerate, sweet, guy that he’s always been during his time as your roommate. His breath is soft against your shoulder as his eyes flutter and look down.

“And sorry for ruining your shirt.”

A giggle pushes its way through your chest and past your aching jaw. “It’s fine. I’ll just take off my shirt next time we try.”

Clark’s posture goes a little rigid at the mention of a next time. He pulls his nose away from your shoulder and looks at you a little curiously. “Next time?”

You’re quick to respond, shrugging it off casually to avoid the many questions and considerations you’re sure Clark will chatter away at you once his brain rebuilds itself from his orgasm.

“Yeah, next time. I only fit like… half of you in my throat. I think I can do better than that,” you say defiantly. Clark huffs a laugh of disbelief out. “I just need more practice.”

“More practice. Sure,” he agrees softly.

>///<

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attendsquoi · 14 days ago

Text

Fútbol is Life

prompt: Dani Rojas always says "fútbol is life," but it wasn't supposed to take precedence over you in Roy's. when he stands you up, disappointment and repercussions ensue. -> or when Roy forgets a date with you

pairing: Roy Kent x female!reader

fandom: Ted Lasso -> no masterlist... yet

collection masterlist: Nights Like This

word count: 9.9k+

note: this is pretty tame in comparison to other angsty fics

warnings: obvious cursing, established relationship, feelings are hard, depiction and mention of anxiety, Lord's name in vain, some fluff, some angst, more so hurt and comfort, purposeful use of repetition. Coach Beard is Bestie and threatens arson, romanticized job promotion, use of Y/N, pet names for / from everyone! not edited, this fic got away from the author.

"You still in yesterday's clothes?" A deep grumble sounded from behind you; being so used to it, you weren't startled.

"Uh-huh."

"Why're you up so early?"

"Mhhhhmmmmm."

"You get any fuckin' sleep?"

"Right, right, whatever you say, baby."

A pause as the pitter-patter of a rapidly clacking keyboard filled the space.

"I'm thinkin' of wearin' Phoebe’s Elsa costume all of trainin' today, complete with the wig. Thoughts?"

"Uh-huh, sounds good, love," the clatter continued until the screen that burned your retinas suddenly closed, and should you not have retracted your hands, would've been the meat of a technology sandwich. "Oi!" You snapped, looking up to meet Roy's knowing glare. "What'd you do that for? You're lucky this automatically saves!"

"Sweetheart," Roy leered, lowering so he balanced his hands on the arm of the sofa you occupied, "you're not good to anyone half-dead. A single night isn't gonna do anything more than what you've already done the past months."

You deflected shyly, "I'm just editing."

"At 95 words per-fuckin'-minute?"

While Roy glared, you expressed sheepishness, "I just - it needs to be perfect, okay? Today can't be anything less." He growled knowingly, handing you the perfect cup of coffee you didn't hear, smell, see, or realize he made with a kiss to the top of your head. With a smile, you bid, "Thank you, lovebug."

He grunted and took the seat beside you. "Right, then. Let's see it," he gestured for your laptop.

"You're not gonna understand what it says, it's all corporate lingo and statistics and - "

"Don't fuckin' matter - hand it over."

You slowly, cautiously, placing the computer on his lap. He flipped the lid and scanned the 60-some page document swiftly, skipped through the paired PowerPoint, nodded with his usual growl, then slapped it shut and pushed it onto the coffee table. "Fuck's sake, Roy!" You protested, trying to lean forward to take it back.

"Nope," he caught you beforehand and pulled you back to rest together against the cushions. He even reached around you to one of the many fuzzy pillows you decorated with, giving it a fluff, then situated it behind you comfortably. "We're gonna sit here for a moment, let you decompress. Like I said, you're no good half-fuckin'-dead. Just take a fuckin' breather, love, c'mon."

You deflated, pouting at him. "I just wanna do well."

Roy stretched his arm around your shoulders, letting you curl into his side. "I don't know what you're so stressed about. Hardest Goddamn worker I know, they'd be fuckin' idiots to pass you over for this promotion."

"You call them idiotic, unqualified, pampered wankers everyday," you giggled.

"'Cause they fuckin' are."

"Yes, yes, I know. But with me in this new position, maybe I can change things up so we're not all fuckin' wankers, hey?"

"Promotion or not, you'd never be like them," he mused, "you're too fuckin' pure, so innocent; sometimes, it makes me sick."

"You bloody romantic," you snickered, leaning your forehead to his temple.

"Just don't tell anyone, I've got a reputation to uphold. Still need a ride today, doll?"

"No, 's all right, baby, I hate makin' you late. Thank you, though, Sully's gonna pick me up."

"Know I don't care 'bout punctuality - 'specially when it's t'help you."

"Yeah, but you know I hate being dependent on or inconveniencing others."

He hummed, "You hear from the garage yet? How much longer they gonna keep your car?"

"They said probably in the next day or two, so, you'll officially be relieved of chauffeur duties very soon," you lifted your head to peck his fuzzy cheek.

"Oh, shut it - know you love me drivin' you 'round."

"Guilty," you grinned. "Makes me feel like a princess."

"Good, not doin' my job if you don't. So you wanna tell me why you're doin' work before actually goin' inta work?"

You shrugged meekly, readjusting so your legs were tossed over his lap, taking your own pull of coffee before answering, "I'm just makin' sure everything's in order, I'm a bit nervous to present all this."

"Darlin', it's as perfect as you are. And fuck the presentation, you're gonna make it your bitch and smash it. Should those twats in suits not think so, just call me... I'll set the bastards straight."

You hummed, smiling at him brightly. "You're a regular knight in shining armor, aren't yah? Who's just lookin' for reasons t'yell?"

"Always," he grunted, sipping his coffee, "every princess needs a knight, don't she?"

"Not a prince?"

"Nah, princes are over-fuckin'-raided, spoiled, pampered li'l spineless bitches."

You eyed him for a suspicious moment, quipping, "You or Pheebs come up with that?"

"Pheebs," he growled with a proud smirk. "Feel sorry for any bloke that comes her way."

"No you don't, you relish the idea of beating the shit outta anyone that remotely shows interest in her."

Roy chuckled gruffly, "I'm a man, I know how they think. So, if you figure out another way to keep her safe, feel free to share. Now, what time you gotta go?"

"Uh," you checked your watch, "Sully should be here soon, I should probably finish getting ready... Or start getting ready, I mean."

"Could save time and shower together," he smirked.

With laughter, you shook your head, "As tempting as that is, baby, we're on a time limit."

"Don't matter, I'll just drop you at work - they can't start until you're there anyway."

"Yeah, but you've got trainin' t'get to, love."

"So fuckin' what? I can be late. Ted'll understand - since he fuckin' adores you for whatever fuckin' reason."

"Because I'm fucking adorable," you snickered before leaning in to kiss him with another smile. "I appreciate you, baby, but I've got it. Thank you for offering and, you know, driving me everywhere the past week - but I really, really can't afford t'be late today."

Roy heaved a heavy sigh, "All right. Fine. C'mon, then," he grunted under his breath as he stood, "let's get you dressed."

"First time you've ever said that," you laughed, snatching his hand to lift onto your feet; following him to the bedroom. In tandem, you both prepared for your days at work; and while you didn't need to offer any vote to his fit - being the same monochromatic look everyday - you consulted his opinion on an appropriate fit for that day's presentation.

"You don't think that's a bit... Too sexy?" He asked, eyeing the heather grey pencil dress from where it hung on the closet door. "Tits look fuckin' spectacular in that - maybe too good for work."

"Kinda figured if I get nervous and fuck up orally, the way I look will be enough to distract," you smirked. "Or should I wear that little white number - "

"No, no, fuck no, you wear that for me and me alone," Roy grit, making you snicker and drop your robe; revealing a matching set of lingerie. His head cocked, eyeing you up and down, "I buy you that?"

You glanced at the bralette, sending him a smirk, "Not this one, but it is new; thought a matching set would give me a confidence boost. You like it?"

"Fuckin' love it," he mused, "not loving that you're wearing it for work, though."

"Well, maybe you should take me out tonight so it doesn't go to waste," you beamed, tugging the clingy material over your body; adjusting it as needed.

"Fuck yeah, I'm gonna take you out tonight. Fuckin' hell - look at yah! Not 'bouta let this look go to waste, gotta show you off."

With a smile, you informed, "I'll be out 'round 4."

Roy smirked, watching you debate shoes. "Them blue ones, there," he pointed to a pair of Tiffany blue heels that laced around your ankle; the aglet being a fun puff ball to add a hint of whimsy. "Right, how's 'bout dinner at Bordeaux? Drinks at Johnny's after?"

"You don't drink durin' the season," you reminded, dropping to the bed beside him to secure your shoes. He pulled your legs to his lap, sliding the heels over your feet and lacing them.

"Yeah, but I'll make an exception t'celebrate your new promotion. Hey?"

"That sounds really nice," you agreed. "Let's pray we're drinking in celebration and not in dejection."

Roy scoffed, "Fuck off. You've busted your arse for this, it's gonna go exactly as you plan."

"You sure you got trainin' today? Can't come with me, be my personal source of confidence?" You pouted, leaning into his side with your chin on his shoulder; hand finding his to lace together. "Maybe bully the higher-ups a bit into accepting my proposals?"

"Don't need me," he soothed in a rumble, "your work speaks for itself. You're just nervous, love, but it'll go away once you get your ball rollin'."

"Pun intended?" You smirked, earning a deadpanned expression. So you groaned and stood to finish getting ready, snipping, "Well why can't they just read my reports and such? Why do I have to present it?"

"Because they like it when you dumb it down so they don't have to actually fuckin' think. They only run the company 'cause they bought their way in, didn't earn it by merit - like you will."

"Oh... Thaaaat's right," you grinned, leaning into the mirror to push earrings through your piercings. "Love, could you hand me - ah, thank you," you smiled when he appeared behind you, hand splayed to present your usual jewelry. "Right," you finished latching the clasp, turning in the mirror to get a full look at yourself, then facing Roy. With your arms held in bravado, you quipped, "Well? What do yah think?"

"I'd buy any-fuckin'-thing you're selling," he nodded, arms sweeping around your waist.

"I'm not selling anything but myself as president of the very company I helped get off the bloody ground."

"I stand by my statement."

Your phone buzzed, smartwatch lighting up with notification. "Sully's here," you sighed, latching your arms around his neck, "and you've gotta get goin'."

"Hm," he growled, leaning in to press his lips to yours in a sweet kiss. "'S gonna be a great day, doll, can feel it for yah."

"Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend? He's not usually so optimistic."

"Ha-ha," he grit, but the smirk on his lips assured he knew you were only teasing him. "C'mon, love."

Roy waited at the front door as you finished flitting around the home, grabbing your laptop and work purse, phone, chargers, keys, whatever you needed for the day; scampering out the door he held. Your coworker-slash-bestie, Erica Sullivan, a.k.a. Sully, waited in her BMW on the street, watching you walk Roy to his car.

"Bordeaux at 4:30?" You checked, him peering down at you fondly.

"I'll be there, baby. Now," he growled, "kick today's arse, and kick that meetin' every harder - always go for the crotch. Hey?"

"Mhm," you smiled, nodding in agreement. "Have a good day," you whispered, letting his lips drop to yours, "be nice to Coach Lasso - oh! - and tell Beard I finished our book and next is either Dinner At The Homesick Restaurant or Things Fall Apart."

"What's that fuckin' matter?"

"We bet who finishes each book first, winner chooses the next."

"Can't believe you're in a fuckin' bookclub with him," he scoffed slightly, looking mildly annoyed; which made you grin.

"You can't be jealous, I invite you each time!"

"Whatever," he scoffed, checking his watch. "Right, we better get goin' - "

"One more, one more, one more," you pouted, "for my nerves."

He chuckled and slid his hand across your jaw to romantically hold the back of your neck at the base of your head. "Got plenty of those, love, c'mere," he muttered, bringing you in for another kiss that made your head spin. His tongue swept against yours slowly, honestly riling you up versus calming you down - and it would've progressed if Sully didn't lay on her horn.

"I love you both but I need coffee!" She shouted from her window when you broke apart to glare at her car. "Let's go! Hurry the fuck up, you can dick her down anytime! We've got a real job t'get to!"

"Might honestly strangle her," Roy muttered, rolling his eyes, redirecting your attention to him. "Listen t'me, don't fuckin' worry 'bout today - you know you're prepared; you're gonna fuckin' kill it. Don't ever second guess yourself about what you deserve."

"Thanks, baby," you whispered, smiling, pecking his lips one more time. "All right, go, go, go, you gotta get gone or Beard'll give me that unnerving stare next bookclub."

He sighed heavily, but relented, "Love you, doll."

"Love you, too, handsome." You turned to leave, but Roy pushed off his car to ease his arm around your shoulders as you headed for Sully. "What're you - "

"My girl doesn't touch doors, you know this," he answered easily, gruffly opening the passenger door of the BMW. He took your purse, offering his hand to ease you into the seat; leaning down to set your belongings at your feet and nod at the driver. "Sully..."

"Fuckface," she smirked.

He growled in the back of his throat while glaring at your snickering bestie; looking at you softer, "Good luck today, sweetheart."

"Thank you, baby," you whispered with a growing grin; always entertained by Sully and Roy's competition and feigned distain for one another.

Never minding the fact that Roy personally saved her from a horrible date once - it'd ruin their power dynamic.

With one last glare to your snickering best friend, he grunted and lifted up to properly shut the door. You tried to watch him back to his car, but Sully was already zooming off.

"Nervous 'bout today, lovie?"

"No shit," you frowned, "considering the biggest promotion of my life really rides on this."

"I know, but I guess you're kinda supposed t'be nervous since you're goin' for an admin position. What was Fuckface's reaction?"

You pinned her with a sideways glare, answering with a sigh, "Supportive, as usual. We're goin' to Bordeaux tonight either to celebrate or drown my disappointing sorrow."

"Oh, fuck off, you've been working on this for, what? 6 years? And no, I'm not just saying that 'cause you got me a kickarse job."

You corrected with a snicker, "Might as well be 6 bloody years, all the God forsaken hours I've put in."

"Breathe, babes," she beamed, "you're gonna fuckin' kill it."

"You sound like Roy."

"Ah, fuck, can't have that. Even though he took the love of my life," she scoffed slightly, making you coo obnoxiously.

"Oh, babes, know you're my first and greatest love."

"Better be," she grumbled, "put over two decades inta yah, better be your first choice."

"Not my only choice?"

"Well, I can't give you babies... You know, I don't produce sperm - stupid fuckin' biology and shit."

"That fickle bitch."

She hummed in agreement. "Now... I know it's your turn to buy coffee but I got it, bit of a treat for your big day. But when you get that promotion, you're buying for a month."

"Deal and deal," you laughed.

After the most successful day of your career, your walk to Bordeaux was spent dialing your family to relay the news. Your mother squealed and cried with joy, repeating her pride and calling your father on a three-way; and your siblings pleaded for bragging rights as you were officially one of the youngest female presidents of any company. They also began rattling off expensive Christmas and birthday gifts they've longed for. Naturally, you mockingly scolded them for spending money you didn't have yet, but secretly took note of their suggestions before telling them to stay off social media until the official press release was published. That way, you controlled who knew.

Arriving at the prestigious French restaurant around 4:15, you put your name down for two; accepting a place at the bar until a table was available. The dining room was fully packed with patrons, waitstaff zipping around in perfected synchronization.

"Hello, love," the kind bartender greeted, "what can I get started for yah?"

"Oh, uh..." You scanned the drinks menu, "um... Maybe just... A Merlot?"

"Hmm. Are we celebrating tonight?" The young lad pressed, sensing your indecision.

"Yeah, just a job promotion," you couldn't fight your grin, "but my partner's not here yet, so maybe no champagne yet."

"Understood," he nodded.

"You know what? I am celebrating," you beamed confidently. "So, I'll have whatever you recommend."

"Any preferences?"

"I like sweet wines - oh! And mojitos!"

"Then you would've hated the Merlot - but not to brag, love, I make a mean coconut mojito."

"It's like you read my mind," you agreed with a bright smile.

By the end of your drink, your table was ready... And it was going on 4:30 in the evening; so you texted Roy there wouldn't be a wait, that you got a table. After following the hostess, you sat facing the restaurant to catch Roy's arrival; purse hanging on the back of your chair, gingerly fingering the flowers nervously as the minutes began to tick.

So, you waited. And made up elaborate backgrounds for the strangers around you.

Understanding training could go overtime, you didn't want to press Roy yet; so you enjoyed an appetizer, knowing he wouldn't mind you starting before him, and a second mojito. You even ordered a nice bottle of imported champagne, letting it chill on ice in a bucket beside the table; feeling a little pathetic uncorking a bottle by yourself.

You waited. And impulsively treated yourself, buying your Amazon cart.

Catching sight of few people sneaking pictures of the Great Roy-fucking-Kent's girlfriend, you tried to act as unbothered, natural, and aloof as you could in the spotlight of scrutinization; feeling humiliated, foolish, so bloody stupid.

You waited. And checked your email.

By 5, you ordered an entrée you knew Roy would enjoy and checked your phone. There were several messages from your family, new work emails, a few push notifications... But nothing from Roy.

You texted him again: did i get the wrong time? thought we said 4:30?

The complimentary basket of bread was replenished as you called his number - but it rang, and rang, and rang until his voicemail picked up.

"Uh, hey, it's, like, 5 and I'm sitting in this fucking restaurant alone, Roy. Where the hell are you? What's going on? Could at least text me if you're gonna be late. I already ordered for us. As annoyed as I am right now, I love you... Please call me back, or text me, or better yet, please, walk through the bloody door."

You waited. And doom-scrolled social media.

Your leg bounced from anxiety, something sinking your stomach to your feet the longer the minutes ticked. Unsolicited tears filled your eyes but refused to fall in public; skin feeling prickly and sweaty, ribcage made of iron, not bone. Looking around the hoard of patrons enjoying their dates, you had to mentally beat jealousy off with a stick riddled with protruding nails. It hurt something fierce seeing so many other people who weren't stood up; their sideways glances cast as if you were a social pariah and they pitied you.

Pity was the last thing you ever wanted, so you pretended to look busy to give the impression you were alone on purpose.

