lessersole

[lessersole]

Adore this! I'm swooning, pining/idiots in love is my favourite and this is the best! Roommate Clark would be absolutely devastating, and I love the quiet, attentive way he cares 😍 plus it's nice that Harry is actually decent too!

just my type

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: when you realise your crush on your roommate is getting out of hand, you decide it’s time to start dating again. but nobody on any dating app comes close to being as perfect for you as clark kent is. tags: roommates to lovers, mutual pining, dating can be rough but at least you have a clark kent at home warning(s): men suck sometimes (not clark), reader described as being shorter than clark, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader, slightly suggestive content (no smut) word count: 10k note: this gif is so roommate!clark waiting up for you to get back from your date to make sure you’re safe coded. also, i’m trying a different tone for this fic, more rom-com and less poetic. i hope you enjoy it!

masterlist

The moment you caught yourself smiling at the mere mention of Clark’s name, you knew it was time to start dating again. 

Not him, obviously. That would be complicated. 

Complicated, as in you’d have to sit in front of your future therapist and explain how you ended up living in a run-down apartment with roommates you found on Craigslist after being kicked out by your former roommate, who once handed you a fork and you mistook it for a declaration of love.

You’d been living with Clark for over a year now, and somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing exactly when the shift happened. 

At first, he was just your new subletter, the one who carried a couch up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Clark was the guy who treated organising the fridge shelves like an Olympic event, who insisted on splitting the electric bill down to the cent, who made terrible coffee but somehow made the perfect cup of tea for you before you woke up.

And then one day, Clark was the guy you were laughing with on the couch until midnight, even though you had both sworn you needed an early night. He was the one pressing a warm mug into your hands when you came home shivering, the one humming under his breath when he worked at the kitchen table, the one who somehow managed to make your apartment feel like a place you wanted to be. 

You had fallen for him so quietly it was almost impressive.

Clark was currently in the kitchen committing what could only be described as breakfast-related food crimes. The pancakes on the skillet were a strange shade of brown that no cookbook would approve of. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

“So,” Clark said, flipping one pancake with a spatula so large it could double as a snow shovel. He caught your raised eyebrow and grinned. “Today’s special is Experimental Pancake Surprise, now with thirty percent fewer fire hazards.” He angled the spatula toward his mouth like a microphone. “Order up, folks.”

Having just gotten home from work, you leaned against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your coat and laughing. 

The coat was a soft wool blend in a colour you never would have picked for yourself, but you loved it. Clark had given it to you for your birthday, claiming it was “just practical,” but it was the kind of thoughtful gift that meant he had noticed how often you forgot a scarf in winter. You wore it constantly. 

Clark turned back to the stove, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as one of the pancakes slid into the pan at a dangerous angle. You stepped in automatically, holding the plate steady. Your fingers brushed his, just for a second. 

It was nothing, except that you could feel the warmth of his skin even after you pulled your hand away.

And then, in a tone so casual you almost missed it, Clark said, “We should do breakfast for dinner more often. There’s something kind of intimate about it.”

Your laugh came out too quickly, too loud. “Right. Romantic smoke alarms.”

Clark grinned, but his eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and it was enough to send your heartbeat stumbling. 

Which was why you needed to meet someone else. Literally anyone else.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of Clark’s coffee.

When you walked into the kitchen, he was humming some old song you half-recognised. His hair was still mussed from sleep, the curl over his forehead rebelliously out of place. 

Steam curled into the air as he set your tea on the counter in your usual spot. He knew exactly how you liked it, right down to the splash of your preferred milk.

Living with Clark for over a year had made your routines fold together without you noticing.

You reached for plates while he moved aside without looking, a sidestep you both knew by muscle memory. You slid past him to get to the toaster, and he leaned back just enough to let you through. When you reached for a high shelf, Clark hovered nearby, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Need a hand?” he offered. And before you could answer, he scooped you up by the waist and shifted you over so he could grab what you needed. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?” 

You felt your stomach flip, but of course, you didn’t tell him that. “You’re hogging the counter again,” you teased, opening the fridge and grabbing the butter.

Clark tilted his head and tried not to smile. “That’s a really odd way to thank someone for using their superior height to come to your aid,” he replied.

You laughed, closing the fridge and hip-checking Clark as you popped bread in the toaster.

You hadn’t planned to live with him this long. 

A friend of a friend was looking for someone to rent a room from, you needed to escape your previous roommate’s very vocal bedroom situation, and you thought, why not?

When you first met him, he’d been towering, slightly awkward with an oversized sweater and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair untamed in a way that suggested a small tornado had conspired against him. Yet beneath that imposing frame was a sweetness you didn’t know how to measure—you wanted to stare in surprise and hug him all at once.

By the second week, you’d caught yourself smiling like an idiot when you heard him unlocking the door, and by the second month, you knew you were in trouble.

And then there was the night that erased any possibility of pretending Clark was just some guy living in your apartment. 

You had been curled on the sofa with a blanket, halfway through an episode of your comfort show, when one of the floor-to-celing windows in your living room slid open, and Superman flew in like he owned the place. 

He was still in the suit, scratches marring the iconic fabric, a faint burn on his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, eyes dark-rimmed, tired in that way you’d only seen on people after really hard days. 

You’d just sat there, frozen mid-bite of your ice cream, and said, “Well, that explains why you can carry five grocery bags in each hand despite never going to the gym.” 

Clark had laughed tiredly, and that was that. 

From then on, you were the only one who got to see him without the glasses. Seeing him without the disguise made mornings like this worse. Or better, depending on how much you enjoyed torturing yourself. 

Clark was already dressed, though he just wore socks instead of shoes, and a neatly folded pile of your laundry sat on the sofa. He must have decided to do a load for you while you slept. 

You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, no different than you buying his favourite biscuits when you went grocery shopping. Still, your stomach swarmed with traitorous little butterflies. Seeing your sweater on top of the pile, folded with the care you couldn’t quite summon for yourself, made your pulse quicken.

No matter what plans you had for the weekend, you and Clark always sat down to have breakfast together. It was one of the things you cherished most about living with him, especially on weeks when work kept you both so busy you hardly saw each other at home.

Clark grinned as he buttered his toast. “You’re quiet this morning. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m not quiet,” you denied, though you were. 

You watched the way the morning light caught in his black hair, the cornflower blue of his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. All the parts of him that no one else got to see up close—the raw, unmasked Clark. 

Despite you willing it not to, your heart thudded harder. It was getting a little ridiculous how your body responded to him. You could feel your stomach tighten in that familiar, dangerous way that it only ever did for Clark.

You needed to do something about your crush before it became a real problem.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, you pressed your hand against the counter and leaned forward. Saying it out loud made it real, but you couldn’t let your brain spin the daydreams into something else any longer.

So you said it. “I’ve got a date tonight,” you announced, making your voice as casual as you could manage.

There was a pause—long enough for you to catch a flicker of something odd in Clark’s expression—before it was replaced by a broad, genuine smile. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”

You shook your head, trying to sound like your heart wasn’t about to leap out of your chest. “Just someone from an app. First time I’ve opened it since you moved in.” 

Why did you have to say that? your brain scolded. Too much information. Too revealing. Too close to the truth: that you hadn’t wanted to date because meeting Clark felt terrifyingly close to meeting the elusive “one” everyone always raved about.

Clark raised his brows. “Guess I’ve been keeping you too busy for romance.”

“Or maybe I’ve just been too traumatised by your cooking experiments,” you countered, the ease of your usual banter beginning to settle the knots in your chest.

He laughed, and it was warm enough to make you forget your own name for a moment. “Fair enough,” Clark conceded. “Do I get to vet this guy? Make sure he’s not a criminal?”

You pretended to think it over and took a sip of your tea. Perfect, as expected. “You can interrogate him if we ever get to a third date,” you allowed. “I think calling in Superman for a first date might be a little over the top.”

Clark leaned back into his chair, pretending to consider it. “I’ll settle for a background check, just to be safe.”

“You’re absurd,” you said, sugared with affection.

“Protective,” he corrected, grinning. Perfect dimples surfaced,  and you felt your knees betray you and were glad to be sitting down. “There’s a difference.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended the heat in your face was from your tea. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The truth was, you’d never met anyone who made you feel safer than Clark. He picked you up and walked you home from late shifts even if he was busy, regularly checked in and called if plans changed, and checked the locks before bed without a word. 

But that was just Clark. That was just what he did for people he cared about. It didn’t mean anything beyond friendship and good manners; you were sure of it.

As you finished breakfast, tucking into your slice of toast, a quiet part of you wished Clark had told you not to go on your date. 

Not as a test—just a whisper of hope that he might feel the same. But he didn’t. Clark would probably never say the words you were counting on, and yet, you kept wishing he would anyway.

You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and tried not to think about the night you’d just suffered through. 

Your date was half an hour late, without a hint of apology, and a smile that said, I am the way I am, deal with it. The man had talked about himself so much that you started drafting a mental bingo card: cryptocurrency, fantasy football, anecdotes about his LinkedIn connections. 

None of these things were inherently bad. It had more to do with the way he was forcing his every opinion on you without asking you a single thing about yourself.

You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes, cry, or invest in his bitcoin predictions just to make him stop talking.

And then came the cherry on top: he apparently forgot his wallet. He’d said it like it was a charming quirk rather than a ploy to make you pay. You never minded splitting the bill on dates, but going on a date without a way to pay for your meal was just obnoxious.

At that point in the evening, you didn’t care about money or pride. You were just relieved to escape that smug asshole, so you paid with a sweet smile on your face. 

All you wanted was to go home, yet your date’s blissful ignorance led him to think he was going with you. You had rejected him quickly and firmly, then walked away before he could protest. 

And now here you were, trudging home with your gut winding tight, replaying the evening like a tragic film you couldn’t switch off. 

As always, the constant pang of absurd, inevitable comparison wormed its way in. 

How was it even fair that the man you lived with—who made cereal for you when you were late for work, who never failed to ask about your day, who laughed at your terrible jokes and somehow made you feel like the most loved person in the world—even existed? 

It wasn’t just that you loved Clark; it was that he had created an entirely impossible blueprint for every man in the world. The dating apps were cruel by comparison. Here you were, brave enough to put yourself out there after a year of domestic bliss, and this terrible date was your welcome-back gift.

Every time you thought of your night, you couldn’t help but tally up all the ways Clark was unavoidably singular in comparison. He held doors open, carried groceries for strangers, made the corniest jokes, and asked questions that actually mattered. 

Meanwhile, you were stuck with a date who was rude, self-absorbed, and apparently allergic to basic human decency.

The absurdity of it all made your lips twitch with a wry, helpless smile. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how Clark had ruined your expectations for men. Even as you tried not to, you couldn’t stop imagining how different tonight could have been if he had been there instead. 

You were halfway to your apartment, trying not to think about every awful word your date said, when a sudden gust of wind tousled your hair. 

You looked up, and there was Superman, red cape fluttering in the evening wind. The streetlamp caught his slicked back hair in an almost absurdly heroic halo of gold. He landed lightly on the pavement beside you, offering a concerned tilt of his head.

“Evening, Miss,” he said, voice carrying that familiar warm lilt, with just the right amount of self-important gravity. “Rough night?”

You blinked. “That’s putting it lightly. How’d you know I’d be here?”

Clark shrugged as though locating you on your walk home was the same as spotting a pedestrian in distress. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Right. Rescuing from what, exactly?”

“From the crushing weight of life’s terrible dating choices,” Clark said solemnly, placing a hand over the emblem on his chest. “I’ve saved many damsels from worse, but none so tragically exposed to cryptocurrency lectures and fantasy football politics.”

You snorted, impressed that he’d had the time to read the text you’d sent him in between Superman business. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” You pretended to swoon, “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre men! And here comes Superman.” You giggled, the fun of pretending not to know Clark lifting your spirits. “How ever can I repay you, Superman?”

Clark shook his head theatrically. “I accept gratitude in all forms, though smiles are encouraged.” His gaze softened just a touch, and you caught the tiny slump of his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. Something in him lingered on the sadness of your evening, even while you were joking.

You laughed, pretending to clutch a non-existent pearl necklace. “Well, that’s a first for me: being saved from a terrible date by a guy who can literally fly. Most men just talk endlessly and forget their wallets.”

Clark took a step closer, voice still carrying that playful, heroic cadence. “Unfortunately, those men seem to congregate on dating apps. It’s all very sinister, I’d stay away,” he advised. “There are good men out there just waiting to show you how great you are. I’m sure you’ll find one.”

You smiled at that. “You’re the only guy who seems to be doing that tonight. You’re really setting an impossible standard, Superman,” you teased. 

Clark grinned, shrugging in mock modesty. “Well, it’s impossible to notice someone that beautiful and not look for their smile.”