With each glance to your message thread, you grew increasingly uncomfortable seeing so many blue bubbles; a divide between the texts that delivered and those that didn't. Roy knew you had abandonment issues stemming from your parents and general anxiety; so the idea he was ghosting you filled your heart and mind with lead; mixing in your blood to pump through your body and weigh on your soul. He's never behaved such as this before, so while you knew in your subconscious he wasn't ignoring you, the little devil on your shoulder hissed Roy had enough of you and set up this date only to get you out of the house so he could pack his shit in peace. Heat flushed your core, worried he fell out of love with you and didn't know how to say it - but on the off chance he did show up at this point, you remained in your chair.

So, you waited. And played Candy Crush.

Calling him again, and again, and again; all going straight to voicemail. On the fourth redial, you left another message: "Roy, seriously," you snarled quietly, "where the fuck are you!?I've been waiting for you over an hour! They're gonna ask I surrender the table soon if you don't show up soon. Please, call me back or send a bloody text."

You were served two meals about 45 minutes later - long wait due to the overwhelmed kitchen - thanking the waiter with a meek, watery tone; emotional from sending so many unanswered texts and several voicemails. Your appetite paired with coconut mojitos cascaded into the void of mortification, nearly sending the plate back - but you felt that was horribly rude and a waste of time, money, and energy from the toxicity of self-deprecation. Instead of the divine-smelling roasted duck ordered, your stomach filled with panic, wondering why you were even still here!? You began to reprimand yourself for prolonging this situation and causing your own hurt; thinking you should've left within half an hour of his ghosting, not endure silent humiliation that was sure to end up in tomorrow's tabloids.

Why am I still here? Why am I still here? Why the fuck am I still here?

Because you knew the devil on your shoulder was wrong. Roy would never do something like this maliciously, and selfishly wanted to have a rare on-season date night. You weren't known for giving up; and after his experiences, refused to give up on Roy no matter how upset you might be with him at any given moment - so you began mentally gaslight yourself by designing excuses and giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Your heart rate escalated.

Your leg bounced with an entirely new anxiety than you started the day with when 6:30 rolled around, feeling something akin to devastating realization he wasn't coming to this overpriced, always-booked restaurant that was supposed to be a date to celebrate you. Then the thought suddenly occurred to you: what if something happened? Was he hurt? Was it his knee? A car crash? Some emergency? If there had been some kind of incident, shouldn't someone have called you by now, being his incase of emergency (ICE) contact? Did he get into a brawl with Jamie again, earning laps as punishment? Was there something going on with the team - was someone hurt? - and since he was captain, required to stay late to help?

You wondered how much longer you'd sit there, alone, looking like a lonely fucking prick.

Hating the anticipation and lack of communication, so you hit Coach Beard's contact while pushing food around the plate to give the illusion of eating. You cleared your sinuses and throat to mask the emotional turmoil. "I was just gonna text you my vote is Things Fall Apart, so you better not be calling to gloat, chickadee," Beard answered, "I know you won."

"Well, howdy to you, too, cowboy," you chuckled.

"Reach for the sky, bay-baayyyy!"

You snickered, "Careful, Coach, Disney doesn't approve of personal use of their propaganda."

"Only if they catch me," he chuckled dryly. "What can I do you for, twirly girly?"

"Oh, right. Listen, toots, uh, what's goin' on over there? How late are you gonna keep the lads?"

"Uh...? We're not, they're gone for the day."

You hushed, "Well, Roy and I had plans to meet for dinner 2 hours ago and he isn't here. Is he okay? Is he there? He has to be there, Coach, please tell me he's still there."

"Uhhhh... Well... See, what had happened was - "

"Beard, where the fuck is Roy? Is he hurt?"

"Um... No, not per se..."

"Well, what can you say? You better answer me or I'm tellin' Jane 'bout Halloween."

There was a long pause, hearing him sigh, "He's with the team, they went out."

"Wait, wait, wait - w-what? Out? Out where?" Your heart plummeted, throat constricting in white hot emotion.

"Hang on, honey." His voice sounded away from the receiver, "Hey, Coach?"

"Yeah, Coach?" You heard Ted.

"Where'd the guys go?"

"Oh, some new bar down the way that stays open past closin' time. Which is considerably early compared to America's 2am curfew."

"Hear that, pumpkin?" Beard spoke into the phone.

"It's a pub," you corrected automatically, "and yeah, I heard."

"What's goin' on?"

"Is that my sunshine!?" Ted was heard. "Put 'er on speaker! I wanna say hi!" You smiled despite the disappointment racking your mind, body, and soul as Beard obviously did as bid, the American coach cooing, "Hey, buggaboo! How you doin'? I'm sure you look real pretty today!"

You chuckled, "Hi, Teddy."

"Know what? I never liked that nickname 'til you started callin' me it!"

"You like anything I do, you overly supportive sap."

"Awh, you sure know how to flatter a guy. What's goin' on, sunshine? Ain't'cha out with the boys?"

"No, Coach, I'm actually sitting alone in a stupidly nice restaurant - apparently being stood up by my boyfriend who'd rather go out drinkin' with his mates without a word to me."

"HE WHAT!?" Beard yelled, making you flinch and jerk the phone from your ear. When you brought it back, you caught the tail end of his rant, " - and he'll run laps all day tomorrow! No breaks! Or I'll burn. This place. DOWN!"

"Beard? Honey?" You waited patiently as Ted was trying to calm his friend down, too. "Honey? Hey, you listenin'?"

"Yeah," Beard grumbled.

"Both you boys listenin'?"

"Uh-huh, what's up, sunshine?" Ted answered. "I got my hand on Beard's mouth, he ain't gonna interrupt yah. Go 'head."

You paused, taking a breath, "I got the promotion."

"YOU WHAT!?" Ted now yelled, Beard heard echoing right after; them obviously celebrating. You chuckled sadly, feeling ashamed over telling them first over Roy - but it wasn't like he was answering his phone, no way of relaying this life changing event. "Holy guacamole, sunshine! This is - wow! Just wow! Congratulations! Oh, my good golly all mighty! You got the job!? Oh, man! We gotta celebrate!"

You perked up a little, "Well, uh, if you're interested, I'm... I'm at this French place and might've already ordered a bottle of champagne. Would you two like to join me? I think it's a bit sad t'drink it alone."

"Hell, yes! We're on the way, peach!" Beard declared. "Ted - Ted - Ted, your bag."

"Oh, right!"

"And keys."

"Where - ah, there they are! Got 'em!"

"And phone!"

"Ah, dang it!"

Beard told you, "We're on our way there... Wait, where's there?"

You chuckled and promised to text the address so he just had to click it and follow the iPhone GPS. You asked them their order before hanging up; asking your waiter to box Roy's food and put in for their meals, also requesting your meal be reheated and brought back at the same time as the others. You finished another mojito by the time they arrived around 7, an extra chair being brought to the table; both holding bouquets of flowers they bought from a local shop on the way.

Standing to hug the two Americans, you thanked them repeatedly for being so kind and supportive; all sitting to enjoy the cuisine and pop the champagne. Despite their silliness and good-natured ways that was obviously exaggerated to distract you, the coaches couldn't miss the way your eyes were dimmed from your boyfriend's antics even if they tried.

"You know, I'm sure Roy ain't mean to forget. The boys thought they'd go out to this, uh, this new place to celebrate a real good day. It's some bar - "

"Pub," Beard corrected, nodding at you.

"Right, right, they went to this new pub down the way," Ted nodded. "Apparently, Richmond drinks for free and them boys wasn't gonna let that pass."

"Well," you huffed, "good to know."

"You all right, sunshine?"

"Oh, for sure," you snipped, downing the last champagne in your flute; Beard instantly refilling it. "I just love being stood up, simply adore bein' forgotten."

"Well, we're here to celebrate you - with you," Ted grinned. "C'mon, now, tell us all about this new gig! Spare no detail! We want it all!"

"Do you even know what position I was goin' for?"

"Nope, but I know it was mighty important."

"President," Beard answered, Ted gasping.

"And you got it!? Oh-ho-hooo! Awh, man! This is cause for dessert! Coach?"

"Absolutely. Pumpkin?"

"Oh, what the hell! Crêpes on me," you grinned. "Actually, think I could ask you two a favor?"

"Anything."

"Whatcha need, sunshine?" Ted snickered at Beard's stoic posture and deadpanned expression whilst still conveying support.

"Think you could arrange a meetin' with Rebecca for me? I know she's all busy but I could use some advice as a woman in power - and some style inspiration, if I'm honest."

"I thought you had her number?" Beard asked.

"I do, I just kinda hope she'd be more inclined to agree meetin' me if from you lot...?"

"Well, as far as I've seen, she likes you a helluva lot more than us - "

"Done," Ted chirped, already pulling out his phone as the waiter approached the table. Beard chuckled at Ted before ordering dessert for everyone. Coach Lasso then wondered, "Hey, you try textin' any of the other guys?"

"No, I called Beard when Roy didn't answer, thought trainin' went overtime or someone got hurt, that there might've been some situation," you shrugged. "And honestly? I don't think I really want t'talk t'him right now. Feelin' a bit..."

"Angry?"

"Abandoned?"

"Flustered?"

"Rattled?"

"Forgotten?"

Your head volleyed between the two, nodding, "You two are scary perceptive. Yes to all, but for what it's worth, this is a helluva consolation celebration."

"Cheers to that," Ted beamed, hoisting his glass over the table. You and Beard followed, "To Sunshine! And her shiny new job! We're real proud of you and can't wait to see what you do!" He looked to Beard pointedly.

"To our friend - the very best of us."

Three glasses clinked together.

"Thanks, youuuu guys - ugh, such sweetie-peaties!" You sang, arm slung over Beard's shoulder as he and Ted walked you to your front door; the taxi idling on the street, your home being too far to walk from the restaurant. "I could've gotten to the doooooor."

"Uh-huh," Ted chuckled when you stumbled, "and miss the chance to see where y'all live?"

"Why? Need home decor inspiration?" You teased. "Ah, fuck," you glared at your keys, "why do I have so many!?"

"'Cause you're big and important," Beard reminded you, earning a giggle of agreement.

"I gotcha, gimme that," Ted mused as Beard supported you upright. "All righty, let's see here - nope, not that one... Uh, this one? No, no... This one! Aha!" The door swung open to a dark home, Coach Ted Lasso mentioning, "Huh, guess the guys are still out."

"Fuck 'em."

"Atta girl," Beard mused, "step carefully, there you go. Easy, easy." They helped you into your home, letting you drop tiredly on the couch. "I got the leftovers," Coach Beard mentioned, moving into your kitchen as Ted propped your feet to the cushion and unlaced your heels.

"Hey, you still awake, girlie?" He shook your knee.

"Mh," he earned a grumble and swatted hand.

Ted couldn't help but chuckle lightly, "All right, well, I'm settin' your alarm, okay? Rebecca said she'll meet with yah tomorrow - so, don't you worry."

"Mmmh, but woooooork," you groaned.

"Uh-huh. Who should I text 'bout that? Don't think you're makin' it in tomorrow, sunshine."

You grumbled unintelligibly, Beard returning. "I got it," he plucked your phone from Ted's grasp. "Siri, text Sully: Won't be in tomorrow, will explain later, love you."

As Ted covered you with a throw blanket, the phone beeped to indicate the message was sent. "Y'all, like, secret best friends or somethin'?" He snickered with shock. Beard shrugged. "Well, now that's just dangerous," Ted continued, "can use anyone's phone to do anything, huh?"

"Eh," Beard shrugged again, leaving your phone on the coffee table and ushering Ted out. They felt bad about leaving your door unlocked, but figured Roy would be home soon enough - considering the time of night and his position as captain. He was usually more responsible than this...

The taxi had just pulled around the corner when Roy's car pulled in; oblivious to the pain he caused via his empty pockets, phone forgotten in his cubby. It had been a particularly good day where everything alined properly during training - which put the whole team on a high - prompting Issac to recommend they go celebrate. Ted thought it was a great idea for bonding; loving that the team had grown together as of late and encouraged any activity or amount of time outside the Richmond facility as possible.

He didn't know until later he should've reminded Roy of his promise to meet you for dinner and drinks before they left... But the Captain's relationship wasn't the Coach's responsibility.

Still minimally tipsy, Roy rushed for the front door with the intention of cuddling you until morning, nearly stumbling in; not expecting it to be unlocked. However, he slowed his roll when he spotted you on the couch; dead asleep, heels left on the floor, work bag leaning against the coffee table, and in the kitchen, bouquets of flowers on the counter. He knew you loved florals and often decorated with fresh blooms so this wasn't abnormal and didn't so much as tickle a memory. Roy just bent at the waist to kiss your forehead, rummage in your purse for your phone charger, plug it in, then stumbled off to bed. For the past three months, it was common to find you passed out on the couch - so this, too, wasn't a flag in his mind.

Roy wasn't usually so oblivious or forgetful, but as Dani Rojas says: fútbol is life. And sometimes, football distracted even the great Roy Kent.

By the time he woke the following morning, he wasn't near hungover but found water and tablets on the side table you preemptively left. He half expected you to be cuddled into his side, but the bed was still made - indicating you hadn't crawled in whenever you woke up. Grumbling, Roy made it downstairs only to discover the living room empty and cleaned up, but found a note on the kitchen counter.

Eat the leftovers so they don't go to waste

No signature, no drawn heart you usually attached, nothing sentimental or affectionate to your words. He tried not to think much of it, but in truth, Roy felt anxious about your lack of decoration or pet name; checking for his phone but after being unable to locate it, figured he must've left it at work. With a growl, he got ready and headed out; not liking his days that didn't start with you but tried to ride the high from yesterday. It didn't work.

When Roy entered the facility, he was surprised to see you at the far end of the hall, walking towards him in stride with Rebecca, chatting. "Hey, darlin'," he greeted, earning a glare from the owner of the team and not even a single glance from you. "Oi? Why aren't you at work? The fuck's goin' on? You were gone before I got up, could've drove together if I knew you were comin' - "

"We're busy, Kent, and you need to get moving," Rebecca snapped, looking to whatever you were showing her on your phone after; matching stilettos clacking through the hall as the pair passed him by.

"The fuck?" Roy muttered, brows furrowed in angry confusion; not understanding what he did to deserve such treatment. You next to never gave him the silent treatment or cold shoulder, so this felt alarming. "Baby! Hey! Did somethin' happen? C'mon, doll, talk to me!" He watched you disappear around the corner, growling to himself. He stormed down the hall, making several club attendants leap out of his warpath.

"Woah," Sam shied out of the way when a fuming Roy came barging into the locker room. "You all right, Captain? Ah, is it because Y/N couldn't make it last night? Didn't you see her? She's here today! She looks very pretty - "

"Captain," Beard snapped before Roy could respond, standing stoically in the doorway of his office; arms crossed. "Change of plans. Get in here."

Roy bared his teeth and begrudgingly followed Beard into the office where Nate and Ted were trying to look busy - but failing as they were obviously listening. "What's up, Coach?" Roy grit, not in the mood for any more shit now that he knew you were obviously pissed - at him.

"You're not gonna be part of training today," Beard snipped with a glare, feet lifting to cross on his desk.

"Come again?"

"You're gonna run laps the whole time." When Roy opened his mouth, Beard snapped, "No, it's not up for discussion. Now go. Get out, get ready."

"The fuck's up with everyone today?" He snarled, shaking his head and returning to his locker. With vigor, he searched for his phone - finding it locked in the cubby - dead. "Fuck's sake," he scoffed, glancing beside him to Sam. "Got a charger, mate?"

"Oh, uh, no, my phone is fully charged every night," Sam winced. "Richard might."

It took Roy a few minutes, but eventually Colin pulled his charger out and Roy left his phone plugged in on Ted's desk; changing for that day's session, stalking out of the locker room behind the rest of the team. On the pitch, the others began warming up - but Beard was glaring behind his sunnies directly at Roy, waiting for him to get going.

"You fuckin' serious?" Roy barked.

"Go. I wanna see knees-to-chest," Beard grit, arms crossing as Ted and Nate were to the side; talking quietly as if to avoid interfering with Beard's plan.

With a heavy sigh, Roy pivoted on his toes and started at a jog - earning several harsh blows of Beard's whistle to, "pick up the pace, knees-to-chest, remember!?". It was brutal on Roy's joints and lungs, his kit soon drenched in sweat from the prolonged exertion; the only real saving grace being Nate's offered sports drink each time he made his rounds. The longer he ran, the more time he had to mull over possible reasons for this punishment - but his mind was so jumbled with anger that he couldn't think straight.

His gaze often lifted towards the windows of Rebecca's office; seeing her figure, your's, Keeley's, and Higgins' all milling around at different intervals. He missed each time you paused at the window to watch him run those horrid laps.

When Ted blew the whistle that signaled the end of practice, Roy grunted as his legs turned to jelly to land on his chest in the grass. He was exhausted in body and mind; heaving for breath, letting Issac and Dani pick him up by the arms to sling around their shoulders. His feet dragged as they moved slowly, face contorted in pain; your glare lessening with sympathy from the areal advantage the longer you watched.

"You all right, babe?" Keeley asked, joining you at the window.

"I know I'm pissed - "

"Rightfully," Rebecca nodded from her desk.

"But fuck's sake, look at him," you sighed, hands slapping to your thighs. "Think that was punishment enough, Coach worked him pretty hard."

"He deserves it," Keeley scoffed.

"Right, right, right," your eyes rolled. "Rebecca, think I could pick your brain about a few things now? I'm sorry I took up all this time to complain."

"You needed to vent," Higgins spoke softly, "and this is a safe space."

"He's right," Keeley smiled with encouragement, "know we're all here for you, babes."

"Right, yeah," you cleared your throat, not entirely used to the supportive nature they've all adopted since hiring Ted Lasso. "But, uh, I do kinda need to speak with Miss Welton - not that I don't adore yours and Leslie's input, but it's kinda her wheelhouse."

"Oh, of course!" Keeley agreed, ushering Higgins out; all three ladies ignoring the dejected expression he wore over not being included in whatever matter you needed Rebecca's private ear for.

"Could I get you a refill?" Rebecca offered as you dropped to her couch with a sigh.

"Please," you agreed, letting her take your teacup. When she joined your side, she questioned what more you needed from her. "With this new position, I'm feelin' a bit insecure about my attitude towards the people I've worked beside for years. I mean, now I'm the big boss and that's just intimidatin' and a bit confusin'. Plus I'm worried about how I'll be received by the men I'll be surrounded by; also about now, with all this added responsibility, how I leave work at work and not bring it home. So I was wondering if I could pick your brain 'bout those bits. I mean," you took a small sip of tea, "you're the baddest bitch I know, figured there's nobody better to ask - pardon my language."

"No, no, I quite like it," she smirked, leaning into the back sofa cushions. "I'd steer clear of foul language around men, though; they tend to shy away from women with mouths."

"Not in my experience," you chuckled, earning a small snort from her. "Sometimes I feel like I'm only heard when I curse, partly blame Roy for that one."

"Oh, yes, that too - but don't let them rile you up to that point. It'll give them the wrong impression."

"What's the right impression?"

"Strong and capable," she smirked, sipping from her own cup. "Mh," she hummed with a broad smirk, "and just so you know, for future reference, I'm much more inclined to agree to you directly rather than Ted or Beard."

Downstairs, Keeley and Higgins paused at the bottom of the stairs to watch Roy basically be dragged into the locker room - sharing a knowing look and taking pity. "Think we should say something?" Keeley asked.

"Probably, there's the possibility of this turnin' violent," Leslie sighed, the two entering; discovering Roy had been deposited under the cold stream of water in the showers. They were given an opening to scamper into the manager's office and shut the door.

"Well, hi there! Just the two people I wanted to see come through that door! Well, that's a lie, I was hopin' for Sonny and Cher, but hey! This is even better!" Ted grinned, placing his phone down. "What do we own this pleasure? Oh! Is this is a Diamond Dogs situation?"

"Kinda, yeah," Higgins nodded, sharing a look with Keeley. Luckily, all Dogs were already present; but the Coaches and kitman still did their silly little howl.

"All right!" Ted beamed, drumming on his desk. "Whatcha got for us, Higgy, and honorary Pup?"

Keeley preened at the title while Higgins asked carefully, "Are you aware of what transpired between Roy and Y/N?"

"Oh," Ted glanced at a glowering Beard, "yes, uh, we are very much aware."

"Is that why you made him run laps all day?" Keeley asked pointedly yet with amusement.

"That was all him," Ted pointed at Beard; eyes wide like saucers. "Yeah, uh, you know, we might've... Might've let our emotions get the better of us this time."

"He deserves to be punished," Beard growled, staring at a single place on the floor.

"What's that, now?" Keeley asked in clarification. "Well, look, we ask 'cause she's upstairs with Rebecca, all kinds of upset. I mean, shit! She's the youngest woman to take over this type of position and her own boyfriend stood her up when they were meant to celebrate the news? I mean," she scoffed, looking around the men, "what the fuck is that shit!?"

"Yeah," Ted sighed, "Beard and I met her for dinner last night. Guessing Roy left his phone here..." He glanced at the device on his desk.

"She called you?" Higgins asked Ted.

"She called me," Beard answered stiffly, "wonderin' where Roy was. She worried he was hurt or something happened."

"Right, well, she's feelin' a bit better," Keeley nodded. "So, uh, maybe one of you could clue Roy in so they can hurry up and make up. Him bein' this oblivious isn't doin' nobody any favor."

"Nothing's really in order if those two are at odds," Higgins nodded nervously. "I mean, we all remember their last fight."

"Oh, God, yeah, that was brutal," Keeley winced.

"Roy came in and immediately headbutted Jamie so hard, it broke his nose," Nate recalled with a grimace. "I know he's a prick, but even Jamie didn't deserve that..."

"Yeah... Yeah, that was real bad," Ted agreed, sighing. "All right, yeah, I'll tell him what's up when he's done showerin'."

"Might be awhile," Nate winced, "he was in pretty bad shape comin' off the pitch."

"Good," Beard snarled quietly, crossing his arms tighter and glaring harder at the floor.

"Right, well," Keeley cleared her throat, "remember, she's upstairs. Yeah?"

"We got it, Kee-Bee," Ted nodded, eyes shifting over Beard. "You'll have to excuse Coach Beard - he and Y/N are apparently secret best friends and he's taking this hard."

"As he should," Keeley smiled, patting Beard's shoulder. "Good call makin' him run so much."

"Thank you," he preened at the praise.

The two coaches (and Nate) remained in the office even after all the players vacated. Out of worry, Ted asked Nate to check on Roy, who reported he was still in the shower; the trio waiting patiently, letting the kitman draw out new plays for them to discuss. At long last, Roy emerged from the showers with a distinct limp, pausing at his locker to finish drying off and dressing; giving the guys just enough time to mutter their final plan of action.

"Hey, Cap'n!" Ted called happily when Roy straightened with his usual duffel in hand. "C'mere a second, would'jah, please?"

He glared through the window, sighed, then slowly limped into the doorway. "What now?" He grit, "More laps?"

"Nah, nah, nah - oh, well, speaking of, that was some real nice hustle today," he tried to compliment. "I was impressed!"

"Fuck the both of you for it, can't feel my fuckin' calves and my knee's fucked. You fuckin' satisfied?"

"Right," Ted cleared his throat, Beard's jaw clenching. "Well, uh, there's actually a reason for your... Um..."

"Punishment," Beard provided stiffly.

"Why? Because the lads went out last night?"

"Actually, kinda, yeah," Ted leaned back in his chair. "Uh, Roy, I wanna apologize for makin' you run all them laps all day, but honestly, Coach Beard and I wanted you to hurt."

"The fuck did I do!?" Roy snapped, glaring at his coaches. "Everyone's been fuckin' weird today; and now you're punishing me for some shit I don't even know - "

Ted startled when Beard jumped to his feet and rounded on the Great Roy Kent, snatching his phone off Ted's desk to shove it into his chest. "You stood her up," he growled through clenched teeth.

"What?" Roy's head shook, doing a double take at his lit phone screen; quickly scrolling through the barrage of texts and voicemails from you.

"Last night... You were supposed to meet Y/N at Bordeaux's to celebrate her promotion - but instead, you went out with the team. Any other day, we'd make you run laps for skipping out on something like that, but yesterday, it came at that sweet girl's expense. She called me, asking after you - concerned you were hurt! You left her - alone - for hours - so Coach Lasso and I met her instead."

"Any of this ringin' a bell, Roy?" Ted wondered from his desk, watching the glow of his phone shine light on Roy's growing realization.

"FUCK!" Roy bellowed, neck veins straining and bulging. Beard nodded in approval as the Captain turned and rushed as best he could out of the locker room.

"She's with The Boss in her office!" Ted called helpfully after him.

When Beard turned, his angry expression had dropped and shrugged, "We'll give him tomorrow off to make up for today."

"Yeah, I was thinkin' the same," Ted snickered. "Think they're gonna be okay?"

"Oh, yeah, they have to be," Nate nodded, "those two are made for each other. He could kill her cat and she'd be the one to comfort him."

"That's... Not healthy," Ted cocked his head.

"But the sentiment is understood," Beard ended.

Roy charged from the locker room like a man on a mission, but hesitated at the stairs leading to Rebecca's office as if it were Everest. He was determined, though, not to disappoint you again; trying to climb without bending his knees - proving damn near impossible. He was grunting with strain, panting even as his body protested to the three-stair climb he managed; but his saving grace, as usual, came in the form of you suddenly appearing at the top with Rebecca.

You barely had time to process the sight before Roy was gritting, "No, no, just listen - please, don't ignore me again. I'm so fucking sorry, Y/N. I absolutely forgot about our date last night and fucked this up, hurt you, left you waiting in worry - I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, doll, please, I swear, I'll even swear on Phoebe’s head, but you gotta believe me. It's no excuse, nothing ever could be, but... My explanation is I just got so in my head and fucking forgot - "

"Well, you shouldn't've! But please, pray tell how the hell you managed to forget? Did you suddenly pick-up American football, got a concussion?" Rebecca snarled in a defensively clipped tone. "What kind of a man stands up his own girlfriend!? Forgets about a date he arranged? Forgets about her on one of the most important days of her life? I mean, just look at her! She's fuckin' fit! She's not someone that anyone should, could, or would forget!"

"I fuckin' know all that, Rebecca," Roy growled, stationed on the third stair still, "and I'm trying to fuckin' apologize to my lady - not hear a play-by-play of my colossal fuck up from my boss! I know what happened, I'm the one who did this."

As Roy grimaced in pain, hand gingerly going to rub his trick knee, Rebecca shot back, "One of the consequences of fucking up is never living it down and to be reminded and guilted for it - "

Your hand flew to Rebecca's bicep in a silent request she stop talking once you noted Roy coddling his knee. "Holy shit, are you hurt?" You interrupted in worry, sharing a guilty look with Rebecca; both aware how running effected the footballer. She nodded and pet your shoulder, letting you hustle down the stairs to meet him in order to hash out this predicament. Though she loved you, Rebecca recognized it wasn't her place to interfere with your relationship(s) "Is it your knee again? Oh, for fuck's sake, Roy - "

"Doesn't matter, what matters is my apology."

"Yes, yes, I've heard you," you snipped, glancing up at the platinum blonde woman; earning a thumbs up before she disappeared to give you a lick of privacy. "Roy... I know this sport is your fuckin' life and normally I'd never complain - but how the fuck could you forget me?"

"'Cause I'm a fuckin' arsehole."

"Well, yeah, but - "

"Like I was saying before, there's no excuse, baby," he frowned, supported by the wall behind him; you facing him on the step, leaning on the railing. "Just - yesterday went real well, right?" You nodded slowly. "The lads were hyped, it was a good day and I guess I got swept up in the energy. Issac proposed goin' out as a team without the coaches and we all just rolled with it. I fuckin' forgot I was t'meet you... And I'm so fuckin' sorry. I didn't do it on purpose, sweetheart, but that doesn't change the fact I fucked up and hurt you."

"Well, like Rebecca said, what kinda man does this sort of shit to the woman he loves?"

"A complete fucking bellend who doesn't deserve his lady."

You shrugged meekly, "Hm, I had a more colorful and vulgar term in mind, but bellend works. But you know what? At the end of the day, being angry doesn't do any good, so it's o - "

"Don't you dare say it's okay, 'cause it's fuckin' not!"

"Okay, know what? You're absolutely right, it's not okay that you stood me up! That you forgot me, forgot what yesterday meant to me; that you got swept up in the energy of a good day at my expense! In truth, having good days on the pitch is much more common than getting a promotion! Mhm, yeah," your eyes narrowed at his surprised expression, "that's right, I got the job and all I wanted to do was share it with you..."

"You got the job," he whispered, "officially? Seriously?"

"Fuck yeah, I did! Youngest female president! You were supposed to be one of the first persons I told, but now it feels like you're the last. I called and texted you all fucking night, could've at least done the decent thing and communicate with your girlfriend where you were going, date or no - "

"I left my phone in the locker and it died. Swear on Phoebe."

"Don't bring her into this, and it doesn't negate from the fact that you should've been there with me - whether you had your phone or not! I'm not saying put me above your career - I would never - but I expect you to respect me and contribute to our relationship! God, it was so mortifying just sitting there alone for 2.5 hours! It felt like everyone could tell I was being stood up - they were pitying me, Roy! I need you to be more present, Roy, I can't date myself anymore, I can't do one-sided effort; I've been as understanding and flexible as I can, but you gotta meet me halfway. But whatever, it happened, nothing can change that - we can only learn from it - but I hear your apology, so... Fuck it, it is okay; it's fine. Beard and Teddy met me, actually; we had a nice night so it wasn't a total waste."

"Should've been different," he snapped, "should've been me."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"I'm so fuckin' sorry, love. I didn't meant to hurt you - it's the last thing I ever want to do."

"Well... I saw what Coaches made you do all day," you pouted your bottom lip dramatically, "my poor Lightning McQueen."

"Fuckin' deserved it."

"You really did," you agreed, grabbing him by the leather lapels and yanking him straight; releasing a muffled grunt of discomfort. "But I think runnin' that many laps is punishment enough and made you feel as bad as I did last night. So, c'mon, I'm tired of being angry, let's just move forward and get you home to an ice bath."

"Nah, we're redoing yesterday - we're goin' out. You wearin' another matching set?"

You scoffed with a small chuckle, shaking your head, "Roy, you're in no shape to go out, let alone have sex."

"I'm in pristine fuckin' shape."

"Oh, yeah? All right, fine, we'll go out if you can just walk down these three steps - "

"Fuck off," he grit, "we're redoin' last night, no discussion."

"Fine, but we're goin' home, can cook for me if you want," you shook your head. "Don't think it'll be a very good look for either of us t'be seen in public with you like this, hey? They'll start gossiping 'bout your retirement." He growled and let you get under his arm, one arm anchoring his wrist dangling over your shoulder and the other coiled around his waist. As you attempted to conqure the stairs, you quietly encouraged with strain from his weight, "Easy, easy, there you go... A-All right, sure, I guess that's one way to get downstairs... Oi, hey, careful! C'mon, bend your fuckin' knees, Roy!"

"I fuckin' can't!"

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," you laughed, "they really fucked you up today, huh?"

"'Cause they fuckin' adore you and were rightfully pissed."

"Good," you mused, now behind him on the stairs to aid his unbalance. "Though I'm unsure how to feel about my boyfriend's coaches adoring me more than my actual boyfriend."

"Oi! Don't say or ever think that bullshit. That's not ever fucking possible," Roy snapped, eyes wild and ablaze in offense, "nobody adores you more than me - I just fucked up but I'm trying to rectify it."

Once on flat ground, you remained on the first step, speaking softly, "Hey..." Roy turned to you; the height difference letting your arms wrap around his neck, his hands seizing the meat of your hips. "Please don't do that again. It was... Nothing short of humiliating sitting there alone on a date you set up."

"I know, baby," he sighed, "and I'll be apologizing even after it stops botherin' yah. I can't promise I won't fuck up again, but I'll never stand you up again, doll. I'll tattoo every fuckin' date of ours on my body if I have to."

You caressed his cheek, "Not necessary. Just don't forget me again, please. That... Really fuckin' sucked. But fútbol is life and the consolation company was top tier, so, I guess I shouldn't complain."

Roy sighed and let his head drop to your sternum, giving you a tight squeeze. "Nah, fuckin' do what Rebecca said: never let me forget what the fuck I did or let me live this down."

"You'll regret that - know I'm gonna bring it up every fight."

"Which is why we're never gonna fight again, you've already fuckin' won 'em all."

"Oh, I quite like the sound of that," you teased, fingers sliding under his jaw to perk his head up. "Hey... I forgive you."

"Don't - not just yet. Gotta let me make it up to you first. But I just need us to be good."

You shrugged, "Nah, we're good, sweetheart." You tightened your arms in an embrace, pecking the top of his head. "You know, grudges ages you and you know how serious I am about my skincare and my feelings on wrinkles. But if you wanna spoil me until your guilt lessens, I won't stop you. Just not a new car, I'm gettin' a company Mercedes."

"Good, all right, yeah, noted," he smirked, "'cause I'm gonna lay it on fuckin' thick; thicker than Tart's ego."

"Maybe worry 'bout your knees first, Casanova," you winced. Roy growled and pulled back, reaching for your hand to hold as you hopped down the step to his side. You easily wrangled his keys from his pocket, snipping, "Yeah, you're not driving - can't even bloody walk, my poor boy. I'll get you out of tomorrow, you need the rest."

"Hm," Roy growled. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably run a normal amount? Have a proper trainin' session?"

"Sounds miserably boring."

"Then what's all this, then?"

"Love," he grunted, keeping you under his arm as he shoved the facility doors open to the carpark.

requesting rules and masterlist

#roy kent x reader #attendsquoi recs

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attendsquoi · 16 days ago

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thinking david corenswet is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really? tall big muscles dark hair and blue eyes kind man is hot? god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think superman is hot? fucking superman? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god he’s tall should we tell everyone he’s tall and his jaw is nice wow she thinks the attractive man is attractive. you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks SUPERMAN is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Mr Smile is easy on the eyes. “hear me out” and it’s a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed

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attendsquoi · 16 days ago

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why so serious? [blurb]

-> nsfw (18+, mdni), zac oyama x reader

-> inspired by zac in that joker outfit in earnest-est! i've been holding onto this idea for a while.

-> should be gender-neutral reader! but alas i may have made a mistake and written a reader with a vulva or who uses she/her pronouns, as i am used to doing.

-> this is for the anon on here and guests on ao3 who commented their like of the previous blurb! it is less mean zac and more silly zac but tis a thought i had. if anyone else wants to scream about how hot dropout cast are, my inbox is open!

-> CONTENT WARNING: this contains choking but not strangulation. more like choking on zac's dick. not bc it's insanely, unrealistically big but almost laughing while sucking him off??? i've never sucked a dick before so if breaking into laughter while sucking someone off doesn't result in you almost choking on them, pls excuse me; i am working off the assumption that that wouldn't be a fun feeling.

"should i be concerned that you like this so much?"

you hummed on his cock, eyes closed while you tried to find that one spot under the head that made his knees shake. it was your "please-don't-talk-while-i-give-you-head" hum, the hum that only existed because sometimes during sex, zac let the little joke goblin in his head win, and it wasn't good for you to be laughing while his dick was in your mouth. any other position was probably fine to laugh in, but not this one.

when he gave a low groan and his thighs clenched on either side of you, you knew that your tongue finally flicked against the right spot, and you chanced a look up at him. you had his full attention, with his eyes darting between your mouth and now your open eyes. on either side of him, his hands gripped onto the edge of the dining table with his arms ramrod straight to brace him up. he was still in the joker makeup, outfit, and wig. when he mentioned coming home dressed up as the joker to see how you'd react, he was allowed with the promise that he'd bring them back in his next filming session. he thought you'd either cringe and give him a pity kiss or bust a gut laughing. he wasn't expecting you to start sucking him off with him still standing.

listen, you couldn't explain it. maybe it was because you liked how he looked with longer hair. maybe the colors or style looked really good on him. maybe it was just a day that you wanted him extra bad and this just happened to coincide with that mood. but you took one look at him and wanted him badly.

you sucked his tip harshly before focusing on that sensitive spot again and watched him tilt his head back while he moaned, showing off his neck. you wished you could somehow clone yourself to be able to lick along his neck while sucking his dick at the same time. if only such a miracle could happen!

to give him a bit of a cooldown, you paused your ministrations on his tip and relaxed your jaw to take him to the back of your throat. he let out another delicious groan and tilted back a bit to get a better look at your face.

unfortunately, the cooldown was perhaps too much mercy. he traced your expression with his gaze and asked softly, "why so serious?"

"hrrk!" you let out a puff of air and retreated.