The two of you walked the rest of the way home side by side, keeping up the act of strangers meeting for the first time. You told him about your terrible date in exaggerated tones, and Clark offered mock outrage and gallant sighs. Together, you constructed a little bubble in which Superman had swooped in just in time to prevent your night from being ruined.

Beneath the jokes, though, Clark listened. You could feel it, his concern, his wish that tonight had been different, that you didn’t have to go through this at all.

By the time you reached your building, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, breath uneven and cheeks sore. 

“Thank you, Superman,” you said with mock solemnity as you fumbled with your keys. “For saving my night—and making me smile.”

He gave a half-bow, arms folded across his chest, cape stirring in the breeze. “Anytime. I live to serve. Especially against terrible first dates.”

You slipped inside, letting the door swing shut on him, your laughter still caught in your throat.

A minute later, the living room window slid open. Superman slipped through silently, and by the time he straightened, the superhero stiffness was gone. Just Clark stood there, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. He had his habitual, slightly crooked smile—the kind that always made your chest flutter.

“Hey,” he said, voice finally stripped of all heroic gravitas. “I got your text. How was your date?”

And just like that, you doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. The silliness of it all was the perfect balm to help you get over your terrible date, and you finally felt like yourself again.

Clark just watched, amusement twinkling in his eyes, a hand brushing back a strand of dark hair from his forehead. 

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t even—” Another peal of laughter cut you off, and Clark chuckled softly, letting you get it all out.

“You know I’d do anything to make you laugh,” he reminded you fondly. Clark wiped at the tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him, still giggling.

“Well, congratulations. You officially get credit for walking me home, cheering me up after a terrible date, and somehow making my evening not completely miserable,” you said. “Should I get you a thank-you card, or…?”

Clark pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “I accept gifts, but only if they come with chocolate. And maybe a promise not to date terrible men while I’m on duty.”

Your heart stuttered, but you forced a casual shrug and smirked instead. “A promise? You’re asking a lot from a person just trying to survive dating apps.”

He stepped a tad closer, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, warmer, brighter. “Well,” Clark said softly, gaze locked on yours, “I think you deserve better.”

Your breath caught. Not quite panic, just that strange, fluttering, stomach-tied-in-knots feeling you always got around Clark. 

You both laughed, nervously, awkwardly, but neither of you moved away. The teasing had softened, and in the quiet pause, the almost-touch of his hand brushing past yours sent a spark up your arm. It couldn’t even be considered contact, but it was enough to make your brain scream Why are you like this?!

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, shaking your head with a grin. “Whatever you say, Superman.”

“Good,” Clark said, voice low. He smirked, casual and utterly himself again. “Bet you wish I’d done that background check, huh?”

Pushing the cart down the aisle, you tried not to laugh at the nonsensicality of it all. Grocery shopping with Clark was, somehow, exactly like living with a Grandpa who could also bench-press a car.

“Pasta sauce,” you said, holding up a jar with a flourish. “Red or—”

Clark, squinting through his glasses, reached for another jar across the shelf. “Oh, but this one has less sugar.”

“‘Less sugar,’” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pasta sauce, Clark. It’s tomato paste and sadness in a jar. We survive on red sauce, not heart-healthy spreadsheet analysis.”

He blinked, genuinely considering your words, and then picked up the jar you wanted. “Okay, fine. But only if you promise to eat something green tonight. Even a leaf would do.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “A leaf? I’m not going to force myself to eat vegetables, I’m an adult.”

Clark grinned, clearly pleased with your quip, and nudged your shared cart gently with his elbow to line it up with the shelf. The movement was so slight, so perfectly timed, that you didn’t even have to adjust your step.

Then disaster struck. 

Clark, ever heroic, tried to reach for a high shelf of cereal. The stack wobbled dangerously. “Whoa—” he muttered, a hand shooting out. One box tumbled to the floor. He let out an embarrassed laugh as several other boxes followed, domino-style. Crouching to gather them, he mumbled, “I swear I didn’t mean to start an avalanche.”

You joined him, picking up a stray box. “You really are capable of saving the world and destroying breakfast in the same motion,” you mused.

Clark grinned sheepishly. “It’s a gift.” Then he stood and started pushing the cart down towards the produce section.

By the time you reached the fruit aisle, he was carefully inspecting apples like a scientist studying a rare specimen. “These look good,” Clark said, holding one up at eye level. “Not too bruised, not too shiny.”

You leaned closer, suppressing a laugh. “You realise these are for eating, right? Not models for an oil painting.”

Clark chuckled softly, putting the apple back and nudging the cart just enough to give you space. “I know. But it’s fun to pretend everything is important when I’m with you.”

You shook your head, an affectionate grin tugging at your lips. “That’s a cute line.”

Clark looked up at you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and gave you that crooked, half-smile that made your stomach lurch for reasons you absolutely did not want to unpack in a public grocery store.

You turned the corner of the aisle, cart squeaking slightly on the floor, when another shopper’s cart came barreling toward you from the left. It bumped yours hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.

Instinctively, Clark’s hands shot out—one catching the edge of your cart, the other sliding around your waist to steady you. You collided gently with him, chest to chest, and froze, breath hitching.

The other shopper muttered a quick, embarrassed apology and shuffled past, completely oblivious to the tension they’d created.

“Golly,” Clark murmured, voice low and tight. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on you, and just a fraction too aware of how close you were.

You bit back a laugh that threatened to escape. “Golly?” you repeated, the word tumbling out with a twinge of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Clark’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s a very versatile word,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the faint hitch in his voice betrayed him. He kept his hands lightly at your waist, just enough to steady you and not enough to let go entirely.

You shook your head, laughter spilling out. “You’re funny, Kansas,” you said, pressing closer against the cart instead of moving away. “I think the danger’s past.” When you tilted up to whisper in his ear, you didn’t see the way Clark’s throat tightened as he swallowed. “You can let go now, Superman.”

He leapt back like he’d been burned and blushed. “Right, sorry, I just—” Clark cleared his throat and motioned for you to push the cart toward the register. “Golly,” he whispered softly, just to himself.

By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was overflowing with the evidence of a week’s worth of groceries: bright bell peppers, an embarrassing number of snack items, and a suspiciously large tub of your favourite ice cream you hadn’t put in the cart.

The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a sunny disposition, greeted you both like old friends. “Well, look at you!” she said, scanning items with practised speed. Then, she motioned to Clark as she addressed you, “Shouldn’t your husband be paying for all this, gorgeous?”

You paused mid-step, hand hovering over the wallet in your open bag. “Uh—”

Clark let out a deep, hearty laugh that made heat spread across your cheeks. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared, reaching for his wallet and swiping his card with exaggerated flourish.

You blinked, still stunned, and muttered, “Clark—really—”

He ignored your protest, leaning on the counter as he bagged the groceries. 

The details of his appearance made your brain short-circuit. Clark’s glasses—which you so rarely saw him wear, since he didn’t need them at home—gave him that perfect mix of handsome and nerdy charm. The dark curls at his temples were shaggier than usual, and his blazer was a little wrinkled at the elbow. 

He was arranging your groceries with the same intense concentration he used to save cities.

“You know,” the cashier said with a knowing smile, “he’s a good one. The way he jumped to pay—he must really love you.”

Your breath caught, and a tiny voice in your head argued fiercely about how to respond. Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Don’t melt into a puddle and declare your undying, unrequited love for your roommate.

Clark noticed your silence and grinned, nudging you slightly with his shoulder as if to say, See? Told you so. The gesture was casual, but the warmth in it, the effortless familiarity, made your chest ache painfully.

“Thank you,” he said to the cashier as she handed him the receipt. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”

Back at the apartment, you kicked off your shoes and placed the singular grocery bag Clark let you carry on the kitchen counter. Your coat, the one he got you for your birthday, was still slightly fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne. The wool always seemed to absorb his smell when you spent time together. 

You slid your hands down the wool, letting the fabric smooth over your fingers. It was warm in a way that wrapped around you like a protective hug. The sleeves fit perfectly, and the collar was just high enough to make you feel cocooned against the world. Every stitch, every soft seam, felt like it had been made with care.

You held it for a moment longer and thought about the first time you’d worn it. How Clark had handed it to you like it was nothing, and yet it had felt like a quiet declaration. It had become your comfort piece; a little boost of courage, a little shield against anything that could rattle you.

But after the grocery store—after the cashier’s comment about Clark being your husband, and how he must really love you—and the routine of walking and bickering and brushing elbows, the coat felt heavier.

You wondered if she had mistaken Clark for your husband because even she could see how much you loved him. 

Maybe you were wearing a little piece of your heart on your coat sleeves.

With a soft, reluctant exhale, you eased the coat off your shoulders. Before Clark got home—he’d gotten side-tracked helping one of your neighbours find their cat—you carefully hung it in the closet, straightening the hanger as if it could keep your feelings tucked away for a while. 

“Secret’s safe another day,” you whispered to yourself with a self-deprecatory smile.

You knew you’d wear it again. You just needed to wait until your heart stopped skipping every time Clark laughed at something only the two of you would find funny.

It had been a few weeks since you’d plunged back into the unpredictable waters of dating. 

Not that it was anything special. 

You’d been on a handful of first dates that were mostly forgettable, some with men who talked exclusively about themselves, some who were nicer but ultimately incompatible for one reason or another.

You were starting to think dating apps were some cruel, algorithmic joke. Then, amidst the bad conversation and awkward silences, you met Harry. 

Harry was unremarkable in the best possible way. No dramatic quirks, no bombastic life stories, no one-sided debates over cryptocurrency or fantasy football leagues. Just a kind, attentive man who laughed at your jokes, asked questions you actually wanted to answer, and paid when the check arrived without making a big deal about it.

Your first date had been perfectly simple: pizza at a quiet little place you’d never been to before, followed by a stroll around your favourite park. Just two people walking and talking under the soft glow of streetlamps. It was comfortable and fun, so you didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked you on a second date at the end of the night.

So here you were, standing at the threshold of date number two, waiting for Harry to pick you up and feeling a cocktail of anticipation and nervous excitement. 

It was pleasantly surprising to feel it again after a string of unimpressive dates. 

You adjusted the sleeves of your buttoned baseball jersey and debated bringing a jacket when Clark walked into your room, face free of glasses and hair rumpled like he’d just gotten home from work.

“That’s quite a look,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving you his usual lopsided half-smile. “Full Metropolis Meteors regalia? What’s the occasion?”

You chuckled. “I’m going on my second date with Harry, he has tickets to the game tonight. He’s coming by to pick me up soon.”

Clark’s expression dropped, like someone had sucked the air out of the room. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a beat, he looked completely deflated.

“Clark?” you asked, taking a cautious step closer. “What happened?”

He waved a hand, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. You studied him carefully. “What’s going on? Come on, spill.”

Clark hesitated, jaw working as if forming words were suddenly a Herculean task. Finally, he let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. “I guess,” at the last second, his tone turned humorous, “I’m just surprised someone from the dating apps is impressive enough to warrant a second date.”

You paused, immediately recognising the joke for what it was. A shield, a mask, an attempt to hide exactly what he was feeling. Your gut swirled, but before you could press him, there was a knock at the door.

Harry. Timing, as always, was unkind to you.

Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he straightened abruptly. “Well, go get him,” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder a little too firmly, a little too quickly. You blinked in surprise. “Have a nice time.”

You nodded, stepping toward the door. “How do I look?”

Clark’s eyes softened, a quiet intensity breaking through the playful mask he tried so hard to keep in place. “You look beautiful, like always.” He paused, gaze lingering longer than it should have. “I hope he makes you laugh as hard as I do.”

Your stomach did that impossible flip. 

Clark was being too sincere, too heavy for it to be just casual encouragement. You forced a bright, teasing smile, hiding the ache in your chest, and opened the door to Harry, stepping out with a wave and a glance back at your roommate.

Clark already looked smaller in the room without you, his smile faint but still there. Little did you know it was all a brave front for the friend he loved too much to admit he wanted for himself.

The stadium was alive with the kind of energy that made your chest thrum and your ears ring: the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of bats against balls, the waft of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with freshly cut grass. 

Meanwhile, you were freezing.

You hadn’t worn the coat Clark got you since that day at the grocery store. At first, you told yourself it was helping—like maybe putting it away had cleared some strange fog you hadn’t noticed you were in.

After all, not long after, you’d met Harry, and here you were, on an objectively good date.

But sitting in the chill of the stadium night, your breath puffing white in the air, you wished you’d brought your coat. More than that, you wished you were here with Clark instead, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way no jacket ever could.

Harry was animated beside you, pointing out players and making guesses about the next play. His enthusiasm would have been infectious if you weren’t so distracted.

You clutched your fries a little too tightly, the paper corners digging into your palms. You tried your best, nodding at all the right moments, laughing a second too late at Harry’s jokes. The noise of the crowd should have heightened your own excitement, but you felt oddly hollow. 

It was as if the anticipation belonged to everyone but you.

“You okay?” Harry asked, lowering his voice slightly over the cacophony. His brow furrowed. Concern softened the features that, moments ago, had been enlivened with excitement.

You forced a smile that wasn’t reflected in your body language. “Yeah, yeah, just… a little stuck in my head tonight.”

Harry studied you for a moment longer, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Want to talk about it?”

You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You’d been trying not to overthink things tonight—to let yourself enjoy the date—but honesty was creeping its way forward despite your better instincts. 

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said carefully, trying not to grimace. “I started going on dates because I was trying to get over someone else—my roommate. I still have feelings for him. And being here with you tonight, it feels like I’m not giving you a fair chance.”

Harry didn’t interrupt, just nodded for you to continue.

“You deserve someone who can show up fully, and I can’t do that right now. You came looking for a real connection, and I’m not in the place to offer that,” you confessed.

Harry gave a small, easy smile—no surprise, no hurt, just quiet understanding. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said softly. “I really do get it. Dating’s complicated enough without having to untangle old feelings on top of it.”

You let out a breath, a little tight, but relieved all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’m really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun—and you really are a rare find on those dating apps—but you’re not the person I’ve been thinking about all night.”

Harry just shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No hard feelings. It’s better to be honest than to spend the evening pretending.” He held out a hand, guiding you toward the exit with the same quiet attentiveness he’d shown all night. “Let me get you home—to that roommate of yours.”

When he pulled up outside your building, Harry insisted on walking you to your door since it was already dark. 

You gave him a genuine but apologetic smile. “Thanks again. I appreciate you getting me home safe. You’re a really great guy.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”

You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for you and Harry to see Clark standing in the hallway that leads to your rooms. He looked like he’d been expecting you. His shirt was buttoned neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, hair tousled in that somehow-stylish way he always managed.

Notably, Clark’s eyes tracked you the moment the door opened. 

There was a beat of silence as Harry and Clark sized each other up. Harry—far away enough to not connect the dots to Superman, but close enough to see that Clark was handsome and clearly cared for you—gave you a subtle nod and smirk. 

Clark straightened, the faintest grin on his face, and inclined his head toward Harry. “Hi, you must be Harry. I’m Clark, the roommate.” His tone was a little formal but warm.

Harry offered a wave with a friendly smile. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

Clark’s posture shifted, arms crossing lightly in a protective line, but his gaze softened the moment it found you. That faint, private smile stayed just for you, and your chest tightened in a way that felt entirely inevitable.

Harry noticed, and he gave a nod, his voice low but amused. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, intending it for your ears only. “I get it. No hard feelings.”

You laughed awkwardly, panic rising in your chest. Clark, having caught it thanks to his superhearing, raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.

“Goodnight,” Harry said after a beat. “Take care of yourself.”

You waved, stepping inside as he headed back down the stairs. Then Harry was gone, leaving you alone with Clark. Slowly, you closed the door behind you, feeling uncharacteristically shy in your own apartment.

Clark’s eyes held yours, unreadable and steady, before that familiar smile appeared. 

“Hey,” he said, voice laced with warmth. “Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you until a little later, the game’s still on.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and for once, the lie felt almost impossible to maintain.

Clark tilted his head, eyes soft, and stepped just a fraction closer. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting his gaze roam over your face as if he couldn’t look away. Slowly, his eyes drifted downward, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows.

“You were outside without a jacket?” Clark asked, his voice carrying that you know better than that note you’d heard before.

Normally you’d call him mother hen Clark for that, but this time you refrained.

“It’s not that cold,” you said automatically, even as the faint shiver in your fingers betrayed you.

He shook his head, lips curving downwards. “It’s freezing out there. And you—” Clark stopped, his eyes flicking toward the closet for just a second before returning to you. “You haven’t worn your coat in, what, a few weeks now?”

There was a sharpness in his tone—light, teasing on the surface, but with a thread of quiet disappointment woven through it. It made you shift your weight, guilt curling low in your stomach.

“Does that bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Clark pretended to consider it, scratching the back of his neck and frowning dramatically. You knew that was just him buying himself time to come up with a response.

“Bother me? Well, I suppose someone could say it’s mildly irritating. Or horrifying. Or—” He held up a finger, mock serious. “A crime against meteorological common sense.”

You chuckled, but the sound was a little tight. “A crime against common sense, huh? That sounds serious.”

Clark shrugged. “Very serious. I might sentence you to a life of wearing coats from now on, even in the summer.”

“That doesn’t sound like meteorological common sense,” you countered, trying to hide the pang in your chest. “I can survive a night without my coat, Clark.”

“Survive, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “But you’d be far less…” Clark trailed off when he couldn’t think of any more jokes. His whole body deflated, like he couldn’t physically keep the facade up any longer. “Protected.”

You blinked rapidly, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. 

Clark stepped back as if nothing had happened, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Not that it matters. Silly me, worrying about coats.”

You hated his sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprication. “It seems like it matters, though,” you pressed, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “That coat—”

Clark cut you off quietly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. He looked like he might brush it off, the way he did with most things, but then he let out a quiet sigh. 

“I like it when you wear the coat,” he admitted. “I like it a lot.”

The casual teasing had disappeared, leaving only that quiet, earnest Clark you always felt but never expected to hear so plainly.

You opened your mouth to reply, but Clark held up a hand, a faint flush painting his cheekbones pink. “It sounds strange, but I like knowing you’re out there, wearing something I got you,” he explained, “Something that keeps you warm. It means that, in a way, you’re warm because of me.”

The way he said it made your heart squeeze.

You blinked at him, lips slightly parted, breath catching in that uneven way you always did around him. Your stomach had taken up permanent residence in your throat, twisting in ways that were entirely unfair and entirely too familiar.

Clark’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on you—just a little too long, just a little too intense—and warmth bloomed in your chest. You noticed the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and the faint flush on his cheeks was darkening. The same way your fingers itched to reach for him, to close that invisible space between you.

Clark rocked gently on his heels as he leaned just slightly closer, though he kept his tone light. “I know,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts, “it’s a little foolish to care about somebody else’s fashion choices this much.”

You laughed, but it came out breathy, your chest tightening. “No, no, it’s—I wouldn’t say that it’s foolish,” you admitted, heart thundering behind your ribs.

Clark grinned, small and careful, and you felt the pull of it. That half-smirk that said he was thinking ten things at once, most of which involved you, and that little spark in his eyes that dared you to meet it.

You took a tiny step back, almost instinctively, and he mirrored you, just enough to keep the distance tantalising, teasing. 

In that space, in the rhythm of his small gestures and the heat of his gaze, you realised what you’d known for so long but kept buried: Clark felt it too. The same pull, the same quiet craving that had made you so painfully aware of him for the last year.

It was a delicate dance of proximity and hesitation, of teasing words and nearly-touching hands, and every second felt like a challenge. Your heart raced, your mind spinning, and you wanted him to stop pretending that nothing had changed between you.

Clark crossed his arms. Though he leaned casually against the doorway leading to the kitchen, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You never told me why you’re home so early,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Was the date so horrendous that you had to flee?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Hardly. Harry was a complete gentleman,” you assured him. “I just think we’re better off as friends, that’s all.”

Clark tilted his head, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. “Better off as friends, huh? So, basically, you met the only guy who actually got a second date and immediately hit the brakes?”

“We just realised that even though we like each other, it’s not going to work out.” You paused, realising, “Actually, he could be a perfect match for one of my coworkers. Maybe I can—”

“Wait—what?” Clark’s eyes widened, mock-indignant. “Did you just suggest setting up your perfect date with one of your friends from work?”

“It’s logical!” you protested. “It’s not like we’ve been dating a long time, it was one and a half dates. It’s perfectly civil to offer to set him up with someone more compatible.”

Clark shook his head, stepping a fraction closer. “‘Civil,’ huh? That’s your rationale for ending the only dating-app experiment that actually went well?” His tone was teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it now.

“I’m not ending anything,” you said, a little more flustered than intended. “I just— he’s really nice, but we’re better off keeping things friendly!”

“‘Friendly,’” Clark repeated slowly, almost incredulous. “‘Friendly’ is why you ended things? ‘Friendly’ is why you’re sending away the only guy who didn’t make you want to run screaming?”

“Stop repeating everything I say,” you grumbled. The absurdity of Clark’s protests hit you: his expression wasn’t just teasing—there was a flutter of genuine panic in the way his jaw clenched. “Why is this bothering you so much? If you think he’s so great, you date him.”

Clark ignored your quip. “I’m not just repeating everything you say,” he said quickly, voice rising a fraction. “I just mean— I don’t think you should give up on someone who could be a great match for you just because you’re friends! Friendships can be a really solid foundation, right?” Clark rubbed his forehead. “I’m just saying, you know, you’ll miss out on something great if you never let it get past friendship.”

“I never said I’d never let a relationship go beyond friendship,” you defended yourself, frowning. 

Clark ran a hand through his dark curls, exhaling sharply. “I know, I know, but…” He paused, gaze flitting to the floor for a second, then back up, voice softening. “It’s not just about Harry; I feel like you’re missing the potential for a really great relationship. Not that it’s anything like… never mind.”

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Clark. I never said I would count anyone out because of a friendship. Harry’s just not the guy. That’s all.”

“Good,” Clark nodded. “That’s… Yeah— I… Good.”

“God,” you murmured, the words catching in your throat, “…you just want me to date anyone but you, don’t you?”

Clark froze, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “What? No! No, that’s not it at all!” He clenched his fists, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last few minutes that friendship—our friendship, everything we’ve built for the last year—is exactly why you shouldn’t settle for anyone else! That’s why I’m perfect for you!”

You gaped at Clark in disbelief, not quite sure if he’d really confessed or if this was all a dream. 

“Perfect for me?” you repeated, your voice breaking around the words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Clark rubbed his temples, flustered. “Of course I hear myself! You think I’d just say something like that if I didn’t mean it?” His voice wavered, the usual steadiness undercut by nerves. “I’ve been trying to tell you without telling you, but you never—” He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Gosh, you drive me insane.”

“Me?!” You pressed a hand to your chest, incredulous. “You’ve spent weeks pushing me toward anyone who so much as smiles at me, and somehow I’m the one driving you insane?”

Clark stepped close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. “What was I supposed to do?!” His voice dropped, thick with frustration. “Be a bad friend and tell you not to put yourself out there? You think I wanted to sit there and watch you force sparks that aren’t there while I—” Clark cut himself off, jaw tight and breath ragged.

Your pulse skittered wildly. You didn’t move when his hand twitched at his side, then finally, as if against his better judgment, brushed the back of yours. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it set you ablaze.

The air between you thickened, your chest rising and falling too quickly, every nerve stretched tight. The fight had cracked something open—rage bleeding into desire, sharp and unstoppable. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers graze against his, and a shiver ran through him at the contact.

“While you what?” you breathed. Every ounce of fight collapsed into raw, trembling awareness.

He met your gaze, eyes burning with equal parts fear and want. His thumb grazed your knuckle, a touch so small it felt catastrophic. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clark challenged softly. “Tell me I’m imagining this—that you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth, but no denial came. Just his name, fragile and aching on your lips, “Clark…”

That was all it took. 

In the next heartbeat, his hand was on your jaw, the other splaying across your back as if he couldn’t stand another second of distance. You surged up at the same time he pulled you in, the kiss colliding out of you both—messy, furious, and desperate.

It was teeth and heat and the sharp gasp you gave when his mouth claimed yours like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.

Every protest, every half-formed argument between you shattered into the kiss. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, frantic and tender all at once, while your lips parted, answering him with a hunger that had been buried too long. The air around you buzzed, alive with something you’d both tried too hard to ignore.

When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping, Clark’s voice was wrecked, “Tell me I’m wrong now.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gently caught his dark curls in your hands, tugging Clark back down before either of you could think. His mouth opened against yours, and you let him in, your heart ricocheting as his arms crushed you closer, lifting you slightly off your feet as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him, the way his breath stuttered when your arms hooked around his shoulders, the addictive press of lips that had only ever said your name but never tasted it until now.

When you finally broke apart again, it wasn’t with distance but with your noses brushing, your lips still trembling against his. Neither of you moved away, both of you caught in the impossible gravity of what you’d just done—what you couldn’t undo even if you tried.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your shared apartment had gone utterly, terrifyingly still—save for the thundering of your heart and the feel of his breath fanning across your lips.

When Clark carefully set you back on the floor, you pulled back just enough to look at him. He stood before you flushed, his curls mussed from your hands, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The sight hit you like a tidal wave: this was real. 

Not some half-formed daydream, not a cruel trick of your imagination.

You’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back.