"sorry, sorry," he said, helping to ease you off of him while panicking with the worry that you were gagging or choking on him. he didn't even seem to be upset that your teeth grazed him, just worried about you as he dropped to his knees. he supported you and let you cling to him while you coughed in shock. "you need water? how are you?"

you ended up coughing for quite a moment until you could weakly say, "next time i suck your dick, i'm gagging you beforehand."

it took a couple seconds, but once he was sure you were alright, he chuckled briefly.

"i'm serious," you insisted, your voice still hoarse. "no more talking while you're in my mouth. especially that deep, zac!"

"sorry. won't happen again." he kissed your forehead and held you close. "i'm just glad i didn't hurt you."

"hurt me? i could have bitten your dick off."

"true. okay, yeah, you might have to gag me."

#zac oyama x reader #zac oyama smut #attendsquoi recs

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attendsquoi · 16 days ago

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— cutout dividers: wax seals

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

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attendsquoi · 16 days ago

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— Truth Serum - Clark Kent

pairing: Clark Kent x gn! reader

summary: when you hear your boyfriend is injured on a mission, you prepare for the worst. what you didn't expect? him being high on truth serum

word count: 1.4k

cw: civilian! reader, truth serum, drugging, mentions of being high, clark is verrry loopy and silly, slight JLA cameos

— requested by anon, request can be found here

i hope you don't mind me tweaking the req a bit nonnie! no idea why but when i started writing this i got confused and wrote for kon instead </3 i hope you still enjoy it! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

You walk into the room like a hurricane, negative emotions storming off of you. Under any other circumstances, you’d be nervous, but right now, the room full of superheroes is nothing compared to the worry you’re feeling for your boyfriend.

“Where is he?”

Green Lantern and the Flash both take a big step back at your raised, stressed tone. The only one brave—or crazy—enough to face you is the only man brave enough to patrol the streets of Gotham.

Batman steps forward, his steps as sure as they are cautious. “He’s in an interrogation room. You’re welcome to see him, but—”

“Good.”

You shoulder past him, your mind focused on only one thing: finding Clark. When you’d first heard the news that your boyfriend’s transmissions were cut off deep in the arctic, you’d made yourself sick with worry. A million thoughts raced through your mind, and right up until you’d gotten a curt call from Batman, you’d considered rescuing him yourself.

Green Lantern snickers. “Did Batman just get cut off?”

Flash elbows him in the ribs but laughs with him. The sight of a civilian interrupting Batman, shoving past him and ignoring his loud footsteps trailing after them is simply too funny to ever forget.

“Hey,” his gruff voice calls after you. “You don’t understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Like hell I don’t.”

Bruce clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. Where does Clark find these people? He catches up to you, resting a hesitant hand on your shoulder. “He’s been injured.”

It’s enough to make you stop in your tracks, your heart doing a somersault in your chest. Injured? You could count on one hand the amount of times you’d seen Clark injured and could count on one finger the amount of times it was significant.

He sighs and leads you to a huge computer system with at least a dozen monitors. He clicks a couple times on a keyboard before live footage of Clark—still clad in the Superman suit and resting in a cold metal chair—pops up.

You squint, raising an eyebrow at the screen. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is messy, but there’s no signs of injury. No blood, no wounds, not even a bruise. Your pulse settles, relief washing over you.

“He’s not injured.”

“Not in the traditional sense.”

You tilt your head in confusion, watching Batman click a few more buttons to pull up an image of Clark’s stomach. You’ve seen it a thousand times, memorized the smooth muscle and skin so well that you could navigate it with your eyes closed. What you haven’t noticed is the small, dark mark and massive bruise on his left side, surrounded with a red swell of hives.

You frown. “Is that from—”

“Kryptonite,” Batman finishes. “They used a kryptonite needle to inject him with some form of sodium pentothal. We’ve been monitoring his vitals but we’re unsure of the full range of effects.”

“Sodium pentothal? That’s what they call ‘truth serum’, isn’t it?”

He nods solemnly and your worry doubles tenfold. You know there’s only a few people in the world with the means to make a kryptonite needle and a truth serum strong enough to work on Superman, and only one person in the world with a resolve strong enough to do it.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine physically but he’s confused. He’s in a vulnerable state and he is being,” he cringes, “incredibly honest. Do you still want to see him?”

You agree with no hesitation. If Clark is vulnerable, he needs you now more than ever—even if it’s going to hurt your heart to see him in such a state.

Aside from the goofy smile on his face, Clark looks fine. He has his legs stretched out, arms crossed over his broad chest. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was just relaxing.

You tear up, the worry that’s plagued you for the last few days catching up to you.

The minute Bruce unlocks the door, you rush to his side. “Clark!”

His name catches in your throat and your limbs turn to lead, dragging you down with every step you take towards him. Clark opens his arms to you, letting you fall into him before he pulls you onto his lap.

He takes you in, strong arms moulding around you, finally allowing you to collapse.

“I missed you so much,” a tear rolls down your cheek, dripping into his lap. “Are you okay? You had me worried sick!”

“I’m great.” He shrugs his broad shoulders, before leaning in and whispering to you, “but I think I’m a little high.”

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t tell Batman.”

You glance over your shoulder to the black clad man in the doorway who clearly heard what Clark just said.

You try to keep your voice steady despite the confused laughter creeping up on you. “Why do you think you’re high?”

“I was out investigating some unusual activity in the arctic and—” he frowns like he’s struggling to remember, “I met these guys and they injected me with something and…now I feel all high.”

Bruce answers before you can, stepping into the room so quietly it startles you. “Did these guys ask you anything?”

“Yeah, how did you know that?”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose through his cowl, muttering something under his breath that you can’t quite hear. He takes three deep breaths, trying to regain his composure.

“Clark, baby, what did they ask you?”

“They tried to ask about my secret identity and I told them no way, that’s top secret information.”

The breath catches in your throat just thinking about your boyfriend being captured, drugged and asked about such personal things. You drag a hand up and down his arm—whether it’s to soothe him or yourself, you’re not sure.

“What else did they ask?” Batman’s voice brings you back to reality.

“Just boring stuff like secret identities and my relationship to the Justice League and—oh, they asked about you, too,” he looks at you sheepishly.

You swallow. “They asked about me?”

His cheeks flush, a guilty look flooding his eyes. “Only a little bit.”

“What did they ask?”

That sheepish look on his face is as cute as it is concerning. He rubs a hand up and down your thigh, the movements soothing and rhythmic. You’ve only seen him get like this once before, and that was when he’d accidentally broken your bedframe.

“They asked me,” he swallows, “what my pet peeve with you is.”

For a second, you’re too stunned to speak. Why would they care about your relationship with Clark—how did they even know about your relationship with Clark? A million thoughts race through your head, running laps around your brain, but somehow, none of them come out.

Instead, you ask: “So what is your pet peeve?”

“You never let me help you.”

Your eyes widen and you find yourself once again making eye contact with Batman, the man looking equally as confused as you feel. He raises his hand in surrender, taking a few steps back as if to say, I’m not getting involved.

“What?” Is all you manage to say.

“You never let me help you with your groceries, or your shopping bags. And when something is too high up, you insist on climbing the counter and getting it yourself.”

You stare blankly at him, thinking back to all the times he’s offered—insisted—on helping. It’s a silly thing to be upset about but it’s the most Clark thing that you can imagine.

“And when you get tired and your shoes hurt your feet, just let me carry you! And—and stop saying you’re too heavy. I can lift cars! And buildings! And that weird Kaiju thing.”

Finally, your resolve breaks and you laugh. You tussle his hair, the gel he meticulously combs through it coming loose.

He looks at you sadly, his mouth set in a slight pout. “Why don’t you ever let me help you?”

“I just don’t like to inconvenience people. That’s all.”

Clark somehow looks more offended, taking on a facial expression similar to a scandalized Southern lady. “Inconvenience? Inconvenience?!”

“Maybe that’s not the right—”

“Sweetheart, I would walk barefoot through a field of Kryptonite for you. Carrying your groceries in is the least I can do.”

You sigh. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what. Once we get out of here, I'll pick us up something to make for dinner and you can carry the groceries to your heart’s content. How does that sound?”

His eyes light up, sparking with excitement. “That sounds perfect.”

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tysm for reading & have a great day <3

#clark kent x reader #attendsquoi recs

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attendsquoi · 16 days ago

Text

you hide your injuries from him — Clark Kent

summary: you’ve been asking your boyfriend to take down a bookshelf for months, but every time he gets to it, something comes up and the world needs your boyfriend. you decide enough is enough, so you decide to do it yourself. it’s going well until you fall and get hurt, and you hide the injuries from him because you don’t want to worry him. he finds out anyway. content warning: reader falls and gets crushed by a bookshelf and bruises her ribs, abuse of painkillers, crack treated seriously, humour turning into angst and hurt/comfort, Clark is an idiot, Superman is reliable but Clark Kent isn’t, established relationship, Clark Kent is hopelessly in love with you, he’s just dumb sometimes. suggestive content — oral, f!receiving; nothing explicit but still heavily implied, mdni. black cat reader + golden retriever (cat?) clark kent word count: 6.8k words note: this was supposed to be silly and shorter but oops! things got a bit out of hand. written in one day and absolutely not reread, don’t mind typos or inconsistencies! >.<

────୨ৎ────

Dating a superhero is not for the faint of heart. Don’t get it wrong, you love Clark Kent, and you love dating him, even if sometimes the weight of the entire world plays third wheel between the two of you (sometimes it even felt like you were the third wheel). It’s okay, you knew what you were getting into.

You actually love that Clark Kent has such a bleeding heart, and that he’s so kind and so helpful.

But you also really wish he would stop disappearing every time he finally has to take down that bookshelf that was hovering dangerously..

It seemed like a cruel trick of fate, truly, how every time he finally agreed to do it, something in the other side of the world comes up, and he looks at you with a guilty and sheepish grin before he wears his suit and leaves you behind, you and that stupid bookshelf you couldn’t use anymore and only looked ugly.

You probably would have gotten this over with months ago if you’d done it on your own, but no, you were stupid and you decided to trust your boyfriend. It’s your fault, really, for believing him when he said he would do it. What kind of girlfriend did that? What kind of self-respecting, independant, strong and smart woman did that? Really, you only have yourself to blame.

“I’m really sorry, sweetheart,” he says, and he really looks apologetic and guilty when he apologizes, and you hate that it makes it so much harder to truly be mad at him.

“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.

masterlist ᯓ★ requests ᯓ★ come say hi! ᯓ★ directory

#clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #attendsquoi recs

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attendsquoi · 16 days ago

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-` You really got a hold on me ´-

Jason died when he was..well…young. It’s safe to say he missed out on most things. He doesn’t know what its like to walk across the stage and get his diploma (he got his GED online thank you very much), he doesn’t know what its like feels like to try out for a sports team, or what prom or any of the formals would be like. Dating is also something thats just..out of his depth. Sometimes he says the wrong thing, and your patience with him has been very appreciated.

"That feels good." he says warmly, tipping his head back when you roll yours hips against his again, "Yeah?" You hum, finding a good rhythm to rock back and forth, massaging your own insides with his cock. "Uh-huh." Jasons lips part, brows furrowing, damn you feel good. His fingers dig into the sheets, your cunt is seriously driving him crazy, he can withstand torture, but this? Pure unbridled pleasure. "Touch me Jay? Please?" The sound of your voice helps to ground his mushy brain, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, nodding softly as he ruts his hips upwards into you. His hands travel to your hips, making you match his deep thrusts. Your hands fit over his, guiding them upwards. His calloused palms are warm, and the tough skin of his fingers gives you chills as they travel up your stomach all the way to your tits. Jason at his most inner core is gentle, tender. The way he handles you is with fragility, rubbing his thumbs over your pebbled nipples, pinching them teasingly, rolling them with his fingers, eyes glazed over as he watches you tip your head back. "Good?" He asks breathily. "Mhm." You sigh, looking back down at him. Jason is a lovely vision, dark hair messy against his white pillowcases, his cheeks flushed down to his chest, his pupils dilated to the max, and his pretty lips parted.

You dip down to kiss him, he cradles the back of your hand with one hand, his other placed over your hip. His full lips pressed against yours, you swallow all his dreamy sighs and groans. "Fuck--wait I--" He hisses against your lips, muffled by your kisses. Jason’s hips stutter, he makes an almost pained noise, followed by your name as he blows his load, painting your insides with goey ropes of cum. “Okay!” He grunts, stilling your pesky hips from continuously milking him. “Fucking hell, what are you a fucking nymph?” He pants, as you dismount, cum leaking from your well fucked cunt. “Maybe.” Your skin is clammy and theres a sexy sort of disarray to your appearance. He needs a moment to gather his bearings, he died young, before he could find a babe like you to rock his world. Porn was always weird and not at all sexy so he avoided it, the failed one night stands with no connection weren’t enough, it’d always end up with some heavy petting before Jason would decides it would be time to leave.

“Okay.” He murmurs, rolling over, pressing you underneath his heavy body. “Your turn.” Jason kisses down your neck to the valley between your breasts, “You don’t have to Jason.” You say sweetly, he scoffs, no way he’s gonna blow his load inside you and just leave you without an orgasm, inexperience doesn’t excuse neglect. “Just keep ‘em open.” He hums, pushing your legs open, yeah, he’s definitely addicted.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #attendsquoi recs

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attendsquoi · 16 days ago

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yes jason todd sleeps with a loaded gun with the safety off under his pillow, yes he likes to be the little spoon between 3 and 6am. what’s not clicking

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attendsquoi · 17 days ago

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all we know of heaven, all we need of hell

winter soldier x reader / thunderbolts!bucky x reader

word count: 18.7k

you fell in love with the man who trained you in the red room. he helped you escape - and made you promise to never look back. years later, when an old friend asks for your help, you find yourself working with a group of anti-heroes. including him.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, ex widow reader, angst, heartbreak, thunderbolts timeline, pre-winter soldier movie timeline, mentions of blood, canon level violence, probably poorly translated russian, no use of y/n, reader is afab, oral, unprotected p in v, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, reader's age isn't specified but she is an adult throughout the whole story, slow burn as fuck but happy ending i promise

thank you so much to @starsoverbrooklyn and @whereiweep for letting me yap about this for over a month and for reading over it for me. ily and appreciate you both so much.

i made a little playlist for this fic. you definitely don’t have to listen to it, but here it is if you want to give it a listen for the vibes ✨🖤

Circa 2013

“Согните локти. Я не хочу повторять это снова.”

You grit your teeth at his words. He only speaks to you in Russian when he means business - it's a force of habit for him, more than anything, but you can't help but feel the stinging pinch of disappointment anytime he speaks to you in the language.

His voice is always a tad colder. More mechanical. Like he's talking to one of the handlers. Like he's a little less himself.

Whoever that may be.

Bend your elbows. I don’t want to have to tell you again.

“My elbows are bent,” you say flatly. It’s a bold face lie - you know damn well you tend to hyper-extend your arms when they start to get tired during target practice. He reminds you of it often.

“Come and get a closer look and see for yourself,” you taunt him.

He says nothing. After a second of loaded silence, the sound of his combat boots against the floor echoes through the room as he takes deliberately slow steps toward you. He probably thinks he's intimidating you - and judging by the way your breath catches in your throat as he closes in on you, it’s a safe assumption.

You maintain your position when he comes to a stop just inches behind you. Your index finger hovers above the trigger as you try to ignore the way your heart races as he looms over you from behind.

It isn't a reaction born from fear. It’s excitement. So often you try to draw him in closer, though it’s rare that he actually indulges in your scheming.

He stands close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. You blink rapidly, as if it will somehow make the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on your skin dissipate.

He raises his metal hand to your arm from his position behind you, placing his fingers against the bend of your elbow and applying just enough pressure so that you relax the position of your arm. Then, using his flesh hand, repeats the action on your opposite arm.

“Now,” he breathes in perfectly clear English, “if you’re finished trying to get my attention, shoot the target.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then squeeze the trigger. Only after a perfect succession of hits, do you remember to breathe.

“See,” he muses, his voice softening the slightest bit. “You've got great aim, when you aren’t being childish.”

You whip around, turning to face him. Your chest brushes against his, but he doesn’t move an inch. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, unblinking. His jaw is set in a hard line, but you don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the sudden close proximity.

It's moments like this that you’d do anything to know his name. You’ve wondered what it could be a thousand times. Henry? William? Daniel?

None of those names seem to suit him. But you know better than to ask. Every time you do, you’re met with a blank expression and loaded silence.

“Am I being childish?” You challenge. “Or do I just find all of these extra lessons a little…unnecessary? I don’t see anyone else getting this level of one-on-one attention. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might be growing fond of me, Soldat.”

His expression remains stoic. Your eyes begin to sting, but you refuse to be the first to blink.

“If these extra lessons help to keep you alive, then they are not unnecessary to me.”

He suddenly steps back, distancing himself from you a mere second before the double doors on the other side of the room come flying open and two Hydra agents barge inside. They bark commands at him in thick Russian accents, effectively breaking any tension that had been brewing between you. Still, his gaze remains on you.

“Любить — недостаточно сильное слово.”

With his back turned to the guards, he says the words low enough so that only you hear them. He then turns and follows the agents out of the room, leaving you alone to wonder if you’d heard him correctly.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

A fortnight passes before you see him again.

Each night, you fall asleep replaying the last words he said to you on an endless loop. With every day that passes, you’re more and more convinced that you had hallucinated his confession.

It's rare that you go this long without seeing him. Your sessions together had become something of a routine, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly in your limited amount of free time each day, just hoping to run into him around the bleak and depressing facility that you're forced to call home.

You just need a few minutes with him - just long enough to confirm that you aren’t going crazy. That he really did say those words to you before seemingly vanishing like smoke.

You find yourself longing to get him alone. Really alone. Not in the way that you’re alone when he’s making you fight him in hand to hand combat or shoot at the same target for the twentieth time and someone could walk in at any moment. Completely and utterly alone - away from here, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room.

Maybe then he’d open up and at least tell you his name.

But it’s just a fantasy. Merely something for you to maladaptive daydream about in order to get through the day when he's nowhere to be found. The likelihood of ever seeing him outside of these walls is slim to none, but that doesn’t stop you from fantasizing about it far more often than you care to admit.

It's three in the morning and you’re staring up at your ceiling in the pitch black when you hear a sudden commotion of slamming doors and loud, angry voices. You sit up, holding your breath as you listen. There’s only so much that you can make out from down the hallway, behind the closed door of your room, but it’s enough to make your heart thud in your chest.