Your throat went dry. “I—”

But Clark shook his head, voice low and frayed at the edges, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them in too long. “I thought—Gosh, I thought you felt it too. And then you started going on those dates, and I figured I’d made it all up in my head. I thought I wanted it so badly I was seeing something that wasn’t there.”

The confession opened something deep in you, raw and undeniable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s shirt again, desperate to anchor yourself. 

“No. That’s not—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I only went on those dates because I was trying to get over you. I thought if I kept putting myself out there, it would fade, or at least stop hurting so much. But it didn’t. It never did.”

His eyes widened, the pain and disbelief in them giving way to something softer. Clark’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands still holding your waist like you might disappear.

“You were trying to get over me?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-thrumming with a hope he didn’t dare let loose.

You nodded. “And failing, miserably.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit across from someone, trying to listen, when all I can think about is you? Or what it’s like to wish every stranger would smile the way you do?”

Clark lifted a quivering hand, cupping your jaw and sweeping his thumb behind your ear. You leaned into it without meaning to, your body betraying the truth you’d just confessed. Your breath caught, eyes locked on his mouth again, desperate and dizzy with it.

“Clark,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re sure you’re not going to take it back.”

Your chest constricted, lips parting on another breathless laugh. “You think I could ever take this back?”

That was all it took. Clark surged forward, catching your mouth in his. His hands were everywhere, steady and desperate. He could hardly believe that he could finally hold you without restraint.

You gasped against his lips, hands pulling him closer, needing him closer. And Clark gave in, kissing you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.

Then he broke, grinning against your mouth. With a boyish laugh, Clark swept you off your feet. You yelped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, before he spun you around and set you on the kitchen counter. His arms circled you tight, burying his face against your shoulder for just a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Golly,” Clark murmured into your skin, his voice light with relief, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You tugged him away just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the wrecked and radiant smile tugging at his lips. You kissed him again—softer this time, giddy and sweet—because now that you had him, how could you not?

Clark laughed against you, the sound low and dazzled, and pulled you in tighter. “I think it’s time we get rid of the space between our bodies,” he suggested. “Permanently.”

The words knocked another shaky laugh from you, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “Clark Kent, what are you proposing?”

“That when I tell my coworkers I’m heading out for the day, it’s because I’m going home to the person I love, not just my roommate,” he said. His knuckles brushed gently across your cheek, reverent now where he’d been desperate moments before. “I’ve wanted this for so long… I just hope it’s what you want too.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening with something warm. “I was never going to get over you,” you admitted. “Every date was just me trying not to feel this.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “Not to feel you.”

Clark’s expression softened, the fire in his eyes settling into something deeper, steadier, no less consuming. “Then don’t get over me,” he whispered, forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Stay right here with me.”

Your smile was wide and irrepressible. “Like I’d want to be anywhere else.”

He kissed you again, chastely this time, a promise more than a question. And when he pulled back, you could see it all written across his face. His relief and devotion were so unguarded that it made your knees tremble.

“I’m yours,” Clark said simply, utterly certain. “Finally.”

And then he hugged you again, arms tight around your waist, as if he could fuse you to him and never let go. You allowed yourself to sink into him completely, laughing against his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt exactly as it should.

You sighed. “Can you believe we yelled at each other over… what exactly?”

Clark chuckled, voice rumbling low and warm. “I think it was your fault,” he teased, though the smirk in his voice betrayed how ridiculous he knew it all had been.

“Me? I was perfectly reasonable,” you shot back.

“‘Reasonable’?” he repeated, mock scandalised, leaning back to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Absolutely terrifyingly reasonable.”

You both dissolved into giggles, the kind that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, and he pressed another giddy kiss to your mouth just because he could. You grabbed his face with both hands and returned it with all the silly, uncontainable joy you were feeling.

When you finally parted, Clark’s gaze flicked downward. His brow furrowed, then lifted with amused recognition. “You know this is my jersey, right?” he asked.

You glanced down at the buttoned baseball jersey you’d thrown on earlier. “What? No it’s not. It’s mine.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Remember that game we went to with Lois and Jimmy? You got cold, so I gave it to you. Check the back.”

You twisted to look, and sure enough, bold red block letters across your spine read KENT. Your laugh came out half-giddy, half-incredulous. “Oh my god, how did I not notice that? I’ve been walking around wearing it all night—I went on a date with another guy wearing it!”

Clark just grinned, flushed and smug all at once. He leaned in until his forehead bumped yours, voice dropping low. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, all warmth and cheekiness. “If there’s one thing I like you wearing more than that coat I gave you,” he brushed a kiss against your temple, then whispered against your hair, “It’s my last name.”

You huddled slightly in the soft warmth of the coat Clark had given you, glancing at your phone for the third time in as many minutes. The evening air was crisp, but mercifully not biting. At least you were bundled up in the perfect combination of warmth and comfort. 

You told yourself you were being perfectly patient, rational even—but inside, your stomach was doing a little drumline of anticipation. 

It was likely that your date would be late. After all, you knew he had a pretty demanding side job with unexpected hours.

And then, like a scene from a rom-com, Clark came barreling around the corner, slightly out of breath, his hair tousled in that impossibly charming way of his. “Sorry! Sorry, There was a bridge collapse I had to help with, and—” He skidded to a stop in front of you, hands slightly raised, blue eyes wide with earnest panic.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, really. You didn’t keep me waiting too long.”

Clark gave a sheepish grin, straightening just enough to look halfway composed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Good. I’m just glad you’re wearing your coat, it’s cold tonight,” he said.

Sliding your arm through his as you headed toward the restaurant, you felt that familiar easy rhythm of being together. You let yourself relax into him, the humour of the moment washing through you.

Seated across from him at the table, the lights of the restaurant casting soft shadows over his strong features, Clark leaned back with a mock-serious expression. “So… before we order, tell me: cryptocurrency? Are you into it yet, or—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, because honestly, after everything, words seemed almost too clumsy. You leaned across the table and pressed your lips to his, shutting him up instantly. 

Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you whispered, “I love you.”

Clark’s eyes went wide for the briefest moment before a blush spread across his face. “I love you too,” he said. And then grinned, dimples on full display, utterly himself again.

[lessersole]

Love Reed, he is such a gentleman! And giving you the best kind of dessert 😏 yes please!

Dinner Plans

Pairing: Reed Richards x reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: It's been a long and busy week and Reed wants to do something for you so he cooks you dinner and gives you the best kind of dessert.

Author's Note: Just loving Reed and how soft he'd be for his woman and just doting on her in every way. Thank you all so much for reading, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: Reed is sweet and soft but he's not going to hold back either, tension, fluff, fingering, a curse or two, established relationship.

“Are you…cooking? Or is this some kind of experiment?”  

With a resigned sigh Reed turns from the counter and pins Johnny with an annoyed glare, his glasses sliding down his nose.

“Does it look like I’m experimenting?” Reed asks.

“It smells like it…” Johnny mumbles as he comes closer and leans over Reed’s shoulder. “You should have just taken her to dinner.”

Reed ignores the jab and keeps chopping vegetables.

“What’s that smell?” Ben asks with his face wrinkled in distaste.

“I BURNED MY FIRST TRY AT THE DUCK!” Reed shouts.

Both Ben and Johnny exchange an amused look.

“What time is she getting here?” Johnny asks.

“Not before you two leave!”

“Aw come on, she loves us!” Ben says with a smirk.

Reed’s grip on the knife tightens but before he can say more Sue walks in to save the day.

“Alright you two. Out. Let’s go!”

She grabs both Ben and Johnny by the arm and starts to lead them out of the kitchen. “I’ll take you both to dinner. On me.”

“Alright!” Johnny cheers. “Thanks sis.”

Sue walks back to Reed. “Are you sure you’ve got this handled? I know you’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

Reed nods and gives her a reassuring smile. “I think I can figure it out and H.E.R.B.I.E can always help.”

At the mention of his name H.E.R.B.I.E makes an appreciative whirring sound and gives Reed a tilt of his head.

“See. We’ll be fine.”

“Have fun!” Sue says with a pat to Reed’s shoulder.

Reed is just lighting the last candle when H.E.R.B.I.E alerts him to your approach. With long strides he rushes to the door and opens it.

You lock eyes with him, the week since you’ve last seen him audibly catching in a gasp as you bite your lower lip and your eyes drop to his mouth.

In that moment, he wants to tell you how perfect you look and how much he’s missed you, but instead he reaches out for you, wrapping his arm around your waist and hauling you against his chest.

A small whimper slips past your now parted lips before he kisses them, fiercely, uninhibited and unleashed. He groans against your mouth, sliding a splayed hand up your back to grab the nape of your neck, breaking the kiss so he can trail his lips down your throat.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into your skin.

You cling to him, nodding through the haze of the kiss. “Missed you too Reed.”

“I made dinner,” he whispers as he runs his nose along your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Hm?” you answer, pressing yourself closer when his hand engulfs yours and he kisses across your knuckles, his familiar scent surrounding you.

“Dinner,” he smiles. “I cooked.”

That momentarily breaks you out of your trance. “You did?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” he chides playfully.

“Are you sure it’s edible and not one of your experiments?” you challenge.

“Now you sound like Johnny!”

That makes you giggle, and you let him lead you toward the dining table. His warm hand stays wrapped around yours and you can feel the flutter of his pulse in his wrist. You keep a hold of him and walk around the romantically set dinner, turning and pulling him into you.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and you press yourself against him, his nostrils flaring as he takes a measured breath.

“It looks beautiful, and it smells amazing. Thank you.”

He pulls your chair out and waits for you to sit, kissing your cheek, his lips lingering, before he disappears into the kitchen for wine.

Dinner is in fact delicious, and you’re sure to tell him so until he finally reveals he did have some help from H.E.R.B.I.E.

“There’s dessert too,” he explains. “But I can’t take much credit for that.”

When he takes longer than you expect to retrieve dessert from the kitchen you walk in to find him swiping at his tie in frustration.

“Shoot,” he mutters, and your stifled giggle makes his head snap up.

“Need some help?” you ask as you saunter over.

His gaze sweeps along every curve of your body before landing back on your eyes.

“You look…”

“I know. You’ve said. Several times.”

He swallows, this throat muscles shifting with the strength of it. You reach him and study his tie before slowly loosening it at his neck. His hands drop to your waist, gentle but steady as he holds you in place while you remove it.

It slides off with a soft snap and you place it down on the counter, your fingers working open the top button of his shirt next.

His throat clears and when your eyes meet his you kiss him, slipping your fingers along his skin before you start to tug at the hem of his shirt still tucked into his pants. He deepens the kiss with a moan, and you feel the shape of him pressed against you, straining the fabric of his pants.

He kisses you like a starved man, capturing your lower lip between his teeth, breathless. With clumsy movements he positions you against the counter, dessert all but forgotten as he pins you there, his hands roaming and fingers sliding the hem of your skirt higher.

Before his fingers find the sensitive spot between your legs he glances at you, seeking permission even though he doesn’t need it. You’re his. In every way. And when you look at him it shows.

Trying to keep his hands and breathing steady he slides the damp material away from your heated skin and teasingly slides his finger through your arousal. Your name is on his lips in a whispered breath as he leans in, unable to take his eyes off you.

Your legs spread as wide as your skirt will allow as he circles your clit, his movements slow, drawing out your pleasure.

“Reed…”

His name on your lips is like a drug and he slips a finger inside you, your body moving with the rhythm of his hand. You can feel his warm breath across your cheek, on your neck and along your lips before he slides a second finger in and kisses you.

He releases your lips, your eyes remaining closed while his thumb circles your clit. Somehow he holds back from kissing you again, his hand closing gently around your throat when he softly commands you to look at him.

“I want you to look at me as you come undone.”

And you do. The wave of pleasure pulsing through you as he draws it out with slow pumps of his fingers.

You blink at him, dazed, and emotion catches in his throat. His hands drag along your curves, wanting to memorize every inch of softness as he closes his eyes and brushes his lips to yours.

“Missed you,” he whispers as he wraps you in his arms and walks you toward the bedroom.

His kisses leave a trail of heat along your skin, and you barely remember going anywhere until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress and you fall into the softness, his weight covering you like the most perfect blanket.

He leans in again, kissing first your lips then along your jaw to your neck, lingering where you pulse flutters beneath your skin.

“Can I fuck you now?” he murmurs at the shell of your ear.

You’re already arching into him, already wrapping yourself around him in every way. “Yes,” you breath. “Yes.”

[lessersole]

🥰 thanks for sharing!

Coffee Beans

Pairing: Clark Kent x reader (no y/n)

Summary: Clark helps you out when you're having a tough day at work

Word count: 4k

Warnings: semi-public dry humping (yup), swearing. 18+, minors DNI!

------------

Taking a deep breath of the summer air, a feeling of serenity washed through you as you made your way across the park. Despite the early hour, the sun was shining a buttery light between the buildings and you felt more at peace with the world than you had since starting this new job nearly a month ago.

Your good mood was only slightly dented when you reached the coffee shop you worked at to discover it still locked up and silent.

Frowning, you let yourself in, switched off the alarm, and started turning on lights and machines. Usually one of the senior workers would be in first thing to open up - your boss didn’t trust you to do that alone yet - but perhaps you’d just arrived early, or your co-worker was running late.

You bustled around, filling the coffee machine with beans, making sure there were plenty of clean cups within easy reach and carefully setting out the pastries that had been delivered at the crack of dawn. Apron on, you stood alone in the pre-opening quiet watching the dust motes float in the morning light, satisfied that you’d got everything right on your own. Smiling to yourself, you return behind the counter to start the day.

Only then do you notice the flashing red light on the landline phone in the small office area tucked away in the back. Frowning, you follow it and hit play, your boss’s grumpy voice spilling out.

“Goddamnit, why don’t I have her cell…oh hi, right, yes, newbie, you better be hearing me, EVERYONE else has called in sick today, nothing to do with the good weather, of course,” you can feel her sarcasm dripping down the line, “I can’t make it in until the afternoon, so you’re going to have to handle the morning rush yourself. You’d better make it work, I don’t care how, I’m not missing out on half a day of perfectly good sales just because all my competent staff are lazy shirkers.”

The line clicks as the message ends, leaving you frozen in place. You’ve never done a shift alone before and now you have to handle this? You return to the front and the still empty counter, smoothing your clothes down anxiously. You can do this. The location means this place is more of a tourist coffee shop than one for commuters, so the mornings aren’t as bad as they could be - and if you can handle it without a major disaster, maybe your notorious hard-ass of a boss will start to respect you. Nodding to yourself, you decide to take her abrupt voice message as a tough-love pep talk.

An insistent tapping on the glass frontage pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see a 20-something blonde woman outside, drumming her fingers on the window. When she sees she’s caught your attention, she mouths something at you and points at the sign on the door - which you realise you forgot to spin round from Closed to Open. A great start, you castigate yourself, rushing over to welcome her in with an apologetic smile.

You hold the friendly expression in place as she studies the menu chalked above you for an inordinately long time before placing her order. “I’ll take a babyccino.”

“Cocoa or cinnamon?” You ask brightly, ignoring the strangeness of her choice as you tap it into the cash register and start steaming the milk.

A man in a suit enters next, not even looking up from his phone as he barks out his order of a double Americano, extra shot, to go. After taking payment and setting a takeaway cup under the coffee machine, you finish up the babyccino and place it in front of the woman with a friendly smile - which she does not return.

“What is this?” She points a long nail at the perfectly foamed little drink, her lip curling in disgust.

The businessman glances up just long enough to snort at the frothy cup, which only seems to make her more annoyed at you.

“It’s your babyccino,” you explain politely, your smile wilting a little at the edges.

“It’s tiny,” she whines, just as the bell over the door signals the arrival of another customer, its bright sound already a contrast to how your day is going. “And you didn’t even put any coffee in, I watched you.”

You take the excuse of slipping a lid onto the black coffee order to turn away, giving you a moment to suppress your irritation, and pass the man his drink, forcing yourself into another upbeat smile for the woman. “It’s just milk and cocoa powder. It’s usually for-” you stop yourself, aware that telling her she’s ordered a drink for children is not going to improve her attitude, “-people who don’t want caffeine.”

She sneers at your careful creation. “Well, I don’t want it. Give me a proper drink, full size, with actual coffee in it.”

“That’ll be-” you start to tell her, but she’s already retreated to a table by the window. Sighing, you wonder if you’ll be able to get her to pay for the drink she’s actually going to have, instead of what you realise she was probably looking for, the cheapest thing on the menu.

It takes more effort to muster up a smile as you turn to the new customer, but it quickly melts into a natural beam of delight as you recognise your favourite regular. “Clark!”

He returns your easy grin. “Morning, coffee beans.” Your smile widens at the moniker. After he overheard another customer dismissively call you “caffeine maid”, he started giving you a different, affectionate coffee-themed nickname every time he came in, just to make you laugh.

“I think you’ve used that one already,” you tell him.

“I think you’re right,” he waggles his finger before pressing it thoughtfully to his lips, “I might be running out of coffee names. Maybe I should start branching out to teas.”

Hearing the impatient foot tapping of the woman in the window, your smile falters. “Are you in a rush?” You ask, wanting to serve him but aware you should probably deal with the difficult customer first.

“Not at all.” He tells you warmly. “Take your time.”

“Thanks,” you tell him with relief, turning to the machine to make a full-strength, adult cappuccino. “Oh and, there’s a free babyccino for you if you want it.” You nod to the small drink, still untouched on the counter. Your boss always makes you absorb the cost of any waste yourself, but you’d feel much better about doing that for Clark than for the snooty stranger.

“A babyccino?” He echoes, approaching the drink curiously before wonder lights up his blue eyes. “What is this? This is adorable!”

You laugh at his enthusiasm, wishing you could just watch him instead of focusing on the coffee machine. When you turn around he’s snapping a photo of the logo you created on top with the cocoa, just about still intact as the foamy bubbles pop away. “The cutest little thing,” Clark mutters to himself, before raising his eyes to you. “How much for this?”

“Nothing, it’s free,” you insist, “it was a - mistaken order. It’ll just get dumped out if you don’t take it.”

“Even so,” he answers, his voice warmer than any drink, “add it to my order.”

“You know I won’t,” you tell him, finishing up the cappuccino and delivering it to the woman at the table, who doesn’t even acknowledge you.

You catch Clark frowning at her lack of manners as you return.

“What would you like?” You ask him brightly. Despite coming in at least once every day - or at least, every day you’re working - Clark likes to mix up his order, choosing a drink based on his mood, rather than the desperate need for caffeine that fuels most people visiting here.

“Hmm. I feel like something sweet today,” he shoots you a wonky grin that gives your stomach wings, before letting his gaze sweep over the pastry case, “maybe a latte and - are these chocolate?”

“Chocolate and hazelnut.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect. One of those, or two if you want to join me?”

You bite your lip to stop your grin growing embarrassingly big. “I’d love to, but it’s just me today, and the rush is about to start.” You nod at the door, where a group is just entering.

“Ah,” Clark nods. “Another time then.”

“Definitely,” you breathe, getting started on his coffee - or trying to, until the machine makes a terrifyingly loud crunching, whining noise.

“Oh, no no no no,” you plead, smacking, rattling and flicking switches to try and get the racket to stop. The other workers had warned you about this - the owner refused to upgrade the equipment, insisting good staff should be able to handle anything, and you’d been told this sometimes jammed - you just hadn’t realised that would involve so much clanking and - was that smoke?

“Just a second everyone!” You shout out to the already complaining shop, hoping your panic isn’t audible in your voice. “Fuck, shit, shitty fucking…” you curse under your breath as you struggle with the machine.

“Hey now,” a warm hand on your back alerts you to Clark’s presence behind the counter with you.

“Sorry,” you whisper, trying to fight the tears of frustration welling up. Something about Clark makes you want to apologise for swearing - not that you would to anyone else. As the noise gets worse, you give up and yank out the power cord, the machine finally whirring down to silence.

Turning around, you’re greeted with a newly empty shop, the large group and more people who had been about to enter all scared off by the screaming equipment, the babyccino orderer gulping down her drink as fast as she can to follow them.

“Shit”, you mumble again, before adding a reflexive, “sorry” to Clark.

“Don’t worry about that,” he tells you, hand still rubbing your back soothingly. “Let’s just get this machine fixed, hmm?”

“Okay,” you blink rapidly and take a big breath. “Although - I have no idea how.”

“Well, lucky for you, I spent my teenage years fixing equipment on my parent’s farm.” He grins at you reassuringly as he rolls up his sleeves, straightening out of his usual slouch to what you notice is an impressive height. “This can’t be too different.”

You give him a look that’s equal parts scepticism and gratitude.

Somehow, only ten minutes later, you and Clark have managed to clear and fix the machine - and you’ve enjoyed the excuse to be close to him more than you care to admit.

“What kind of coffee machine gets clogged by coffee beans?” He wonders aloud once you're done, scratching his head in a way that draws your attention to his surprisingly muscular arms.

“The shi- uh, cheap, old kind,” you grumble, accepting back the apron you insisted he put on to protect his pristine white shirt. “I’m amazed you figured out that was the problem so quickly, I never would have thought it was the beans. It’s like you could magically see into the machine or something.”

“Hahaha, yeah or something,” Clark laughs loudly, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Must be those farmboy skills,” you smile at him. “Now I just need to carefully refill the machine and it’s take two on your latte, which is definitely on the house.”

Ignoring Clark’s protests you head to the storeroom, and stop short. “Fuck!”

“People in Metropolis sure do swear a lot,” Clark muses, his voice getting louder as he follows you to see what the problem is.

“There’s no beans.” You gesture at the gaping hole in the stock shelves.

“Have they been stolen?” Clark frowns.

“Probably just not ordered.” You groan. “And my boss is really particular about what kind we get, the stockist is on the other side of the city, it’ll take ages to get there and back. And I’ll have to close the shop, which she really didn’t want me to do.”

“Can we just get a different kind?” Clark suggests. “There’s a store across the street.”

“No,” you shake your head, “if she realises, she’ll blame me for the machine breaking, and then all today’s lost orders will be on me.”

“She doesn’t sound like the most supportive boss.” Clark observes. “What kind are the ones you need?”

You point out an empty packet discarded on the floor. “Why?”

Clark adjusts his glasses, studying it carefully. “Because I’ll go get them.”

“Clark, no-”

“Clark, yes,” he flashes a brilliant smile at you. “I bet I can find the exact kind you need and be back in five minutes.”

“That is literally impossible.”

A broad smirk spreads across his face. “Well then if I can, you have to let me pay for my coffees.”

“Someone needs to teach you how to make bets that win you good things.” You tell him.

He leans so close you can smell him, clean and masculine. “That is a good thing.”

Aware that he’s stunned you into silence, Clark winks goofily and disappears, the tinkling of the bell at the door signalling his rapid departure.

There are already a few people waiting when you get back to the counter. “We’re experiencing a little bit of a technical difficulty, which is going to mean a slight delay.” You announce, aware this is not going to go well. “Does anyone perhaps want something that doesn’t have coffee in it?”

This early in the day, the answer is a strong no, with the exception of a young couple getting tea and pastries.

To your amazement, almost before you’ve even finished serving them, Clark is back. “Problem solved,” he tells you proudly, emerging from the store room.

“What?” You do a double take - you hadn’t even seen him return to the shop. “No way.”

“Yes way,” he leads you back, pointing out the now fully stocked shelves.

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. “That’s- wha- how?”

“And it’s all being billed to the company.” He tells you, crossing his arms over his chest triumphantly.

You stare at him, openmouthed in amazement for so long a look of concern crosses his face, before you pounce and fling your arms around him. “Thank you,” you say fervently, “I don’t know how you did it, and maybe I don’t want to know, but you have totally saved my ass. Or at least my job.”

Returning your hug as best he can when you’ve pinned his arms to his sides, you feel his chuckle vibrate through him. “Any time. Both are definitely worth saving.”

You pull back to smile at him and are a little surprised to see him blushing. “Oh, sorry, did I - overstep?” You ask, gesturing between you.

“No, no.” He’s quick to answer. “Not at all.”

“Right.” You stand for a moment longer, just looking at him in wonder.

“Should you-?” He nods towards the front of the shop where more people keep arriving.

“Oh shit - sorry - yes.” You rush back, his fond laughter following you.

To your secret delight - and despite your protests - Clark slips the extra apron on again and joins you in serving the morning rush. He’s adorably inept around the steamer, but he gets the hang of the cash register pretty quickly, and gets better tips than you usually do.

“I’m pretty sure you were made for customer service,” you tell him as you wipe down tables once the place has finally quietened.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. But you should never work in it. You’re too sweet for it. It’ll drain your soul and make you hate people.”

“You don’t hate people.” He counters softly. “You’re always patient and kind to everyone, even when they’re not to you.”

You turn to see him watching you intently, his eyes clear behind his glasses. Before you can respond, he starts moving again. “Let me help you get everything cleaned up.”

“I think we already have,” you look around, pulling your apron off so you can take a quick break. “I just need to restock some of the counter bits.”

“Lead the way,” he tells you, sweeping his arm graciously towards the back.

“I think you can clock off now,” you tell him teasingly, approaching him to tug loose the ties on his apron, “I still haven’t made you your coffee.”

“And I still haven’t paid for my babyccino.” He grins as he carefully folds the fabric and sets it aside before following you to the store room.