The soldier. The asset. Soldat. All spat in the same tone of disgust.

You get out of bed, tip-toeing across the room to press an ear against your door in hopes of hearing his voice. You just want confirmation that he’s okay - that he’s alive.

All that you’re able to hear is the voice of the guards, one indistinguishable from the next. Within a minute, the voices dissipate and the night is silent once more.

Your thoughts begin to spiral and your stomach churns with nausea. There’s no use in even trying to sleep now. There’s no way your brain will allow you to relax enough to fall asleep until you know that he’s alright.

You’ve lived in this facility for years. You know it like the back of your hand - even sections that are supposed to be off limits. You’ve never been to his quarters, but you know your way around well enough to get there. You don’t have any intention of actually approaching him; the last thing you want is to do anything that could cause the guards to refer to him with so much venom in their voices again.

Just to hear the shuffling of his covers or low snores from behind his door would be enough to ease your worrying until you see him again.

The compound is eerily silent at night. You don’t bother putting on shoes, as you’re able to walk more quietly without the shuffling of your slippers. The metal flooring of the hallway feels like ice against your feet, making you wish you had at least thrown a hoodie or cardigan over your camisole.

Without any windows or lights on, navigating your way through the endless maze of hallways is borderline impossible. You have to rely on touch more than sight, keeping your hands extended in front of you to feel for anything you might run into. Eventually, you make your way to the basement, where you’re relieved to see that the long hallway is illuminated by dimly lit sconces, each placed a few yards apart.

From the opposite end of the hallway, you hear what you believe to be running water - a faucet or shower. You follow the sound until you come to a closed door with faint yellow light spilling from the crack at the floor. You freeze, waiting to hear some kind of movement or see some kind of shadow appear on the sliver of light.

“I know you’re out there. You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are.”

You exhale through your nose at the sound of his voice, releasing the breath you didn't realize you’d been holding in. His voice is as serious as ever, and there’s an unusually strained edge to it, but he’s alive, so you can’t help but feel relieved.

“How’d you know it’s me?” You murmur back.

He’s silent for a few moments. You start to worry that you’re bothering him when the door opens up, startling you - for more reasons than one.

“I can smell you. I recognized your scent.”

Your eyes go wide as your mouth hangs open in shock and horror. He pulls you into the bathroom and closes the door before the first question can leave your lips.

The left side of his face is marred by a reddish-purple bruise that covers his eye and extends down to his cheekbone. His bottom lip is just as swollen, with a split down the middle. There’s dried blood concentrated around his nose, indicating injury there as well.

Only after taking in the jarring discoloration across his face do you realize that he isn't wearing a shirt. Your gaze trails to the raised, jagged scar tissue where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal that is his left arm. You aren't sure how he lost the limb - you’ve never asked - but the scarring tells you it was brutal and violent.

“Who did this to you?” You whisper, not trusting your voice. The same feeling of nausea that came over you when you’d overheard the guards talking about him washes over you once more.

He swallows thickly, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth. He doesn’t answer before he turns away from you to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Deep down, you already know the answer.

“Part of my latest assignment didn’t go as intended. It’s my own fault.”

You can tell by his tone of voice that not only does he blame himself, but that he thinks he’s deserving of the punishment. You don’t care what the assignment was, or how it went wrong - you refuse to believe that he could deserve such cruelty.

You don’t know his story. For all you know, maybe he chose this life. But if he’s anything like you - and every fiber of your being is screaming that he is - then you know that he had as little choice as you did when you were thrust into this world of malevolence.

No matter his history and how he found himself to be in the position that he’s in, it hurts you to see him in this state. If you could, you’d take it all away - the scars, the pain, the weight of all of his responsibilities.

You slowly walk towards him, coming to a stop when you’re standing directly behind him. With one hand, you grab the damp washcloth that he’d been using to clean himself up with off of the vanity.

“Turn around,” you instruct him softly. You aren’t sure why you’re surprised when he obeys without hesitation - his entire life is taking orders from others. It stings a little; just how quickly he turns to face you, because you know it isn’t purely out of trust. It’s out of habit of doing what he’s told.

You keep your eyes locked on him as you tentatively raise the cloth to his face. You gauge his reaction to make sure he isn’t going to move away or tell you to stop. When he doesn't flinch, or even blink, you delicately sweep the wet rag along his bottom lip, letting the dried blood melt away.

“You’ve been sending me mixed signals, you know,” you hum, breaking the heavy silence looming over you. “A confession like that followed by two weeks of silence really fucks with a girl’s head.”

He waits until you finish cleaning his lip to speak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

His answer stings. You don’t know which would hurt worse - your brain playing a cruel joke on you and making up the entire scenario, or it really happening and him regretting it.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” He pauses. You wait with bated breath. “I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it.”

The goosebumps on your skin, originally caused by the chilly night air, are now from his words. His stare. His close proximity to you. You can’t help but wonder when the last time that someone, anyone, stood so close to him without the intention of inflicting pain was.

You’ve been this close to him before. Closer, even. But always for the intents of training. Never quite like this. Never in a way that you can study every individual freckle, wrinkle, and scar on his skin.

Even as bloodied and bruised as he is, you've never seen anyone even a fraction as beautiful as him. You believe there’s a real possibility that he’s an angel; outcast from heaven and damned to hell. Here.

They’re likely the same place. The only possible difference between the two is that here has him.

When you finally finish ridding his skin of all of the dried blood, you reluctantly start to drop your hand from his face, but he stops you. He grabs your hand in his flesh one, keeping it near his cheek. With his metal hand, he takes the bloodied rag from you and tosses it somewhere behind you.

His skin feels like fire against your own and blood pounds in your ears as he slowly brings your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the top of your knuckles, all the while never taking his eyes off of yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs as he lowers your hand away from his lips. The words snap you back to harsh reality. You pull your hand out of his grasp, stepping back to put a few inches of space between the two of you.

“Right,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak at a normal volume. You clear your throat and reach for the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I’ll go—"

“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts, stepping forward. You freeze. “I’m not referring to this bathroom. You shouldn’t be in the Red Room. You should be far away from here.”

Without thinking, you close what little distance is left between you. Your hands settle on either side of his waist, his muscles taut under your palms. He tilts his head down, resting his forehead against yours.

“I could say the same about you,” you hum. His fingers trail up the sides of your arms; the warmth of his skin on one and the chill of metal on the other. When he reaches the top of your shoulders, he cups the sides of your face in his hands. “Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, either.”

He shakes his head, his eyes cinched shut. His swollen, pink lips form something akin to a grimace. “No,” he whispers. “No. The things I’ve done… this is where I should be.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Before he can try to convince you otherwise, you lift yourself by the tips of your toes to press your lips to his.

You can count on one hand the number of times that your lips have touched someone else’s. This kind of life doesn’t allow much time for simple pleasures - bubble baths, watching a morning sunrise while drinking coffee, long drives with your favorite music blaring.

Kissing.

Despite your inexperience, you’ve been kissed enough to know how it feels. At least, you thought you did. Now, you’re not so sure. Because this - this feels entirely different. The way he kisses you as if you're the air he needs to breathe and holds you like a fragile lifeline is brand new to you.

Even though you had wiped the blood off of him, he still tastes faintly of iron from the cut on his bottom lip. He’s hesitant at first - like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this yet physically can’t hold himself back. But your tongue sweeps along the swell of his bottom lip and he loses all restraint.

His hands - hands that you have seen snap bones like twigs and pull countless triggers - now tremble as they caress your face. His flesh hand trails down to the side of your neck and he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past your lips. His movements are slow and intentional, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth before the moment can shatter around you.

You release an involuntary whimper into his mouth and something within him snaps. He drops his hands to the curve of your ass and hoists you up around his midsection. The sudden movement startles you and you gasp, but the noise is swallowed by him. He spins around, plopping you against the cold marble countertop.

You secure your legs around him, keeping him flush against you. Your fingers dart to the long locks of his brunet hair when the sudden, loud pounding of a fist against the bathroom door rings like a gunshot through the night.

“Soldat,” a deep, monotone voice calls from the other side. You recognize it from when you’d heard the commotion in the hallway not long ago. “You are needed upstairs for a mission report.”

You both go completely still, too terrified to even breathe. You hadn’t locked the door. If the guard so much as cracks the door open, the two of you would be exposed. He holds a singular metal digit up to his lips, indicating for you to stay silent.

“I’m almost finished cleaning up,” he barks back, his voice robotic and void of emotion. “I will be there soon.”

“Hurry up,” the guard snaps. “Or you’ll have even more to clean up.”

By some miracle, his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. You exhale in relief, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

“I should have heard him,” he mutters lowly, shaking his head. He steps back, leaving you sitting on the edge of the counter. You fight against the automatic urge to pull him back to you. “I was distracted.”

“We both were,” you breathe. “I didn’t hear him either. We just…have to be careful.”

He looks down at the floor with a furrowed brow.

“I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you. This can’t happen again. Not here.”

He steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. You think - hope - he might kiss you again, but he doesn’t. He just looks down at you, a storm of different emotions in his blue eyes. He ghosts his flesh thumb across your cheekbone as if you’re made of glass.

“I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.”

He drops his hold on you and backs away. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but he turns the doorknob and slips through the opening before you can get a word out. It clicks shut by the time you hop down from the countertop. You stand in stunned silence, your brain reeling as you try to make sense of everything that happened in the last five minutes.

You try to calm down before risking the journey back to your sleeping quarters but with each deep breath in, you think of how his lips felt on yours and with every long exhale, his words echo through your mind.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you.

I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.

You lose track of how long you stay in the bathroom. Though it’s small, it feels infinitely bigger, and colder, without him in it.

When you finally sneak back to your room, the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:28 am. There’s no use in trying to go back to sleep now, as you and the other widows are expected to be awake and ready to begin your morning routines in only an hour. Still, you lay down, not quite ready to face the day.

When your head hits the pillow, you hear a faint crinkling noise close to your ear. You reach beside you, turning on your lamp. You lift the pillow, revealing a white piece of paper folded into a perfect square.

Before you unfold it, you have a gut feeling who it is from. Or maybe it's just irrational hope.

You don’t recognize the handwriting. The first few words are messy - childlike. Nearly illegible. The last words, however, are a little bit easier to read. As if whoever wrote the message hadn’t written anything in a while and had to remember how to hold a pen.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower. Keep your distance until then. Tell no one. Destroy this after reading.

Friday night - that’s a whole five days away.

He’s plotting something. And you can only hope that it involves both of you getting out of here alive.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The following days feel like a slow dissent into madness.

You don’t see or hear a word from him. Each day, upon returning to your room after nonstop training, you check under your pillow in hopes of finding another note, only to be met with disappointment. You long for more information - what exactly is going to happen on Friday night? How long will it take the handlers to realize that you’re missing? The tracking device located just under the skin of your left thigh will surely alert them of your desertion. What is his plan? Has he thought of everything that could go disastrously wrong?

And the question that lingers in the forefront of your mind - what you desire an answer to more than anything else - wherever you’re going, will he be going with you?

The mere possibility of the answer being no is enough to make you sick to your stomach.

You’ve barely eaten in days. You have no appetite - not that the food served in the mess hall is ever truly appetizing, but you feel the desire to eat even less than usual. On top of that, you’ve been so distracted that you’re covered in tender bruises from having your ass handed to you during sparring sessions. You haven’t been able to focus on anything the entire week, and others are starting to notice your mental absence.

“Where have you been the last few days?” A feminine, Russian accent startles you in the hallway as you walk back to your quarters on Thursday evening. You turn to see a fellow widow - a short, pretty blonde named Yelena whose room borders yours - looking at you with arched brows. “Your body is here but your mind has been miles away.”

You look away, scared that if you stare into her hazel eyes for a second too long, she’ll see right through you.

“I’m here,” you shrug. “I just haven’t felt the best this week. It’s uh - migraines.” The lie comes naturally to you, though you don’t know if she believes it.

“If you say so,” she snorts. “Must be pretty bad if you’re letting Sasha beat you in hand to hand.”

Luckily, she doesn’t press the subject any further.

Behind the closed door of your room, you retrieve the handwritten note from where you had tucked it between your bed frame and your mattress. He had instructed you to destroy it after reading it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so.

Maybe you’re sentimental - or perhaps just pathetic - but it’s the only thing you have of him. A singular piece of paper with his messy handwriting. Physical evidence that you aren’t going entirely crazy. You’ve reread the words more times than you care to admit over the last few days, as if they could possibly say something different than the first fifty something times you looked at the paper.

But they don’t change. The words remain the same, in the same black ink that has started to smudge from tracing the letters with the tip of your finger as if they are written in Braille.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower.

And finally, after the longest five days of your entire life, Friday arrives.

The day drags on and the nervous pit in your stomach cannot be quelled. You go through the motions as if it’s any other day - archery, aerobics, weight lifting, a five mile run - your typical Friday routine, all while trying to keep your composure at the thought of tonight.

An internal battle wages inside you as nine o’clock draws near. There’s fear, of course. Anxiety and uncertainty and apprehension. But beneath all of that, there’s anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement, even. Simply at the prospect of seeing him again.

There’s a small part of you that almost changes your mind. Not because you wish to stay here, but out of fear for what may happen to him if you’re caught. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if he were punished because he tried to help you.

It would be smart to rip the piece of paper into a thousand tiny shreds and flush them down a toilet and then go the fuck to sleep.

But then, you picture him waiting for you at the base of the watchtower, and the choice becomes clear.

To say that you packed lightly would be an understatement. The last thing you want is for someone to notice you carrying a duffel bag and a backpack out of the facility and ask where you're going, so to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you bring only what you can fit on your person. Your widow bites, a few knives, and two small pistols all concealed by a thick, dark purple bathrobe. It’s both windy and rainy tonight, with temperatures falling into the low forties, so you need something to keep you warm, but a large parka would surely raise suspicion if you were caught.

A bathrobe, however, is perfect for your escape plan. You can’t exactly walk out the front door unless you want a guard to demand information about where you’re going, and this place has practically no windows. A facility like this is designed to keep things in, not let them out - so the ventilation system it is.

And the communal bathroom on your level just so happens to have a nice, spacious vent just waiting for you to crawl into.

Widows are required to be in their private quarters no later than half past eight o’clock, so it times out perfectly with when you need to leave to make it to the south watchtower by nine o’clock. You have exactly thirty minutes to disappear. If you’re careful, you’ll be long gone by the time someone inevitably notices that you’re missing the next morning.

Right off the bat, you get lucky. The hallway outside of your bedroom is deserted, with no guard on patrol. If there had been, you would’ve just made some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, but you’re relieved that you don’t run into anyone on your way there.

With all of the other widows already in their beds, you find that the bathroom is empty, too. With the help of a shower chair that one of the girls has been using due to a leg injury, you’re able to reach just high enough to unscrew the vent cover from the wall.

You’re still standing on the chair when you pause for a brief moment before crawling inside the vent. You lean down, double checking that the note he’d left under your pillow is, in fact, tucked inside your sock.

You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind. A voice in the back of your head kept nagging you to keep it. Once you’ve reassured yourself that the small piece of paper is safely tucked away, you spring into action.

You know you’re leaving behind a scene that paints a very clear picture of precisely what you’ve done - a chair directly beneath the open vent could mean only one thing. The first person who walks into the bathroom will know exactly what happened here.

Once you’ve hoisted yourself through the opening, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can think about is slithering through the vents as quietly and quickly as you possibly can.

There’s one advantage to having lived in this facility for over a decade - you know the ins and outs of this place like the back of your hand. All you have to do is stay quiet, not have a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and follow the tunnels to freedom - to the man waiting for you in the woods.

Or whatever else might await you at the end.

The air inside the shaft is stagnant yet cold. It smells of metallic rust, almost blood-like. Even the smallest of movements produces a faint echo through the tunnels and all you can do is hope that anyone who hears will chalk the noises up to ghosts.

You freeze every time the metal groans beneath the weight of your body. You breathe in, then out. Count to three, and then cautiously start to move again when you feel confident enough that no one heard you.

The tunnels seemingly get tighter and tighter the farther you crawl. Right, then left, then right, and left again through the never ending maze of metal.

When your muscles start to burn and the shaft starts to feel suffocatingly hot, you picture his face and it gives you the motivation you need to keep going.

There’s no going back now. Not even if you wanted to.

After what feels like hours, when your bones are screaming at you to rest and your skin is covered in a thick layer of sweat beneath your bathrobe and clothing, you breathe a sigh of relief when the slope of a downward facing duct comes into view.

If your calculations are correct, you'll be out of this building in a matter of seconds.

You propel your body forward, mentally and physically bracing yourself for gravity to take hold as you slip down a chute. The smooth fabric of your bathrobe helps you to slide down the incline with ease before you come tumbling out of the vent entirely, plopping onto the cold, wet earth.

You give yourself all of five seconds to both recover from the drop and assess your surroundings, making sure that no one else happens to be lurking around this remote part of the facility at this hour before you begin sprinting in the direction of the woods behind the building.

You glance down at your watch when you cross the threshold of the forest - 8:54 pm.

The south watchtower is roughly half a mile into the woods. Under different circumstances, you'd be able to run half a mile in a few minutes with ease.

But right now? With only the illumination of a waning gibbous moon to guide you through the dense woods while a steady mist of freezing rain gradually soaks through the layers of your clothing? You’ll be lucky to find your way to the watchtower at all.

Still, you force one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow down. You don't want to be even a minute late for fear that he'll think you changed your mind or that something happened on your way there.

For the first minute or so of your trek, the rain and wind feel like a balm to your skin after being trapped in the oven-like vents - but it doesn’t take long for your clothing to become drenched, causing your body to shiver and teeth to chatter despite the fact that you’re running as fast as you can.

You’re thankful he chose the south watchtower. You’re more familiar with it than the other towers that surround the facility, and you know the route well enough. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have night vision, and you stumble over a large tree root, twisting your right ankle. You curse under your breath but force yourself to keep going, knowing that you’re so close to reaching him.

The tower comes into view, and your heart drops when you don’t see him right away. You slow from a sprint to a jog, looking around the clearing that surrounds the tower when you hear the crackling of twigs and leaves from behind you.

Before you can even lay eyes on him, your wet, shivering frame is enveloped by strong arms from behind you. A metal hand covers your mouth, but you don’t scream. Instead, you relax for the first time in days, practically melting against him.