You’ve just led him inside when you hear your boss’s voice, getting louder as she approaches.

“-doesn’t look like too much of a mess, but that probably means she hasn’t been serving enough people.” You shush Clark as her voice pauses, listening to the person on the other end of the phone. “If she has brought someone else in to help, they better be a qualified employee with an active food preparation certification, or she’s broken about a million OSH rules and I’ll have to fire her.”

Your eyes widen at her words, and you place both hands on Clark’s chest, pushing him into the shadowed corner by the door. Just as you get there, it starts to swing open, and in a panic, you slam your back against the wall behind it and pull Clark towards you, pressing him snug against you so his bulk doesn’t push the door away from you. He goes along with it, one hand resting gently on your waist, squeezing carefully in a way that you hope signals his consent to your sudden plan to hide like this.

“Looks fully stocked at least.” Your boss continues. “But I bet she didn’t check the expiry dates on the order, that guy’s always messing me around. Yeah, I’ll have a look, then speak to her. She’s probably on break now anyway, no one around to check how long she takes.”

Even given the position you’re currently in, her words fill you with anger. You - and Clark - have worked ferociously all morning and she’s still thinking the worst of you. Knowing you can’t make a sound, you wriggle in frustration, taking a quiet breath to calm down that presses your chest flush against Clark. His other hand flashes up to grab your hip, a move that you only realise is cautionary when you feel something else twitch and press against you.

Your jaw drops as you realise what’s happening. Clark tries to shift away, but he immediately bumps the door, so you grab him again and pull him hard against you. You feel more than hear him swallow anxiously, and while there’s not enough space for you to shift back to look him in the eye, you hope he understands that you’re okay with this. More than okay, honestly, if your boss wasn’t just a few feet away.

Despite how closely you’re pressed together, the door still threatens to swing away, exposing you both to your boss. You try desperately to shuffle into a position that keeps you clear of it, unable to help rubbing against Clark in the process, until he takes things into his own hands - literally - by sliding them down your sides, gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you into the air.

Instinctively you grip his shoulders and spread your legs, allowing Clark to move even closer, silently stepping into the small gap where you’re now parted around him. You just barely swallow back a gasp; his sudden display of strength and assertiveness, your until now harmless crush on him, and the hard length you can still feel between you combining to make you inordinately, inappropriately turned on.

Clark keeps growing between you until his swelling length nudges against a part of you that makes your fingers curl into his shirt as you bite back a moan. His breath changes at your reaction and he hardens even more. You have to bury your face in his neck to stop your panting breaths giving you away, as pleasure throbs through your body.

You’re aware of how wrong this is, how close you are to getting caught, but to your amazement and mild horror, this realisation isn’t dampening down the feelings - if anything, it’s heightening them, making you intimately aware of every connection between the two of you.

You don’t know if Clark’s affected in the same way, but his body is certainly not backing down. He can feel your breathing speed up, and just as you’re starting to feel guilty for reacting to him this way, he rolls his hips against you.

The whimper that escapes you is muffled in his skin, and you’re rewarded with a noticeable pulse in Clark’s length, and you’re fairly certain you can feel him smiling against you. The small noise has gone unnoticed by your boss, and emboldened in a way that only arouses you more, Clark rocks against you again, and you cling to him in desperation, moaning breathily.

When Clark curls himself into you a third time, you gulp back a groan, electricity like you’ve never felt before shooting through your body - you’re so dangerously turned on that you fear one more thrust will send you screaming over the edge, regardless of your surroundings.

To your immense relief, your boss chooses this moment to leave the store room, muttering distractedly to herself as she pulls the door shut behind her, leaving you and Clark free and alone in the dark.

Neither of you move.

You don’t know if you’re too embarrassed about what’s happened - is still happening - to lean back and meet his eyes, or if you just don’t want it to end.

Clark’s hands are still on your thighs, his shaky breath hot as he ghosts his lips along your cheek, and firmly, determinedly rolls his hips again, dragging his heavy thickness along the most sensitive part of you until the spark catches and you explode in ecstasy, biting his shoulder in a desperate attempt to stop your ragged cries echoing through the building.

When the aftershocks subside and you slump against him, he carefully eases you down to the floor, a hand on your waist still gently supporting you while the other brushes your heated cheek, a tender gesture so at odds with what you’ve just done that it makes your head spin.

“Hi,” he says, his voice a soft rumble pulling you to look up at him. You’re shyly hopeful as you do, relieved when you’re greeted with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen, clear affection shining in his blue eyes shining behind smudged glasses. “I hope that wasn’t - out of line. I could tell you were - well, it would have been rude to leave you, uh…unfinished.” He explains, a dimple appearing in one cheek as his smile turns cheeky.

You laugh, your throat raw from the attempts to keep quiet. “That was - kind of amazing.” You admit.

Clark beams, looking almost as satisfied as you are, and moves to tidy himself up.

“What about you?” You ask, reaching for the very visible bulge still straining the front of his pants. But before you can press against him again, he gently stops you, hands on your arms.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” you tell him so earnestly you see his throat bob, and he takes a hand off you to push his glasses up, blinking rapidly behind them.

“Well in that case,” he clears his throat, a slight blush visible even in the darkness, “do you want to go out with me? On a date?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, your grin matching Clark’s own as you move closer, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t-”

He stops you again. “After I’ve taken you out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion, but before any doubts can set in, Clark gathers you in his arms with an explanation. “I couldn’t help myself - I wanted to make you feel good. You deserve it,” he leans down, his lips brushing against yours, “but I want to earn it from you.”

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I saw Superman a while back but had no fic ideas, then I had a dream and now I’m a Clark demon 😈 so more of him to come

[lessersole]

He is a gentleman...in every way it matters 😏 I don't think he can hold out long for that date - or when you're on it!

Coffee Beans

Pairing: Clark Kent x reader (no y/n)

Summary: Clark helps you out when you're having a tough day at work

Word count: 4k

Warnings: semi-public dry humping (yup), swearing. 18+, minors DNI!

------------

Taking a deep breath of the summer air, a feeling of serenity washed through you as you made your way across the park. Despite the early hour, the sun was shining a buttery light between the buildings and you felt more at peace with the world than you had since starting this new job nearly a month ago.

Your good mood was only slightly dented when you reached the coffee shop you worked at to discover it still locked up and silent.

Frowning, you let yourself in, switched off the alarm, and started turning on lights and machines. Usually one of the senior workers would be in first thing to open up - your boss didn’t trust you to do that alone yet - but perhaps you’d just arrived early, or your co-worker was running late.

You bustled around, filling the coffee machine with beans, making sure there were plenty of clean cups within easy reach and carefully setting out the pastries that had been delivered at the crack of dawn. Apron on, you stood alone in the pre-opening quiet watching the dust motes float in the morning light, satisfied that you’d got everything right on your own. Smiling to yourself, you return behind the counter to start the day.

Only then do you notice the flashing red light on the landline phone in the small office area tucked away in the back. Frowning, you follow it and hit play, your boss’s grumpy voice spilling out.

“Goddamnit, why don’t I have her cell…oh hi, right, yes, newbie, you better be hearing me, EVERYONE else has called in sick today, nothing to do with the good weather, of course,” you can feel her sarcasm dripping down the line, “I can’t make it in until the afternoon, so you’re going to have to handle the morning rush yourself. You’d better make it work, I don’t care how, I’m not missing out on half a day of perfectly good sales just because all my competent staff are lazy shirkers.”

The line clicks as the message ends, leaving you frozen in place. You’ve never done a shift alone before and now you have to handle this? You return to the front and the still empty counter, smoothing your clothes down anxiously. You can do this. The location means this place is more of a tourist coffee shop than one for commuters, so the mornings aren’t as bad as they could be - and if you can handle it without a major disaster, maybe your notorious hard-ass of a boss will start to respect you. Nodding to yourself, you decide to take her abrupt voice message as a tough-love pep talk.

An insistent tapping on the glass frontage pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see a 20-something blonde woman outside, drumming her fingers on the window. When she sees she’s caught your attention, she mouths something at you and points at the sign on the door - which you realise you forgot to spin round from Closed to Open. A great start, you castigate yourself, rushing over to welcome her in with an apologetic smile.

You hold the friendly expression in place as she studies the menu chalked above you for an inordinately long time before placing her order. “I’ll take a babyccino.”

“Cocoa or cinnamon?” You ask brightly, ignoring the strangeness of her choice as you tap it into the cash register and start steaming the milk.

A man in a suit enters next, not even looking up from his phone as he barks out his order of a double Americano, extra shot, to go. After taking payment and setting a takeaway cup under the coffee machine, you finish up the babyccino and place it in front of the woman with a friendly smile - which she does not return.

“What is this?” She points a long nail at the perfectly foamed little drink, her lip curling in disgust.

The businessman glances up just long enough to snort at the frothy cup, which only seems to make her more annoyed at you.

“It’s your babyccino,” you explain politely, your smile wilting a little at the edges.

“It’s tiny,” she whines, just as the bell over the door signals the arrival of another customer, its bright sound already a contrast to how your day is going. “And you didn’t even put any coffee in, I watched you.”

You take the excuse of slipping a lid onto the black coffee order to turn away, giving you a moment to suppress your irritation, and pass the man his drink, forcing yourself into another upbeat smile for the woman. “It’s just milk and cocoa powder. It’s usually for-” you stop yourself, aware that telling her she’s ordered a drink for children is not going to improve her attitude, “-people who don’t want caffeine.”

She sneers at your careful creation. “Well, I don’t want it. Give me a proper drink, full size, with actual coffee in it.”

“That’ll be-” you start to tell her, but she’s already retreated to a table by the window. Sighing, you wonder if you’ll be able to get her to pay for the drink she’s actually going to have, instead of what you realise she was probably looking for, the cheapest thing on the menu.

It takes more effort to muster up a smile as you turn to the new customer, but it quickly melts into a natural beam of delight as you recognise your favourite regular. “Clark!”

He returns your easy grin. “Morning, coffee beans.” Your smile widens at the moniker. After he overheard another customer dismissively call you “caffeine maid”, he started giving you a different, affectionate coffee-themed nickname every time he came in, just to make you laugh.

“I think you’ve used that one already,” you tell him.

“I think you’re right,” he waggles his finger before pressing it thoughtfully to his lips, “I might be running out of coffee names. Maybe I should start branching out to teas.”

Hearing the impatient foot tapping of the woman in the window, your smile falters. “Are you in a rush?” You ask, wanting to serve him but aware you should probably deal with the difficult customer first.

“Not at all.” He tells you warmly. “Take your time.”

“Thanks,” you tell him with relief, turning to the machine to make a full-strength, adult cappuccino. “Oh and, there’s a free babyccino for you if you want it.” You nod to the small drink, still untouched on the counter. Your boss always makes you absorb the cost of any waste yourself, but you’d feel much better about doing that for Clark than for the snooty stranger.

“A babyccino?” He echoes, approaching the drink curiously before wonder lights up his blue eyes. “What is this? This is adorable!”

You laugh at his enthusiasm, wishing you could just watch him instead of focusing on the coffee machine. When you turn around he’s snapping a photo of the logo you created on top with the cocoa, just about still intact as the foamy bubbles pop away. “The cutest little thing,” Clark mutters to himself, before raising his eyes to you. “How much for this?”

“Nothing, it’s free,” you insist, “it was a - mistaken order. It’ll just get dumped out if you don’t take it.”

“Even so,” he answers, his voice warmer than any drink, “add it to my order.”

“You know I won’t,” you tell him, finishing up the cappuccino and delivering it to the woman at the table, who doesn’t even acknowledge you.

You catch Clark frowning at her lack of manners as you return.

“What would you like?” You ask him brightly. Despite coming in at least once every day - or at least, every day you’re working - Clark likes to mix up his order, choosing a drink based on his mood, rather than the desperate need for caffeine that fuels most people visiting here.

“Hmm. I feel like something sweet today,” he shoots you a wonky grin that gives your stomach wings, before letting his gaze sweep over the pastry case, “maybe a latte and - are these chocolate?”

“Chocolate and hazelnut.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect. One of those, or two if you want to join me?”

You bite your lip to stop your grin growing embarrassingly big. “I’d love to, but it’s just me today, and the rush is about to start.” You nod at the door, where a group is just entering.

“Ah,” Clark nods. “Another time then.”

“Definitely,” you breathe, getting started on his coffee - or trying to, until the machine makes a terrifyingly loud crunching, whining noise.

“Oh, no no no no,” you plead, smacking, rattling and flicking switches to try and get the racket to stop. The other workers had warned you about this - the owner refused to upgrade the equipment, insisting good staff should be able to handle anything, and you’d been told this sometimes jammed - you just hadn’t realised that would involve so much clanking and - was that smoke?