He breathes your name close to your ear. You turn in his grasp, nuzzling your face against his chest. You inhale his scent - a scent you’d recognize anywhere. It isn’t that of a fancy cologne or strongly scented soap. It’s natural - masculine and musky and uniquely him.

“You came,” he whispers. It isn’t a question, though there is a lilt of surprise in his voice. He grabs you by the shoulders and delicately pushes you back enough to run his eyes up and down your frame. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I twisted my ankle, but I’m okay.”

His hands move from your shoulders to cup the sides of your face. Even in the limited amount of moonlight, you can see the tension in his jawline seem to melt away. His expression softens for a brief moment before he’s back to business.

“Did anyone see you leave?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, I don’t think so. I crawled through an air duct in the bathroom and escaped through an exit in the back of the building.”

“Smart girl,” he praises, your face still clutched in his hands. “We still need to hurry. I don't know how much time we have.”

“What’s the plan?” You ask. Not that it really matters - you think you’d do just about anything he asks of you right now. You’d follow him anywhere, as long as it is far the fuck away from here.

He jerks his head in the direction of the watchtower a few yards away. He guides you to the entrance at the base of the structure, keeping his metal hand on your lower back. Once you’re inside, he closes and locks the door behind you. The only source of light in the room is produced by an antique oil lamp. On a concrete bench, there’s a first aid kit that’s already been opened beside an array of medical supplies.

He doesn’t need to say anything for you to piece together what is about to happen. The small, discreet tracking device located in the flesh of your thigh seemingly pulses at the realization. He notices you staring at the equipment and pauses.

“I have to remove your tracker before we can go any farther. We're still on Hydra grounds, so it likely hasn’t set off an alert yet. But as soon as we go any farther south…”

“I understand,” you murmur. “I trust you. Take it out.”

He nods, motioning for you to take your place on the bench. First, you shed the drenched bathrobe. Then, you shimmy your pants down to your knees, giving him access to the location of the tracker placed mid-thigh.

You shiver when the skin of the back of your thighs comes in contact with the cold concrete bench. He lowers himself to the ground in front of you, looking up at you in the dim, flickering light of the lamp. The sight makes your breath catch in your throat. The way he looks at you - like you aren’t an assassin, a soldier, a killer, but rather someone worth saving - it makes your heart nearly combust in your chest.

“I’ll try to be quick,” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand just above your knee as if to ground you. His skin is warm and soft, and you find comfort in it. With his other hand, he reaches for an isopropyl alcohol pad to sterilize where he will make the incision. You hiss when he swipes the cold alcohol across your bare skin.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, a grimace forming on his face. “It’ll be over soon.” You know he doesn’t want to cause you any discomfort, but it has to be done. He retrieves a small scalpel and looks at you for your consent.

“On the count of three?”

You nod, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

“One. Two…”

He doesn’t say three.

Your eyes snap shut and your teeth dig into the meat of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. Somehow, you manage to stay silent. You keep your eyes closed until you feel the tracker ease through the opening he had cut. You glance down, seeing vibrant red leak down the side of your thigh. He places the tracker on the bench beside you - visual confirmation of your newfound freedom.

The small device might weigh less than an ounce, but you suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter.

He grabs a large gauze pad and presses it to the wound, applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice tense.

“Never been better.” You force a small smile to give him reassurance. Despite the circumstances, there’s a level of truth to your words. “What about you?”

“I’ll be better once I get you away from here.”

You watch in heavy silence as he works to bandage the incision on your thigh. He’s gentle - more gentle than anyone has ever been with you, you think.

Widows are usually stuck tending to their own injuries, but in more severe cases, you'd be sent to the pitiful excuse of an infirmary within the Hydra facility. Doctors - who most likely weren’t even legitimate doctors - would do the bare minimum to keep you from dying without caring if they’re too rough or lack bedside manner.

But not him. No, he touches you like the last thing he wants is to cause you the slightest discomfort. He touches you like you’re precious to him.

Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had a decent night of sleep in nearly a week, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re experiencing an adrenaline crash and aren’t thinking clearly, but you can’t help the way your eyes keep flickering to his lips. It’s not the time, and definitely not the place to be having such thoughts, but you think them, anyway - he’s inhumanly beautiful.

“I can rebandage it when we get somewhere safer,” he says when the dressing is secure against your skin. “We need to go. How’s your ankle? Can you walk?”

He stands, pulling you up from the bench in the process. You instantly yank your pajama pants back up around your hips.

Truthfully, you had forgotten all about twisting your ankle while running through the woods. But now, with the sudden pressure of your weight on it again, the pain returns in a dull but persistent throb.

“It hurts a little, but I’ll be okay—”

Before you can finish your sentence, he’s scooping you into his arms. You squeal in surprise as his metal arm swipes your legs out from beneath you. He lifts you with ease, metal arm hooked beneath your knees and flesh arm supporting your back.

You’re sure you could walk. Maybe even run, if you really needed to. But you aren’t about to order him to put you down. Not when the warmth from his arms and chest feels like heaven against the cold night air. Your soaking wet bathrobe still lays discarded on the bench, so you can use all of the warmth you can possibly get.

“This works, too,” you snort. Without thinking, you brush a lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear for him. He looks down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips for a brief moment before he lifts you up just high enough to press his mouth against your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his lips against your skin. You’ve craved to feel this again ever since you first kissed him in the bathroom five days ago.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmurs.

You nod, pursing your lips. Your heart sinks a bit at his choice of words.

I’ll be better once I get you away from here. Let’s get you out of here.

You. Not us. You.

He says it like a promise, but you can’t help but feel like it’s going to lead to a goodbye.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

You end up being thankful that he took it upon himself to carry you for the duration of the trek through the woods - a half hour walk through thick, dense trees that would have taken twice as long had you attempted to make the journey on your bum ankle.

The rain had come to a stop, but clouds then covered the moon, making it near pitch black. Somehow, his steps never faltered. Despite the darkness, and all of the tree roots and low hanging branches that he had to constantly dodge, he somehow got the two of you out of the woods and to the safety of a getaway car in an impressive amount of time. Both his vision and sense of direction are so impeccable that you suspect he has supernatural senses.

He drives for hours - always going a steady twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At some point during the night, you fall asleep in the passenger seat. You don’t mean to, but after days of constant anxiety and subsequently very little sleep, plus the adrenaline crash after your escape from the facility, your eyes close of their own accord.

The first thing that you hear when you wake up is the sound of tires crunching over gravel. You open your eyes, noting that it’s still dark outside. The digital clock on the dashboard of the old Buick reads 2:52 am. You have no idea where you’re at, but a small house comes into the view of the headlights.

“What is this place?” You ask, voice raspy from sleep and dehydration.

“It’s an old safe house,” he grunts. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car. “It’s been inactive for years. We’ll be okay here for the night,” he assures you.

Inactive is putting it lightly. The place looks like it is on the verge of caving in on itself. From the creaky wooden boards of the front porch steps to the cobwebs that decorate the bannisters and windows, it’s obvious that you’re the first people here in a very long time. Still, despite the place being run down, you much prefer it to the place you’re running from.

At first glance, the inside looks surprisingly tidy compared to what you could see of the exterior. Then, you notice a large pack of disposable water bottles and some non-perishable goods on the kitchen countertop - canned soup, instant oatmeal, ramen.

He catches the look on your face. “I dropped all of that off a few days ago,” he says. “There’s some toiletries and dry clothes for you in the bedroom, too.” He jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, an indication for you to follow him.

Prior to a few hours ago, you had no idea what to expect tonight. But the careful consideration and thoughtfulness of it all surpasses your every expectation. In addition to a pile of neatly folded clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, etc - there’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, shampoo, and even a bottle of lotion.

You don’t know how he did it. You don’t know when he found the time, or the means. But for you, he did.

You sniffle, fighting against the sudden, undeniable burning sensation in your eyes. You do not want to cry. “You did all of this for me?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at the floor. “I tried to be as thorough as I could on such short notice.” His gaze flickers back to you. “There’s one more thing.”

He turns, walking in the direction of the bedroom’s small closet. He opens the door, revealing the closet to be empty except for a pile of extra blankets on the floor. He shifts them around, reaching for something that is blocked by his frame. When he turns back around, you see that he is holding a backpack. He must have placed it in the closet when he dropped the non-perishable goods and clothes off earlier this week. Before you can question what the bag holds, he unzips the main compartment and reaches inside.

“This should be everything you need to start a new life.” You recognize the first item as soon as he hands it to you - a dark blue rectangle with the word PASSPORT engraved across the top. You open it, revealing a brand new passport and ID. There’s a picture of your face and a name you don’t recognize. Your new name.

Your hands tremble around the items. He opens the bag further, revealing the majority of the compartment to be filled with cash.

“Holy shit,” you breathe. He really thought of…everything. “Where did you get this? All of this?” You ask, gesturing between the cash in the bag and the documents in your hand.

He smirks, taking the passport back from you and tucking into an interior pocket of the backpack. “That’s not for you to worry about. I have my ways.”

“Clearly,” you mumble. It’s a lot to take in, and you feel overwhelmed by it all, but there’s one thing that has become abundantly clear - you won’t be leaving this safe house together.

One passport. One ID. One getaway bag. This is all for you.

A heavy silence falls over the room. You could hear a pin drop.

“You’re going back. Aren’t you?” You murmur.

His lips are set in a harsh line. His face gives nothing away, but after a thick beat of silence, he nods in confirmation. “Yes. I’m going back.”

You could pry. Part of you wants to. You want to beg him to tell you why - why he stays with them when he’s obviously so different from them. But if his mind is made up, then this could very well be your one and only night together. You aren’t about to tarnish it.

How are you supposed to ask someone for more when they’ve already risked everything for you?

You step towards him, stopping when your chest is no less than an inch away from his. You look up at the most beautiful pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. “Will you at least tell me your name so I can properly thank you?”

He grimaces, shaking his head. “I don’t know my name,” he admits, voice low. “I only know what they call me. Soldier. Asset. If I have any other name, I don’t remember what it is. But I promise, if I did know my name…I would have told you long ago.”

You part your mouth to speak, but no words come out. For some reason, you hadn’t considered the possibility that he may not know his name. Let alone the possibility that he may not have one.

“I’ll leave you to shower. You need to rest,” he says gently as he starts to move past you, towards the bedroom door. You grab his flesh hand in yours and he freezes. You know what you’re about to say is a risk, but considering that he’ll likely be gone come daylight either way, you decide to take it.

“Would you join me?”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, lust - maybe a hint of restraint. “Are you sure you want that?”

“Yes,” you hum, squeezing his hand. “I’m sure.”

That’s all he needs to hear. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and begins guiding you towards the bathroom.

The water pressure is abysmal at best, and the temperature’s barely lukewarm, but none of that matters as soon as he steps into the tub after you. At first, he stands an awkward distance away from you, his hands flexing at his sides like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them. He stands closest to the rusted shower head, the uneven stream spraying the back of his neck.

“You can touch me,” you say softly.

He gulps. He steps closer to you, backing you against the cool shower tiles. His flesh hand rises, brushing against the side of your cheek as his metal hand settles on your hip.

He’s barely touched you yet, and you already can’t stand the thought of never getting to experience it again when the night is over. But you can’t bring yourself to stop. Not when he’s standing bare before you, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every minute detail.

When he kisses you, he’s hesitant at first. Slow and cautious, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. But you place your hands on his hips, pulling him flush against you, and that restraint slips away. The metal hand resting on your hip trails upwards, ghosting the skin of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He kneads it with a low groan into your mouth.

You lose track of time beneath the stream of water. He kisses you until you’re breathless, only pulling away to move his lips to the pulse point of your throat. He nips at the skin before trailing hot kisses down your neck, past your collarbones and to the peaks of your breasts.

Your own hands begin to wander. You snake one between your bodies, pausing just before you reach the prominent erection that juts against your belly.

“Is this okay?” You ask, the tips of your fingers trailing along his length as you wait for consent to go a step further.

“Yes,” he grunts next to your ear. “Yes, please.”

You wrap a firm hand around him. You’re both fully drenched from the shower by this point, the water acting as a gentle lubricant as you stroke him in your grasp. You start slow, and he exhales a sharp breath as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

It’s clear to you that it’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this. You can tell by the way he shudders against you; almost trembling. Like it’s all brand new to him.

Fingers from your free hand thread through the damp locks of his hair. You guide his mouth back to yours, kissing him deeply as you increase the pace at which you massage him in your hand. He whimpers into your mouth, and a second later you feel him twitch against your palm. He finishes with a deep groan as warm ropes paint the skin of your belly.

His forehead rests against yours for a moment as he comes down from his climax. He takes a few uneven breaths, and then sinks to his knees on the shower floor. You glance down to find him looking up at you as he gently spreads your thighs apart. You nod your head - maybe a bit too enthusiastically - giving him permission to continue.

He starts by kissing the skin of your inner thighs - alternating between each leg until he reaches the apex of your thighs. He’s careful at first, testing what makes you gasp, what makes you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders. But it doesn’t take long before he finds a rhythm. It’s slow and deliberate, but unrelenting.

Your legs quickly turn to jelly. He reads you like an open book, supporting you from his position beneath you. You think to yourself that you’d do anything to know his name right now, just so you could moan it. Instead, you settle for oh, god - fuck - god, yes while you tug on locks of his hair.

At the sound of your praises, he grows more confident in his ministrations. His lips suck the swollen bud at the apex of your folds and your eyes snap shut as you throw your head back. He eases a singular, metal digit between your legs, teasing your entrance with the tip to coat it in your slick. When he slips it between your walls - slowly to allow you to adjust to the stretch - you feel a hot coil begin to tighten in your lower belly. The sensation isn’t completely new to you, though it’s the first time you’ve experienced it at the hands of another person.

The pressure of his thick, metal finger inside you and his lips around your clit is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs squeeze his head and he moans against you as you ride his face through the high of your orgasm. When you go still, he slowly rises from the floor and you all but collapse against him. You stand there for a few long moments, in the now cold stream of water that trickles down from the showerhead. Your head rests against his chest and his arms wrap around your midsection, cradling you against him.

He reaches for the towel hanging over the shower’s curtain rod and then wraps it around you before shutting the water off and seamlessly lifting you into his arms. Neither of you say a word as he steps out of the shower and carries you back to the bedroom.

He pulls the comforter back and then places you on the bed before crawling in beside you. You’re both still damp, but you’re far too exhausted to care. Your escape through the Hydra facility’s ventilation system and subsequent run through the woods feels like a lifetime ago, and every part of your body is screaming for you to go to sleep. The only thing stopping you from closing your eyes is that you know when you open them again, he won’t be beside you anymore.

So you force your eyes to stay open for a little longer. Just so you can try to memorize the way his heartbeat sounds when your cheek rests against his chest.

“I need you to promise me something,” he whispers into the dark. He grabs one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss against your knuckles.

Your breath catches. Before the words can leave his lips, you already know what he is going to say. Words that you’ve been dreading all night.

“You can’t look for me,” he continues when you don’t say anything. His voice is strained, like the words hurt him to say as much as they do for you to hear. “Not ever. You can do whatever you want with your life after tonight, but you can’t look for me.”

You’re silent. You don’t trust your voice to speak. You knew it was coming, but it still stings to hear. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on his chin. You look up at him, though you can only see a faint outline of his profile in the darkness.

“I know,” you whisper. You tilt your head enough to press your lips to his one more time. It’s brief, but you hope it conveys so much of what you can’t find the words to say. “Thank you,” you add when you pull away. “For saving my life. For everything.”

He doesn’t say anything - just kisses your forehead, and pulls the comforter tighter around the two of you. The heavenly combination of his body heat and the feeling of his fingers dancing along your ribcage begins to lull you to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake and hold onto this moment for as long as possible.

“I’ll find you one day. One day, when it’s safe, I’ll find you.”

When morning comes, you don’t know if you dreamed his promise, or if he really had said those words while you drifted to sleep.

All you know is that the space beside you is cold.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

3 years later. Circa 2016.

“I’m missing a small green piece. Did you steal a small green piece, Maple?”

You glance at the brown cat lying on the windowsill. She seemingly side-eyes you as if to say you’re interrupting my nap, human.

You’re not convinced that she’s innocent, though. The cat, who had shown up on your doorstep almost a year ago and made herself right at home, has a knack for knocking over your Lego sets. It wouldn’t surprise you at all if she was responsible for the missing piece.

She can’t be blamed, you suppose. It’s your own fault for leaving the partially assembled Minecraft village in hundreds of pieces across your coffee table. You should have finished it weeks ago, but you’ve done very little other than work and sleep lately.

Work, sleep, work. Drink too much coffee, pick up extra shifts just so you don’t have to be home alone with your thoughts and are so exhausted when you do get home that you have no issue falling asleep quickly, and then repeat it all.

Maple meows, though it sounds more like an annoyed huff.

“You’re right,” you sigh. “I do need to get a life.”

Your ringtone begins blaring, startling you. You glance down at where your cell phone sits on the coffee table in front of you. One of your coworkers, Hannah, is calling you. You debate on letting it go to voicemail - Hannah likes to yap and you aren’t really in the mood for a phone call right now - but part of you hopes she’s calling to ask if you want to pick up her evening shift at the coffee shop the two of you work at, so you answer.

It’s not like you have any other plans tonight.

“Hey,” you greet her. “What’s—”

“Oh my god,” she exclaims before you can get the rest of the sentence out. “Remember a few months ago when I said that a super hot guy was watching you at work but then he just disappeared before you could see him?”

There’s an instant pit in your stomach. You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, the memory from a few months ago replays in your mind.

“There’s an insanely hot guy that keeps checking you out by the door,” Hannah giggles as she walks up behind you. You’re in the middle of making an iced macchiato, so you don’t bother to glance at whatever mystery hot guy she’s talking about.

“I highly doubt he’s looking at me,” you snort.

“Oh, he definitely is,” she insists. “If he wasn’t so good looking it would almost be creepy, actually.”

Curiosity gets the best of you. You put the lid on the drink and casually glance over your shoulder, towards the coffee shop’s entrance. You see a small group of teenage girls at a table near the door, and a few college students scattered about the lounge on their laptops. There’s no lone, attractive man to be found.

Hannah follows your gaze. “Huh,” she shrugs. “Guess he left. What a shame.”

You shake your head at her. “What did he look like, anyway?”