“Just a second everyone!” You shout out to the already complaining shop, hoping your panic isn’t audible in your voice. “Fuck, shit, shitty fucking…” you curse under your breath as you struggle with the machine.

“Hey now,” a warm hand on your back alerts you to Clark’s presence behind the counter with you.

“Sorry,” you whisper, trying to fight the tears of frustration welling up. Something about Clark makes you want to apologise for swearing - not that you would to anyone else. As the noise gets worse, you give up and yank out the power cord, the machine finally whirring down to silence.

Turning around, you’re greeted with a newly empty shop, the large group and more people who had been about to enter all scared off by the screaming equipment, the babyccino orderer gulping down her drink as fast as she can to follow them.

“Shit”, you mumble again, before adding a reflexive, “sorry” to Clark.

“Don’t worry about that,” he tells you, hand still rubbing your back soothingly. “Let’s just get this machine fixed, hmm?”

“Okay,” you blink rapidly and take a big breath. “Although - I have no idea how.”

“Well, lucky for you, I spent my teenage years fixing equipment on my parent’s farm.” He grins at you reassuringly as he rolls up his sleeves, straightening out of his usual slouch to what you notice is an impressive height. “This can’t be too different.”

You give him a look that’s equal parts scepticism and gratitude.

Somehow, only ten minutes later, you and Clark have managed to clear and fix the machine - and you’ve enjoyed the excuse to be close to him more than you care to admit.

“What kind of coffee machine gets clogged by coffee beans?” He wonders aloud once you're done, scratching his head in a way that draws your attention to his surprisingly muscular arms.

“The shi- uh, cheap, old kind,” you grumble, accepting back the apron you insisted he put on to protect his pristine white shirt. “I’m amazed you figured out that was the problem so quickly, I never would have thought it was the beans. It’s like you could magically see into the machine or something.”

“Hahaha, yeah or something,” Clark laughs loudly, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Must be those farmboy skills,” you smile at him. “Now I just need to carefully refill the machine and it’s take two on your latte, which is definitely on the house.”

Ignoring Clark’s protests you head to the storeroom, and stop short. “Fuck!”

“People in Metropolis sure do swear a lot,” Clark muses, his voice getting louder as he follows you to see what the problem is.

“There’s no beans.” You gesture at the gaping hole in the stock shelves.

“Have they been stolen?” Clark frowns.

“Probably just not ordered.” You groan. “And my boss is really particular about what kind we get, the stockist is on the other side of the city, it’ll take ages to get there and back. And I’ll have to close the shop, which she really didn’t want me to do.”

“Can we just get a different kind?” Clark suggests. “There’s a store across the street.”

“No,” you shake your head, “if she realises, she’ll blame me for the machine breaking, and then all today’s lost orders will be on me.”

“She doesn’t sound like the most supportive boss.” Clark observes. “What kind are the ones you need?”

You point out an empty packet discarded on the floor. “Why?”

Clark adjusts his glasses, studying it carefully. “Because I’ll go get them.”

“Clark, no-”

“Clark, yes,” he flashes a brilliant smile at you. “I bet I can find the exact kind you need and be back in five minutes.”

“That is literally impossible.”

A broad smirk spreads across his face. “Well then if I can, you have to let me pay for my coffees.”

“Someone needs to teach you how to make bets that win you good things.” You tell him.

He leans so close you can smell him, clean and masculine. “That is a good thing.”

Aware that he’s stunned you into silence, Clark winks goofily and disappears, the tinkling of the bell at the door signalling his rapid departure.

There are already a few people waiting when you get back to the counter. “We’re experiencing a little bit of a technical difficulty, which is going to mean a slight delay.” You announce, aware this is not going to go well. “Does anyone perhaps want something that doesn’t have coffee in it?”

This early in the day, the answer is a strong no, with the exception of a young couple getting tea and pastries.

To your amazement, almost before you’ve even finished serving them, Clark is back. “Problem solved,” he tells you proudly, emerging from the store room.

“What?” You do a double take - you hadn’t even seen him return to the shop. “No way.”

“Yes way,” he leads you back, pointing out the now fully stocked shelves.

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. “That’s- wha- how?”

“And it’s all being billed to the company.” He tells you, crossing his arms over his chest triumphantly.

You stare at him, openmouthed in amazement for so long a look of concern crosses his face, before you pounce and fling your arms around him. “Thank you,” you say fervently, “I don’t know how you did it, and maybe I don’t want to know, but you have totally saved my ass. Or at least my job.”

Returning your hug as best he can when you’ve pinned his arms to his sides, you feel his chuckle vibrate through him. “Any time. Both are definitely worth saving.”

You pull back to smile at him and are a little surprised to see him blushing. “Oh, sorry, did I - overstep?” You ask, gesturing between you.

“No, no.” He’s quick to answer. “Not at all.”

“Right.” You stand for a moment longer, just looking at him in wonder.

“Should you-?” He nods towards the front of the shop where more people keep arriving.

“Oh shit - sorry - yes.” You rush back, his fond laughter following you.

To your secret delight - and despite your protests - Clark slips the extra apron on again and joins you in serving the morning rush. He’s adorably inept around the steamer, but he gets the hang of the cash register pretty quickly, and gets better tips than you usually do.

“I’m pretty sure you were made for customer service,” you tell him as you wipe down tables once the place has finally quietened.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. But you should never work in it. You’re too sweet for it. It’ll drain your soul and make you hate people.”

“You don’t hate people.” He counters softly. “You’re always patient and kind to everyone, even when they’re not to you.”

You turn to see him watching you intently, his eyes clear behind his glasses. Before you can respond, he starts moving again. “Let me help you get everything cleaned up.”

“I think we already have,” you look around, pulling your apron off so you can take a quick break. “I just need to restock some of the counter bits.”

“Lead the way,” he tells you, sweeping his arm graciously towards the back.

“I think you can clock off now,” you tell him teasingly, approaching him to tug loose the ties on his apron, “I still haven’t made you your coffee.”

“And I still haven’t paid for my babyccino.” He grins as he carefully folds the fabric and sets it aside before following you to the store room.

You’ve just led him inside when you hear your boss’s voice, getting louder as she approaches.

“-doesn’t look like too much of a mess, but that probably means she hasn’t been serving enough people.” You shush Clark as her voice pauses, listening to the person on the other end of the phone. “If she has brought someone else in to help, they better be a qualified employee with an active food preparation certification, or she’s broken about a million OSH rules and I’ll have to fire her.”

Your eyes widen at her words, and you place both hands on Clark’s chest, pushing him into the shadowed corner by the door. Just as you get there, it starts to swing open, and in a panic, you slam your back against the wall behind it and pull Clark towards you, pressing him snug against you so his bulk doesn’t push the door away from you. He goes along with it, one hand resting gently on your waist, squeezing carefully in a way that you hope signals his consent to your sudden plan to hide like this.

“Looks fully stocked at least.” Your boss continues. “But I bet she didn’t check the expiry dates on the order, that guy’s always messing me around. Yeah, I’ll have a look, then speak to her. She’s probably on break now anyway, no one around to check how long she takes.”

Even given the position you’re currently in, her words fill you with anger. You - and Clark - have worked ferociously all morning and she’s still thinking the worst of you. Knowing you can’t make a sound, you wriggle in frustration, taking a quiet breath to calm down that presses your chest flush against Clark. His other hand flashes up to grab your hip, a move that you only realise is cautionary when you feel something else twitch and press against you.

Your jaw drops as you realise what’s happening. Clark tries to shift away, but he immediately bumps the door, so you grab him again and pull him hard against you. You feel more than hear him swallow anxiously, and while there’s not enough space for you to shift back to look him in the eye, you hope he understands that you’re okay with this. More than okay, honestly, if your boss wasn’t just a few feet away.

Despite how closely you’re pressed together, the door still threatens to swing away, exposing you both to your boss. You try desperately to shuffle into a position that keeps you clear of it, unable to help rubbing against Clark in the process, until he takes things into his own hands - literally - by sliding them down your sides, gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you into the air.

Instinctively you grip his shoulders and spread your legs, allowing Clark to move even closer, silently stepping into the small gap where you’re now parted around him. You just barely swallow back a gasp; his sudden display of strength and assertiveness, your until now harmless crush on him, and the hard length you can still feel between you combining to make you inordinately, inappropriately turned on.

Clark keeps growing between you until his swelling length nudges against a part of you that makes your fingers curl into his shirt as you bite back a moan. His breath changes at your reaction and he hardens even more. You have to bury your face in his neck to stop your panting breaths giving you away, as pleasure throbs through your body.

You’re aware of how wrong this is, how close you are to getting caught, but to your amazement and mild horror, this realisation isn’t dampening down the feelings - if anything, it’s heightening them, making you intimately aware of every connection between the two of you.

You don’t know if Clark’s affected in the same way, but his body is certainly not backing down. He can feel your breathing speed up, and just as you’re starting to feel guilty for reacting to him this way, he rolls his hips against you.

The whimper that escapes you is muffled in his skin, and you’re rewarded with a noticeable pulse in Clark’s length, and you’re fairly certain you can feel him smiling against you. The small noise has gone unnoticed by your boss, and emboldened in a way that only arouses you more, Clark rocks against you again, and you cling to him in desperation, moaning breathily.

When Clark curls himself into you a third time, you gulp back a groan, electricity like you’ve never felt before shooting through your body - you’re so dangerously turned on that you fear one more thrust will send you screaming over the edge, regardless of your surroundings.

To your immense relief, your boss chooses this moment to leave the store room, muttering distractedly to herself as she pulls the door shut behind her, leaving you and Clark free and alone in the dark.

Neither of you move.

You don’t know if you’re too embarrassed about what’s happened - is still happening - to lean back and meet his eyes, or if you just don’t want it to end.

Clark’s hands are still on your thighs, his shaky breath hot as he ghosts his lips along your cheek, and firmly, determinedly rolls his hips again, dragging his heavy thickness along the most sensitive part of you until the spark catches and you explode in ecstasy, biting his shoulder in a desperate attempt to stop your ragged cries echoing through the building.

When the aftershocks subside and you slump against him, he carefully eases you down to the floor, a hand on your waist still gently supporting you while the other brushes your heated cheek, a tender gesture so at odds with what you’ve just done that it makes your head spin.

“Hi,” he says, his voice a soft rumble pulling you to look up at him. You’re shyly hopeful as you do, relieved when you’re greeted with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen, clear affection shining in his blue eyes shining behind smudged glasses. “I hope that wasn’t - out of line. I could tell you were - well, it would have been rude to leave you, uh…unfinished.” He explains, a dimple appearing in one cheek as his smile turns cheeky.

You laugh, your throat raw from the attempts to keep quiet. “That was - kind of amazing.” You admit.

Clark beams, looking almost as satisfied as you are, and moves to tidy himself up.

“What about you?” You ask, reaching for the very visible bulge still straining the front of his pants. But before you can press against him again, he gently stops you, hands on your arms.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” you tell him so earnestly you see his throat bob, and he takes a hand off you to push his glasses up, blinking rapidly behind them.

“Well in that case,” he clears his throat, a slight blush visible even in the darkness, “do you want to go out with me? On a date?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, your grin matching Clark’s own as you move closer, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t-”

He stops you again. “After I’ve taken you out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion, but before any doubts can set in, Clark gathers you in his arms with an explanation. “I couldn’t help myself - I wanted to make you feel good. You deserve it,” he leans down, his lips brushing against yours, “but I want to earn it from you.”

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I saw Superman a while back but had no fic ideas, then I had a dream and now I’m a Clark demon 😈 so more of him to come

[lessersole]

Coffee Beans

Pairing: Clark Kent x reader (no y/n)

Summary: Clark helps you out when you're having a tough day at work

Word count: 4k

Warnings: semi-public dry humping (yup), swearing. 18+, minors DNI!

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Taking a deep breath of the summer air, a feeling of serenity washed through you as you made your way across the park. Despite the early hour, the sun was shining a buttery light between the buildings and you felt more at peace with the world than you had since starting this new job nearly a month ago.

Your good mood was only slightly dented when you reached the coffee shop you worked at to discover it still locked up and silent.

Frowning, you let yourself in, switched off the alarm, and started turning on lights and machines. Usually one of the senior workers would be in first thing to open up - your boss didn’t trust you to do that alone yet - but perhaps you’d just arrived early, or your co-worker was running late.

You bustled around, filling the coffee machine with beans, making sure there were plenty of clean cups within easy reach and carefully setting out the pastries that had been delivered at the crack of dawn. Apron on, you stood alone in the pre-opening quiet watching the dust motes float in the morning light, satisfied that you’d got everything right on your own. Smiling to yourself, you return behind the counter to start the day.

Only then do you notice the flashing red light on the landline phone in the small office area tucked away in the back. Frowning, you follow it and hit play, your boss’s grumpy voice spilling out.