“Shoulder length, dark hair. Vibrant blue eyes. Six feet tall, maybe. Give or take an inch. He had on a leather jacket, even though it’s like a million degrees outside today. And he was wearing one glove? Kind of odd, but in a hot way—”

You lose your grip on the freshly made drink and it falls to the floor, coffee and ice both going everywhere - all over yours and Hannah’s shoes.

It feels as if the room is spinning around you. It’s been three years. It can’t be him.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes darting around the room as if he’s going to magically reappear. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hannah. I’ll clean this up, just give me a moment—”

You practically run towards the direction of the front door, completely ignoring Hannah’s startled stare. You throw the coffee shop door open, exiting the building. You’re downtown, and it’s rush hour. You see dozens of cars and even more people hurrying to get where they need to be, but your eyes search for one person in particular.

You swear that you can hear blood pumping in your ears. You’ve only been outside for a few seconds and you’re already sweating - and you don’t think it has anything to do with today’s high temperature.

He’s nowhere to be seen. You’d recognize him in an instant. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you saw him - he’d stand out in any crowd.

You should have known better than to look. If he wanted you to see him, you would have - but he didn’t. And now he’s a ghost once more.

You have no doubt it was him. Vibrant blue eyes and shoulder length, dark hair. One singular glove. You don’t know why he decided to show up today, after three years of radio silence, but it had to be him —

Hannah’s voice pulls you out of the memory and back to reality.

“Hello? Are you there? Earth to—”

“Uh,” you interject, trying to remember how to string words together. “Uh - yeah. I remember.”

“I swear to God, he’s on the news right now.”

“What?” Your voice rises several octaves, startling Maple from her sleep. You put Hannah on speakerphone. “Are you - are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive. Turn on your TV right now.”

You glance around your small living room, searching for the TV remote and thanking your lucky stars that you didn’t cancel your cable package like you had thought about doing.

“What channel?” You ask when you retrieve the remote from in between two couch cushions.

“Uhm - 3. 5. 9. Literally any of them, probably.”

Your jaw drops the second that you get to a major news station. For the first time in three years, you see his face.

The footage is grainy - obviously from a security camera. But it’s him - unmistakable. His hair is a bit longer and his chest and shoulders are a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him, but you recognize him in an instant. Even with the piss poor video quality, you can see the shining silver of his left hand.

The headline across the bottom of the screen reads: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, HYDRA’S WINTER SOLDIER, WANTED FOR TIES TO VIENNA BOMBING.

You’re vaguely aware that Hannah’s voice is coming from the speaker next to your ear, but you aren’t paying attention to a word she’s saying. There’s a high-pitched, intense ringing in your ears that makes it impossible for you to focus on what the news reporter is saying. You only manage to get bits and pieces as you attempt to control your breathing.

“James “Bucky” Barnes, former United States Army Sergeant and childhood friend of Captain America, has been identified as the prime suspect in the bombing that took the life of King T’Chaka and twelve others…”

“… conducting a manhunt all over southeastern Europe…”

“Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has known ties to Hydra that span over half a century…”

You press the end call button on your phone’s screen without even thinking about it, cutting Hannah off in the middle of a sentence. Maple, seemingly noticing the change in your mood, jumps down from her position on the windowsill and trots over to where you sit on the couch.

James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the reporter had called him. Bucky Barnes. After all this time, you know his name. You thought that finally knowing his name would feel a lot different. You expected to feel relief - maybe even a sense of satisfaction. But right now, all you feel is fear and bewilderment.

Key words echo in your mind: childhood friend of Captain America. Army Sergeant. Hydra. Over half a century. Winter Soldier.

There’s still so much that’s unknown - so many questions that you don’t know if you’ll ever have answers to. But you do know this much - James Bucky Barnes, childhood best friend of Steve Rogers, wouldn’t work for Hydra of his own volition. You don’t know exactly how he found himself to be their pawn, but there’s no doubt in your mind that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

The man who saved you - James or Bucky - wouldn’t do what they are accusing him of. Not if he had a choice.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

2 years later. May 2018.

You wish you could say that you kept your promise.

For three years, you did exactly what he’d asked of you. You took the fake passport and ID, the ten thousand dollars in cash, and started a new life. You got your own apartment, a normal job that you didn’t completely hate - even a cat. You kept yourself off of Hydra’s radar. You laid low and didn’t search for him. You were doing good, all things considered.

Then you saw him on the fucking news.

All it took was learning his name for you to pack a few bags into the old Buick that he’d left for you. The next morning, you dropped Maple off at Hannah’s - your friend and former coworker who just so happens to love cats and was more than willing to look after Maple on a temporary or permanent basis - and got on a plane to Romania.

Of course, by the time you got to Romania, he was long gone.

From there, you flew to Germany, where news reports showed him fighting beside Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and someone named Scott Lang against Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, the soon to be king of Wakanda, a robot, and some guy in a spider costume at the Berlin airport.

At the time, you had very little information to go off of, but from what you were able to gather, Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. Team Cap, as the news reports had referred to the group, had aided in his and Steve’s successful escape from the airport.

After that? Your guess was as good as all of the government officials looking for them. They have been fugitives ever since - Bucky, Steve, Sam, and even Natasha, who had apparently played both sides.

That was two years ago. Since then, you’ve been chasing dead ends all over the world. You don’t even know if he’s alive, but you have to believe that he is.

Currently, you’re in the breathtaking town of Interlaken, Switzerland. The lead you’d been following had turned out to be a bust - no surprise - but Switzerland is otherworldly and peaceful, so you decided to stay for a few days. At least until you catch wind of another supposed Winter Soldier sighting.

You’re finishing up brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the Interlaken countryside. Soft sunlight, a stone patio, and the smell of fresh bread that wafts from the kitchen. You could get used to this. Maybe one day, you’ll come back. When you’ve found him, or he’s found you.

You’re about to signal to a server that you’d like a refill on your coffee when an ear-splitting scream sounds from inside the restaurant. You and all of the other guests on the patio freeze, looking around.

Then, another scream. This time, a young child sitting at a table a few feet behind you.

“Mommy? Mommy, where did you go?”

The child’s mother is nowhere to be seen. Where she sat only a few moments prior is a thick dusting of what appears to be… Soot? Ash?

A tray falls to the ground and glass shatters, tearing your attention away from the panicked child. You glance at a server just in time to see him seemingly turn to dust in front of your very eyes.

Chaos breaks out. Guests are shouting in terror as several others vanish into thin air. You stand up, unsure of what to do. You begin to walk towards the crying little girl a few feet away from you, when you’re overcome with intense dizziness. Your vision goes fuzzy, and your skin feels like pins and needles.

You look down at your hands. The screaming in the background seems to fade.

Not yet, you think. Please, not yet. I need more time. I haven’t found him yet.

Your fingertips crumble before you - carried away by the light spring breeze. The tingling sensation spreads up your arms and you can do nothing but watch yourself disappear.

It’s true what they say. When you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes.

You think of how he looked in the glow of the oil-lamp in the watchtower. You think of his promises - to get you out of the Hydra facility, and to one day find you. One that he fulfilled, and one that he’ll now never have the chance to. You think of his lips on yours and how safe you felt in his arms the one night you shared together.

Your last thought is that you hope wherever you go when you leave here, it’s the same place as him.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Post blip. Circa 2024.

Ever since you and the other fifty percent of the population that had turned to dust were brought back to life, you’ve been thinking a lot about the butterfly effect.

The idea that if someone misses their train on the way to work, they could avoid a horrible accident. Or that something as small as holding a door open for someone could cause them to pay it forward, then leading to a cascade of simple acts of kindness that could change the course of history.

If your babysitter hadn’t taken you to the community pool that hot July day, you may have never been kidnapped by Red Room operatives.

If you hadn’t been kidnapped by Red Room operatives, you never would have been forced to live in the facility where you eventually met him.

And if you hadn’t met him, your eyes wouldn’t still be scanning every crowd, over a decade later, in hopes of randomly seeing him.

You stopped your search for him. When you were brought back, you had no reason to continue scouring the earth.

Why would you? You no longer have to wonder where he is and if he’s okay. For months following the sudden return of millions of people, you could simply turn on the news or open any social media app. Answers that you’d spent years searching for were suddenly right in front of your eyes.

No, he did not have a choice when it came to working for Hydra. Yes, like Steve Rogers, he was injected with super soldier serum, but unlike Steve, it was against his will. And, fun fact: he is old enough to be your great grandfather.

You also learn that he underwent intensive deprogramming in Wakanda to remove trigger words Hydra had implanted in his mind. No wonder your two-year search for him had gone nowhere.

And yes, he’d received a full pardon for everything he did while under their control. He’s officially a free man. Free from Hydra, and free to do whatever he pleases with his life.

Still, he does not come for you. For several months following the announcement of his pardon, you hold out hope that he’ll show up when you least expect it. But after a while, that hope begins to fade.

You aren’t angry with him. How could you be? He’s the entire reason that you’re free. It’s unfair to hold him to a promise he made over a decade ago, when he was under mind control. The news articles tend to throw around words like brainwashed and memory loss when talking about him - for all you know, he doesn’t even remember who you are.

So, you go through the motions of moving on. Like so many other people, you rebuild your life from the ground up. You relocate to New York and get a small apartment just outside of the city, start going to therapy once a week, explore some new hobbies, and make a few friends. You even run into an old friend - for lack of a better word.

By run into you mean she shows up unannounced at your job on a random Thursday.

It’s a slow, rainy morning at the small bookstore that you work at. You’re in the back, sorting through a new shipment of books, when you hear the front door chime.

“Welcome!” You yell out from the back office. It’s a small store, so you’re sure they’re able to hear you. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

“Take your time,” a feminine voice calls back. You freeze. You recognize that voice - a distinct Russian accent that you’re able to put a face to right away, even after all these years. “I’ll just entertain myself with this…dark romance smut novel until you come out.”

You almost don’t believe your ears. What could she be doing here, after all this time? How did she find you? You don’t even have the same name as the last time you saw her, thanks to Bucky giving you a new identity.

If your training in the Red Room taught you anything, it’s to question everything and trust no one. You don’t think she’d hurt you. The two of you always got along, and you liked her more than a lot of the other widows. But until you know exactly why she’s here, you aren’t taking any chances. Your bag is just a few feet away from you, and inside it, a small pistol. Quickly and quietly, you tuck it into the waistband of your pants, at the small of your back.

When you exit the back room, she’s turned away from you. Still, you recognize the short stature and blonde hair right away.

“What brings you here, Yelena?”

She snorts, placing the book back on the table before turning around. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You stand there, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what version of her you’re about to get. You know just how ruthless she can be, but you also know that underneath the person that the Red Room turned her into, there’s good.

She studies you with a faint smirk. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks…tired. Not just physically, though the dark circles under her hazel eyes do indicate that she needs a good night’s sleep.

“You look good,” she chirps. “Different. Domestic.” She waves a hand in a slow circle, gesturing at your outfit. “What are you now? A librarian?”

“Bookstore manager,” you correct softly. “It’s peaceful.”

She hums, amused. “Must be nice.”

You tilt your head, still trying to get a read on her. “Is there something I can help you with, Yelena?”

The pause is brief but loaded. Her expression flattens. “I was sent,” she says finally. “My boss wants to talk to you. She’s looking for more people with…backgrounds similar to ours.”

You already know where this is going. “Valentina.”

Yelena raises a brow, unable to hide her surprise. “You’ve heard of her?”

You nod. “People talk. They don’t say anything nice, but they talk.”

“She has resources. Protection. Mission stability.”

Yelena recites the benefits as if she’s reading a script. But there’s a quiet sort of resentment in her voice. Like she doesn’t fully buy it herself. “And I’m sure it pays better than…this.” She gestures vaguely towards the bookshelves around you.

“Why me?”

“She says you have skills. And a brain. She’s impressed that you were able to escape the Red Room without getting yourself killed.”

You snort. “Too bad I’m retired.”

“No one ever really retires,” she says, shrugging. “We both know that.”

“Speak for yourself.”

You pause, watching her more closely. There’s something off in the way she shifts her weight, the slight shake in her hands. It’s subtle, but not invisible. And when she turns slightly, you catch a faint whiff of something sharp and metallic beneath her perfume. Vodka, maybe.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently.

She gives a soft laugh, one that sounds more bitter than amused. “You’re asking me that?”

You don’t push. Instead, you fold your arms and say, “Tell Valentina thanks, but no thanks.”

Yelena blinks. “Just like that?”

“I was given a second chance. Someone risked a lot to help me get it, and I don’t think they would appreciate me throwing it away by working for someone like Valentina.”

Yelena’s eyes flicker. She studies you for a long moment, something softening around the edges of her mouth. “So it’s true, then.”

You raise a brow. “What’s true?”

She tilts her head. “The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Was it really him who helped you escape?”

Your breath catches slightly. You’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone, but you suppose there’s no point in denying it now that both Hydra and the Red Room have been taken down.

“He did,” you say softly. “He got me out.”

Yelena doesn’t speak for a while. When she finally does, it’s almost a whisper.

“Good.”

You both stand there for a long, awkward moment. You can’t help but see a small part of yourself when you look at her. It could have so easily been you in her shoes - working for someone like Valentina, contract kills and shadow operations - if it hadn’t been for him.

You turn to the register beside you and grab a pen and a piece of receipt paper. You scribble your phone number and then hold it out to her in offering.

“If you ever want to get coffee,” you shrug. “Or if you ever need anything…reach out.”

Yelena takes it, eyes flicking down to the number. She folds the piece of paper without comment and slips it into her pocket. Then she gives you one last look - something unreadable in her expression - and heads toward the door.

The bell above the entrance jingles as she exits, and the sound echoes in the silence she leaves behind.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Present Day.

Funny enough, it’s one of the rare days that he hasn’t even crossed your mind when your phone rings and an unknown number pops up on the screen.

You can’t describe it, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach before you even answer. Call it a sixth sense that you somehow knew it wasn’t just another spam call. Normally, you wouldn’t even bother answering a number that isn’t already saved to your contacts, but you hesitate when you start to press decline.

Instead, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

The first thing you hear is a shaky exhale, followed by your name. Then, background noise. A lot of it. Multiple voices - male and female. You manage to catch a few key words here and there.

New York. Valentina. Bob..?

“Yelena?” You ask in disbelief. It’s been three years since you gave her your phone number and this is the first you’ve heard from her. “What’s going on?”

You’re in your apartment, catching up on some chores that you’ve been procrastinating all week. You’re in the middle of unloading your dishwasher, but you pause as soon as you realize it’s her.

“Are you still in New York?” She asks, forgoing all pleasantries.

“Uh - yes,” you answer, growing more confused and concerned by the second.

“We need help,” she says. “I don’t have time to explain everything, so you’re just going to have to trust me. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Who is we? And what kind of help, exactly?”

She has to give you a little more information than that. How are you supposed to know what to bring? Do you need firearms? Combat knives? Batons? Smoke bombs? Lockpick? All things that you haven’t had use for in years yet still keep on hand, just in case.

Your thoughts spiral as you wait for her to respond. Someone begins speaking in the background.

“Who are you talking to?” You hear a masculine voice yell. Your heart lurches - you recognize that voice.

As if you could ever truly forget it. As if you don’t hear it in your dreams still to this day.

“Yelena, whose voice is that?” You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want her to say it - to give you confirmation that you aren’t imagining things. That you aren’t crazy.

Yelena doesn’t answer your question or his. You can’t help but wonder if he heard your voice, too. He always had exceptional hearing.

“Meet us at the old Avenger’s Tower,” she says instead. “Get there as quickly as you can.”

“Yelena—”

“Please. Just hurry.”

The call ends, and your heart feels as if it is going to beat right out of your chest. You stare at the phone, debating on calling her back and demanding to know exactly what the hell is going on before you potentially uproot the peaceful life that you’ve worked so hard to create.

But you don’t. Instead, you run to your bedroom and start throwing whatever you can find into a duffel bag. A few handguns and ammo, knives and gas pellets. From your closet, you retrieve a tactical suit that you haven’t worn in years and pray that it still fits.

The truth is, you don’t need to call her back. Though you’re freaked out by the panic in her voice and would love a heads up for what you’re walking into, it doesn’t really make a difference.

No matter what it is, you’re going. If there’s something big enough for Yelena to call you and beg for help, you’re going to do whatever you can.

Especially if he’s there.

The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, terrifies you far more than whatever it is they could need help with. But not nearly as much as letting the chance of seeing him again slip through your fingers.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Your apartment is only a forty-five minute drive from Midtown Manhattan. An hour, if there’s heavy traffic.

Today, you make it there in thirty minutes. The now twenty-five year old Buick that Bucky had left you in the driveway of the safe house over a decade ago may have over 300,000 miles on it, but you can count on her to get you where you need to go.

You could have bought a new car a long time ago. You have decent credit, job stability, and enough money in savings for a downpayment. You’re just oddly attached to the old thing.

It’s been with you since the very first day of your new life, and it’s one of the only tangible reminders you have of him. That, and the handwritten note he left under your pillow the week you escaped.

You tell yourself that you’re just sentimental, but if the car had come into your possession any other way, you would have junked it years ago.

When the old Avenger’s Tower comes into view, the questions in your head begin to multiply.

“What the fuck have you gotten me into, Yelena?”

Someone has driven a van directly through the building. Where there was once a front entrance, there is now a jagged, gaping hole. From the street, you can still see the van inside.

You park in the first available spot you can find and run one final check: widow bites, two small pistols, a collapsible baton, and several combat knives tucked into your thigh holsters. Despite the fact that it’s been over a decade since you’ve carried more than a single handgun, this doesn’t feel as strange as you expected it to - not yet, anyway. You may feel differently if you end up having to put the weapons to use.

You walk straight into the building through the cratered wall. You look around, not seeing Yelena or Bucky or anyone else that you think would be with them. There’s random men cleaning up debris from whatever the fuck must have happened before you arrived, but none of them pay any attention to you.

Your phone vibrates from your back pocket. The number Yelena called you from earlier is displayed across the screen with a message that simply says: Top floor.

Inside the elevator, you press the button to take you to the very top of the building and then lean back against the wall. Your heart pounds at the possibility of what awaits you at the top floor. Sure, you’re nervous at the prospect of walking into a hostile situation.

But more than that, it’s him. Bucky.

You don’t know what you’ll say to him - or if you’ll even say anything at all. Will he even acknowledge you? What if he doesn’t recognize you? Or worse: what if he does recognize you, and doesn’t care that you’re there?

The elevator ride feels eternal.

You take a few, steady breaths as the elevator passes the last few floors before coming to a stop. The last thing you want is to appear as if you’re on the verge of a panic attack the second that he sees you.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

He’s the first person that you see. Standing on the other side of the room, directly across from you, is the man you fell in love with without so much as knowing his name.

His hair is a little shorter, and his frame a bit stockier, but he has the blue eyes and serious expression that you fell in love with so long ago.

His jaw tightens, and he swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s recognition in his eyes. He doesn’t appear surprised - he must have pieced together that it was you on the phone with Yelena.

You wonder if he’s putting as much effort into keeping his composure as you are.

All eyes are on you as you step out of the elevator. You force yourself to look away from him. On one side of the room is the woman you recognize to be Valentina - standing next to her is a man you’ve never seen. He wears an ostentatious, gold costume that matches his hair. He fidgets with his hands and quickly looks down when your gaze flickers to him - obviously uncomfortable.

Standing directly across from Valentina and the blond man is Yelena and several others. The only one you recognize is John Walker. You’ve never met him, but you vividly remember his brief, failed stint as Captain America several years ago. In addition to Yelena and John, there’s a paunchy, bearded man in a red costume and a tall, dark-haired woman in some kind of high-tech tactical suit.

They all look like shit. Like they’ve already had their asses handed to them on a silver platter.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” Valentina drawls in a voice laced with fake cheer. “Everyone else managed to get here on time.” She gestures towards the group of people standing across from her - each of who are glaring at her.

Except for Bucky. He’s looking at you. Though his expression is stoic, you catch the way his throat bobs and his fingers subtly flex at his sides - like he’s holding himself back from saying or doing something.

“Sorry,” you deadpan as you come to stand beside Yelena. “I had to parallel park.”

“And she has a sense of humor,” Valentina retorts. “You know, you’re one of the only people to ever say no to me. Why was it you turned me down, again?” She puts a finger on her chin in mock contemplation and takes a step towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky inch forward as well, his flesh hand hovering over the gun on his hip.

“Something about someone helping you get a second chance?” She asks rhetorically. “I wonder who that could’ve been.”

You know she’s just trying to get a reaction from you, so you purse your lips, hold eye contact, and don’t respond.

“That’s enough, Valentina,” Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You don’t let yourself look at him. “Leave her alone. It’s not her fault that she has been dragged into this.”

Valentina doesn’t take her eyes off of you. “He’s still protective. Isn’t that cute?”

“Can someone tell me why I’m here?” You can’t help the way your voice shoots up several octaves. “I wasn’t exactly given the run down.” You shoot a glare at Yelena, who looks at you apologetically.

“Lucky for you, you got here just in time,” Valentina quips as she turns away from you, back to the fidgety blond man standing beside her. “I was just telling your friends here - it is my great honor to introduce to you, The Sentry.”

“Hey, guys,” the man in the gold says. His voice is timid, though it sounds as if he’s greeting old friends.

“You see, the press is on their way here now,” Valentina continues. “And they’re going to witness the awesome power of Sentry as he takes down this ruthless group of rogue agents—”

Rogue agents? Ruthless?

“Sentry, your first mission is to take out these criminals.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you guys. Why don’t you just…turn yourselves in?”

Your brows furrow together. You find it hard to believe that he could hurt anyone with how soft-spoken and hesitant he seems.

Walker steps forward, speaking up for the first time since you entered the room. “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”

Bobby? Something clicks in your head at the sound of the name. Bob - you remember hearing someone in the background of your and Yelena’s phone call mention the name. We have to help Bob, they’d said.

As you’re piecing together that this Sentry guy is the Bob they are trying to help, there’s a sudden change in his demeanor. His eyes seemingly darken as his once meek expression turns serious.

“You can call me The Sentry,” he asserts, looking Walker dead in the eye.

“Please, don’t do this. You do not need to listen to her,” Yelena pleads with him.

“Robert, they don’t think you’re good enough,” Valentina interrupts.

“That’s not true. Remember? You can trust me. I know you.”

Bob - Bobby - Robert - Sentry - whatever the guy’s name is - shakes his head. “I don’t think that you do.”

“ENOUGH TALKING,” the tall, hairy man in the bright red suit suddenly booms, capturing everyone’s attention. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!”

At this moment, you’re every bit as confused as Valentina appears to be.

“Thunderbolts?” You echo.

The room erupts before you can process what’s about to happen.

The man in the red suit charges first, letting out a guttural war cry as he hurls himself at Sentry. With one fluid motion, Sentry lifts a single hand and sends him flying across the room with a force that cracks the wall on impact.

Walker charges next, shield raised. The tall, dark-haired woman, whose name you quickly learn is Ava due to Yelena yelling it after her, disappears in a blur of glitching pixels before reappearing behind Sentry in an attempt to destabilize him from the inside.

Yelena flanks to the right, pistols in each hand. She fires, but Sentry easily sends the bullets flying in the opposite direction - straight towards you. Bucky sprints towards you at the same time as Walker, who raises his shield to deflect the bullets.

You reach for your baton, but as you do, Bucky grabs your wrist in his flesh hand.

“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. Even with all of the violence and chaos happening right in front of you, all you can think about in that moment is the feeling of his hand holding yours.

Yelena’s scream as Sentry sends her flying across the room brings you back to reality.

The two of you fall back into rhythm like it’s muscle memory. Your bodies move in tandem as you cover each other. It’s almost too easy to pretend this isn’t the first time you’ve fought together in over a decade. Your movements are a little rusty from so many years of doing your best to avoid scenarios like this, but he easily picks up your slack.

From the corner of your eye, you see Ava cry out as she’s forcibly de-phased, slamming into the ground. Walker hits a column and groans. Yelena lands in a crouch, panting.

“Get down!” Bucky yells, a mere second before throwing himself in front of you.

A blast of Sentry’s energy hits him square in the chest, and he flies backward, taking you with him. Your back slams against the floor, head spinning. When you push yourself up, Bucky is already struggling to his feet.

Sentry closes in on the both of you.

He grabs Bucky’s metal arm mid-swing, and everything slows.

“Don’t—” you start, pushing yourself up, stumbling toward them.

But you’re far too powerless to stop him. With terrifying ease, Sentry rips Bucky’s vibranium arm clean off. Sentry winds the metal appendage back as if it weighs nothing and then swings it forward, slapping Bucky across the face.

“No!” You yell as you fall to your knees beside him. Your scream is swallowed by the sound of the others regrouping, but you barely hear them. All you can see is him.

Your hands cradle his face. He’s out cold.

Around you, the others seem to accept that there’s no way any of you can beat him. The only way out is to run.

Yelena shouts for everyone to move, to get to the elevator. Ava is suddenly beside you, picking up Bucky’s arm before running in the direction of the elevator.

“Walker! Alexei!” Yelena shouts. “Get Bucky!”

The two men appear beside you, hauling an unconscious Bucky into their arms. All of you run after Yelena and Ava, who are already in the elevator. You enter the cramped space a mere second before the doors shut.

Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Bucky is still held up by Walker and Alexei. Everyone around you pants, trying to recover from the absolute disaster of a fight, but your only focus is the man in front of you.

“Hey, hey,” you coo, gently tapping him on the face in an attempt to wake him up. You don’t care that your hands are shaking. You just need him to open his eyes. “Come on, Bucky. Look at me…”

There’s a visible bruise forming across his cheekbone from the impact of the heavy vibranium. His eyes flutter open and shut repeatedly, like he’s hanging onto the sound of your voice in an attempt to find his way back to reality.

There’s a beat of uncertain silence, and then he lets out a groan. His eyelids twitch, and then slowly open. Dazed blue eyes find yours.

“Am I concussed,” he grunts, “or are you actually here right now?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that slips out of you. It’s half relief, half disbelief. “I’m actually here. Though I wouldn’t completely rule a concussion out yet.”

Ava clears her throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to see her holding Bucky’s metal arm out to him. “I take it you two know each other, then?”

You step back as he accepts the appendage, popping it back into place on the left side of his body. You nod, not meeting her stare. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You feel his gaze on you, but he says nothing. An awkward silence settles over the elevator.

When the elevator doors slide open, no time is wasted in getting out of the building. You’re vaguely aware that Yelena, Ava, Alexei and Walker immediately start arguing with each other about what steps to take next, but you aren’t paying attention to a word they say.

The relief you’d felt when you realized that he’s okay just moments before is quickly replaced with uncertainty.

You’re here, he’s here, and you’re both okay. But what now? Where do you go from here? You spent so long wondering if you’d ever see him again, but didn’t even consider what you’d say to him if that day ever came.

Now that it’s finally here, you’re at a loss for words. Factor in the adrenaline crash that you can feel coming on…

Your lungs feel too tight. The sounds around you blur into static. Raised voices, car horns, the distant wail of sirens - none of it registers. Your vision narrows, and suddenly the space feels way too small and loud. It’s all too much.

You turn and walk. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away. Just until you can breathe again.

You duck around the corner of the building, stepping into the cool shadow of an alleyway. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you try to steady your breathing.

Your pulse is racing. Your palms are damp. You press a shaking hand to your chest and attempt to count down from ten.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes at the sound of his soft voice. He’s standing at the mouth of the alley, a few feet away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. “I just need a minute.”

“I know.”

He takes a few steps towards you, tentative and slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. You cross your arms over your chest. Not because you’re cold, but because you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Every part of you wants to close the remaining distance between you and throw yourself into his arms. To forget everything going on around you and melt into him in the middle of this stinky alleyway. But you fear that if you do, you’ll crumble - and there’s still so much on the line right now that’s bigger than just you and him.

Still, it’s hard to hold your tongue when the chance to say all of the words that you’ve waited years to say to him is right in front of you.

“You never came back for me. Why?”

Your voice breaks on the last word. He flinches, his gaze dropping for the first time since stepping into the alley.

“I wanted to,” he says. “I wanted to every day.”

You wait for him to continue.

“When I came back, after I was pardoned, I did come for you. But I saw how…stable and peaceful your life is. I couldn’t bring myself to disrupt that. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

There’s a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow down.

“All I wanted for me was you.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes - guilt, maybe regret - at your confession. Hearing the words come from your mouth seems to snap something inside him. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between you. His hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at him. The lump in your throat suddenly feels suffocating, and your eyes begin to burn with the threat of unshed tears.

“I thought of you every day,” he whispers. The look in his eyes lets you know that he’s telling the truth. “Every single day. Staying away from you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I did it because I love you enough to want more for you than…this.”

He doesn’t elaborate on exactly what he means by this. Maybe he means the potential danger that looms over you right at this moment. Maybe he just means him. You’re not sure - you can’t think clearly because he just said that he fucking loves you.

The moment comes to an abrupt end when panicked screams echo from around the block. You recognize Walker’s voice barking a command at someone. You both look towards the commotion, and then back to each other.

“I should’ve come back,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “And when this is all over - whatever the hell this is - I will.”

You blink, stunned by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”

He nods, grazing his flesh thumb along your cheekbone.

“If you’ll still let me.”

Without thinking, you press your lips to his.

It feels like being transported back in time. You’re no longer standing in a Manhattan alleyway in the midst of impending doom. With your eyes closed, and his lips against yours, you’re kissing him for the first time in a Hydra facility bathroom. You’re kissing him in the bathroom of a safe house. You’re kissing every version of him - soldier, ghost, Bucky - more sure than ever that you want all of him.

It ends all too soon. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“When this is over, I’ll be waiting.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

If someone had told you just forty-eight hours ago that you’d get a call from Yelena asking for help, that you’d be reunited with Bucky, that all of New York would be turned to shadows and everyone would be forced to relive their greatest traumas in interconnected shame rooms, and that you’d be announced as a member of the New Avengers on live television, you would have wondered if you had accidentally consumed a really potent edible.

Everything happened so quickly. Your whole life changed in what felt like the blink of an eye.

You had all been offered rooms at the old Avenger’s Tower - or the Watchtower, as Valentina has apparently renamed it. But you have a place of your own - with a lease that isn’t up until the end of the year. And a job that you actually really like. And plants that have to be watered.

Therefore, you’re back at your apartment outside of the city. At least for the time being.

Yelena didn’t look surprised when she found out that you weren’t staying.

The dust had barely settled from the aftermath of The Void. You were still in your tactical suit, attempting to wrap your head around the fact that Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all Avengers now. You were on your way out of the Watchtower when Yelena caught up to you in the hallway.

“Leaving already?” She’d asked. There was no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.

You shrugged. “This whole…superhero thing wasn’t exactly on my vision board. I just need some time to process it all.”

Her expression softened. “What about Bucky?”

You smirked, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “Bucky knows where to find me.”

You hadn’t meant it to sound harsh. You leaving - it isn’t about pushing him away. It isn’t about making him work for it.

It’s simply about believing that he’d meant what he said. That he really would come for you.

But until then - you have books to read. Laundry to do. Shows to watch. A pothos plant that desperately needs to be repotted. A calm life full of little things that you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for him.

And for the first time in a really long time, you have hope.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Three hours.

That’s how long it takes for you to hear the revving of a motorcycle’s engine outside of your first floor apartment after you get back to your place.

You’ve barely had time to scarf down two day old leftovers and wash all of the sweat, blood, and grime off of your skin when you hear it.

None of your neighbors ride motorcycles. And the headlights are shining directly into your living room through the cracks of the window’s blinds.

It could be anyone. But you know that it isn’t just anyone.

You’re opening the door before he even has a chance to knock.

His hair is still damp from a shower. He smiles at you in a way that you’ve never seen him smile before. It reaches his eyes and brings out the laugh lines around them.

“That was quick,” you hum.

“No.” He shakes his head in disagreement, but his smile doesn’t falter. “It wasn’t. That took me entirely too long. I should’ve been here years ago.”

Without another word, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

The warm glow of a lamp in your living room is the only source of light, but it’s enough to see the dilation of his pupils as he takes in your appearance. Freshly showered, bare faced, and nothing but a loose t-shirt draped over your frame.

“Well,” you breathe. “You’re here now. What are you gonna do?”

He stares at you for a moment. Like he’s scared you might vanish if he blinks. Then, his hands are on your waist and yours are in his hair. You pull his mouth down to yours and he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Without so much as breaking the kiss, he carries you through your apartment as if he’s done so a hundred times before. He places you on the edge of your kitchen counter, his hands splaying across your thighs as if to anchor himself.

“You look exactly the same,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat, in between planting kisses by the shell of your ear and your jaw. “Still as beautiful as ever.”

You grin. “Well, I was blipped for five years, so that helped a little bit. You look pretty good, too, you know. Not a day over seventy-five.”

He laughs, pulling back to look at you. His expression turns more serious as he brushes a slow circle on your inner thigh with the cool vibranium of his thumb.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he says in a low voice. “We have time now. All the time.”

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut muscles and warm skin.

“I know,” you whisper. “But we aren’t rushing. I’ve wanted this for over a decade. Wanted you for over a decade.”

His mouth is back on yours in an instant. It’s hungry, but still careful. He presses closer and you can feel him - hard against your core, even through the thick material of his jeans. You roll your hips against his and he groans into your mouth at the friction.

“You have no idea,” he groans when he pulls his mouth away from yours, “how many times I’ve thought about this since I last saw you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You smile against his mouth. “What took you so long?”

“Don’t,” he warns softly, dragging his metal hand up your spine. “Don’t start with me. I’ll take you right here.”

Your breath catches, arousal blooming low in your stomach. His tone is teasing but there’s promise in his words.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

He chuckles lowly. “Tempting. But I’m doing this right.”

Then he’s lifting you again, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.

Clothes are lost piece by piece, hands continuously touching and roaming. When his eyes drag over your bare body, he breathes your name. Your real name - not the name on the fake passport and ID he’d given you so long ago that most people know you by these days.

Your name. And goddamn, does it feel good to hear him say it.

Then his mouth is on you - slow at first, savoring you, tongue moving with agonizing precision. You gasp, your hands flying to grip the back of his head.

“God, baby,” he mutters in between strokes of his tongue. “You are so fucking sweet.”

“Bucky,” you groan, loving that you know what to call him this time around. By the way he moans into you, you think that he seems to like it, too. “Fuck, Bucky.” Your hips twitch and he splays both hands across your belly, pinning you in place.

“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “I’ve got you.”

You cry out when he slides one thick finger inside, curling it just right, then adding a second without warning. The combination of his mouth and fingers is almost too much. You clutch at his hair, grounding yourself in the sound of his low groans and the warmth of his tongue.

He keeps going, steady and sure, working you until your thighs are shaking and his name is tumbling from your lips again and again. You come with a shudder, gripping him hard and gasping through the wave that crashes over you.

He stays there for a moment, letting you ride it out, before finally pulling away, his mouth shiny and blue eyes full of desire.

“Come here,” you say breathlessly, taking no time to recover before pulling him up to you. You pull his face down to yours, crushing your lips against his once more, reveling in the flavor of yourself on his tongue. He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking his length in his flesh hand before teasing your entrance with the tip.

“Bucky,” you whine at this teasing. “Please. Waited long enough.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he coos as he eases inside you. You gasp at the stretch, sinking yourself onto his length. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

And he does. It’s not rough or rushed - it’s full of reverence. Like he’s making up for all of the years that he couldn’t have you. Hands roam your body as if trying to memorize every individual dip and curve and every kiss says I missed you, I missed you so much, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

“So perfect,” he grunts beside your ear. “I love you. Loved you for as long as I can remember—”

His confession is enough to cause the hot coil in the pit of your stomach to snap. You come with a cry of his name, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as he continues to rock into you. He follows shortly after with a low, broken moan into the crook of your neck.

For a while, neither of you move. You lie together in the afterglow, sweat slicked bodies still pressed together as you both come back down to earth.

“Bucky?” You murmur after a moment, still breathless. He pulls back far enough to look down at you.

“I love you, too. For as long as I’ve known you. I never stopped loving you.”

He smiles at your words, his expression open and unguarded in a way that’s brand new to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

You curl into him as he pulls the blanket over you both. His arm wraps around your waist like he never wants to let go of you again.

The city outside is still recovering. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You haven’t decided if you’ll take Valentina’s offer seriously, if the New Avengers are actually a thing, or what any of it means going forward.

Only one thing matters to you right now, and he’s laying beside you, holding you close.

You’re both home.

if you read all 18.7k words of this, thank you. as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🫶🏻💖

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #attendsquoi recs

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