“Goddamnit, why don’t I have her cell…oh hi, right, yes, newbie, you better be hearing me, EVERYONE else has called in sick today, nothing to do with the good weather, of course,” you can feel her sarcasm dripping down the line, “I can’t make it in until the afternoon, so you’re going to have to handle the morning rush yourself. You’d better make it work, I don’t care how, I’m not missing out on half a day of perfectly good sales just because all my competent staff are lazy shirkers.”

The line clicks as the message ends, leaving you frozen in place. You’ve never done a shift alone before and now you have to handle this? You return to the front and the still empty counter, smoothing your clothes down anxiously. You can do this. The location means this place is more of a tourist coffee shop than one for commuters, so the mornings aren’t as bad as they could be - and if you can handle it without a major disaster, maybe your notorious hard-ass of a boss will start to respect you. Nodding to yourself, you decide to take her abrupt voice message as a tough-love pep talk.

An insistent tapping on the glass frontage pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see a 20-something blonde woman outside, drumming her fingers on the window. When she sees she’s caught your attention, she mouths something at you and points at the sign on the door - which you realise you forgot to spin round from Closed to Open. A great start, you castigate yourself, rushing over to welcome her in with an apologetic smile.

You hold the friendly expression in place as she studies the menu chalked above you for an inordinately long time before placing her order. “I’ll take a babyccino.”

“Cocoa or cinnamon?” You ask brightly, ignoring the strangeness of her choice as you tap it into the cash register and start steaming the milk.

A man in a suit enters next, not even looking up from his phone as he barks out his order of a double Americano, extra shot, to go. After taking payment and setting a takeaway cup under the coffee machine, you finish up the babyccino and place it in front of the woman with a friendly smile - which she does not return.

“What is this?” She points a long nail at the perfectly foamed little drink, her lip curling in disgust.

The businessman glances up just long enough to snort at the frothy cup, which only seems to make her more annoyed at you.

“It’s your babyccino,” you explain politely, your smile wilting a little at the edges.

“It’s tiny,” she whines, just as the bell over the door signals the arrival of another customer, its bright sound already a contrast to how your day is going. “And you didn’t even put any coffee in, I watched you.”

You take the excuse of slipping a lid onto the black coffee order to turn away, giving you a moment to suppress your irritation, and pass the man his drink, forcing yourself into another upbeat smile for the woman. “It’s just milk and cocoa powder. It’s usually for-” you stop yourself, aware that telling her she’s ordered a drink for children is not going to improve her attitude, “-people who don’t want caffeine.”

She sneers at your careful creation. “Well, I don’t want it. Give me a proper drink, full size, with actual coffee in it.”

“That’ll be-” you start to tell her, but she’s already retreated to a table by the window. Sighing, you wonder if you’ll be able to get her to pay for the drink she’s actually going to have, instead of what you realise she was probably looking for, the cheapest thing on the menu.

It takes more effort to muster up a smile as you turn to the new customer, but it quickly melts into a natural beam of delight as you recognise your favourite regular. “Clark!”

He returns your easy grin. “Morning, coffee beans.” Your smile widens at the moniker. After he overheard another customer dismissively call you “caffeine maid”, he started giving you a different, affectionate coffee-themed nickname every time he came in, just to make you laugh.

“I think you’ve used that one already,” you tell him.

“I think you’re right,” he waggles his finger before pressing it thoughtfully to his lips, “I might be running out of coffee names. Maybe I should start branching out to teas.”

Hearing the impatient foot tapping of the woman in the window, your smile falters. “Are you in a rush?” You ask, wanting to serve him but aware you should probably deal with the difficult customer first.

“Not at all.” He tells you warmly. “Take your time.”

“Thanks,” you tell him with relief, turning to the machine to make a full-strength, adult cappuccino. “Oh and, there’s a free babyccino for you if you want it.” You nod to the small drink, still untouched on the counter. Your boss always makes you absorb the cost of any waste yourself, but you’d feel much better about doing that for Clark than for the snooty stranger.

“A babyccino?” He echoes, approaching the drink curiously before wonder lights up his blue eyes. “What is this? This is adorable!”

You laugh at his enthusiasm, wishing you could just watch him instead of focusing on the coffee machine. When you turn around he’s snapping a photo of the logo you created on top with the cocoa, just about still intact as the foamy bubbles pop away. “The cutest little thing,” Clark mutters to himself, before raising his eyes to you. “How much for this?”

“Nothing, it’s free,” you insist, “it was a - mistaken order. It’ll just get dumped out if you don’t take it.”

“Even so,” he answers, his voice warmer than any drink, “add it to my order.”

“You know I won’t,” you tell him, finishing up the cappuccino and delivering it to the woman at the table, who doesn’t even acknowledge you.

You catch Clark frowning at her lack of manners as you return.

“What would you like?” You ask him brightly. Despite coming in at least once every day - or at least, every day you’re working - Clark likes to mix up his order, choosing a drink based on his mood, rather than the desperate need for caffeine that fuels most people visiting here.

“Hmm. I feel like something sweet today,” he shoots you a wonky grin that gives your stomach wings, before letting his gaze sweep over the pastry case, “maybe a latte and - are these chocolate?”

“Chocolate and hazelnut.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect. One of those, or two if you want to join me?”

You bite your lip to stop your grin growing embarrassingly big. “I’d love to, but it’s just me today, and the rush is about to start.” You nod at the door, where a group is just entering.

“Ah,” Clark nods. “Another time then.”

“Definitely,” you breathe, getting started on his coffee - or trying to, until the machine makes a terrifyingly loud crunching, whining noise.

“Oh, no no no no,” you plead, smacking, rattling and flicking switches to try and get the racket to stop. The other workers had warned you about this - the owner refused to upgrade the equipment, insisting good staff should be able to handle anything, and you’d been told this sometimes jammed - you just hadn’t realised that would involve so much clanking and - was that smoke?

“Just a second everyone!” You shout out to the already complaining shop, hoping your panic isn’t audible in your voice. “Fuck, shit, shitty fucking…” you curse under your breath as you struggle with the machine.

“Hey now,” a warm hand on your back alerts you to Clark’s presence behind the counter with you.

“Sorry,” you whisper, trying to fight the tears of frustration welling up. Something about Clark makes you want to apologise for swearing - not that you would to anyone else. As the noise gets worse, you give up and yank out the power cord, the machine finally whirring down to silence.

Turning around, you’re greeted with a newly empty shop, the large group and more people who had been about to enter all scared off by the screaming equipment, the babyccino orderer gulping down her drink as fast as she can to follow them.

“Shit”, you mumble again, before adding a reflexive, “sorry” to Clark.

“Don’t worry about that,” he tells you, hand still rubbing your back soothingly. “Let’s just get this machine fixed, hmm?”

“Okay,” you blink rapidly and take a big breath. “Although - I have no idea how.”

“Well, lucky for you, I spent my teenage years fixing equipment on my parent’s farm.” He grins at you reassuringly as he rolls up his sleeves, straightening out of his usual slouch to what you notice is an impressive height. “This can’t be too different.”

You give him a look that’s equal parts scepticism and gratitude.

Somehow, only ten minutes later, you and Clark have managed to clear and fix the machine - and you’ve enjoyed the excuse to be close to him more than you care to admit.

“What kind of coffee machine gets clogged by coffee beans?” He wonders aloud once you're done, scratching his head in a way that draws your attention to his surprisingly muscular arms.

“The shi- uh, cheap, old kind,” you grumble, accepting back the apron you insisted he put on to protect his pristine white shirt. “I’m amazed you figured out that was the problem so quickly, I never would have thought it was the beans. It’s like you could magically see into the machine or something.”

“Hahaha, yeah or something,” Clark laughs loudly, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Must be those farmboy skills,” you smile at him. “Now I just need to carefully refill the machine and it’s take two on your latte, which is definitely on the house.”

Ignoring Clark’s protests you head to the storeroom, and stop short. “Fuck!”

“People in Metropolis sure do swear a lot,” Clark muses, his voice getting louder as he follows you to see what the problem is.

“There’s no beans.” You gesture at the gaping hole in the stock shelves.

“Have they been stolen?” Clark frowns.

“Probably just not ordered.” You groan. “And my boss is really particular about what kind we get, the stockist is on the other side of the city, it’ll take ages to get there and back. And I’ll have to close the shop, which she really didn’t want me to do.”

“Can we just get a different kind?” Clark suggests. “There’s a store across the street.”

“No,” you shake your head, “if she realises, she’ll blame me for the machine breaking, and then all today’s lost orders will be on me.”

“She doesn’t sound like the most supportive boss.” Clark observes. “What kind are the ones you need?”

You point out an empty packet discarded on the floor. “Why?”

Clark adjusts his glasses, studying it carefully. “Because I’ll go get them.”

“Clark, no-”

“Clark, yes,” he flashes a brilliant smile at you. “I bet I can find the exact kind you need and be back in five minutes.”

“That is literally impossible.”

A broad smirk spreads across his face. “Well then if I can, you have to let me pay for my coffees.”

“Someone needs to teach you how to make bets that win you good things.” You tell him.

He leans so close you can smell him, clean and masculine. “That is a good thing.”

Aware that he’s stunned you into silence, Clark winks goofily and disappears, the tinkling of the bell at the door signalling his rapid departure.

There are already a few people waiting when you get back to the counter. “We’re experiencing a little bit of a technical difficulty, which is going to mean a slight delay.” You announce, aware this is not going to go well. “Does anyone perhaps want something that doesn’t have coffee in it?”

This early in the day, the answer is a strong no, with the exception of a young couple getting tea and pastries.

To your amazement, almost before you’ve even finished serving them, Clark is back. “Problem solved,” he tells you proudly, emerging from the store room.

“What?” You do a double take - you hadn’t even seen him return to the shop. “No way.”

“Yes way,” he leads you back, pointing out the now fully stocked shelves.

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. “That’s- wha- how?”

“And it’s all being billed to the company.” He tells you, crossing his arms over his chest triumphantly.

You stare at him, openmouthed in amazement for so long a look of concern crosses his face, before you pounce and fling your arms around him. “Thank you,” you say fervently, “I don’t know how you did it, and maybe I don’t want to know, but you have totally saved my ass. Or at least my job.”

Returning your hug as best he can when you’ve pinned his arms to his sides, you feel his chuckle vibrate through him. “Any time. Both are definitely worth saving.”

You pull back to smile at him and are a little surprised to see him blushing. “Oh, sorry, did I - overstep?” You ask, gesturing between you.

“No, no.” He’s quick to answer. “Not at all.”

“Right.” You stand for a moment longer, just looking at him in wonder.

“Should you-?” He nods towards the front of the shop where more people keep arriving.

“Oh shit - sorry - yes.” You rush back, his fond laughter following you.

To your secret delight - and despite your protests - Clark slips the extra apron on again and joins you in serving the morning rush. He’s adorably inept around the steamer, but he gets the hang of the cash register pretty quickly, and gets better tips than you usually do.

“I’m pretty sure you were made for customer service,” you tell him as you wipe down tables once the place has finally quietened.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. But you should never work in it. You’re too sweet for it. It’ll drain your soul and make you hate people.”

“You don’t hate people.” He counters softly. “You’re always patient and kind to everyone, even when they’re not to you.”

You turn to see him watching you intently, his eyes clear behind his glasses. Before you can respond, he starts moving again. “Let me help you get everything cleaned up.”

“I think we already have,” you look around, pulling your apron off so you can take a quick break. “I just need to restock some of the counter bits.”

“Lead the way,” he tells you, sweeping his arm graciously towards the back.

“I think you can clock off now,” you tell him teasingly, approaching him to tug loose the ties on his apron, “I still haven’t made you your coffee.”

“And I still haven’t paid for my babyccino.” He grins as he carefully folds the fabric and sets it aside before following you to the store room.

You’ve just led him inside when you hear your boss’s voice, getting louder as she approaches.

“-doesn’t look like too much of a mess, but that probably means she hasn’t been serving enough people.” You shush Clark as her voice pauses, listening to the person on the other end of the phone. “If she has brought someone else in to help, they better be a qualified employee with an active food preparation certification, or she’s broken about a million OSH rules and I’ll have to fire her.”

Your eyes widen at her words, and you place both hands on Clark’s chest, pushing him into the shadowed corner by the door. Just as you get there, it starts to swing open, and in a panic, you slam your back against the wall behind it and pull Clark towards you, pressing him snug against you so his bulk doesn’t push the door away from you. He goes along with it, one hand resting gently on your waist, squeezing carefully in a way that you hope signals his consent to your sudden plan to hide like this.

“Looks fully stocked at least.” Your boss continues. “But I bet she didn’t check the expiry dates on the order, that guy’s always messing me around. Yeah, I’ll have a look, then speak to her. She’s probably on break now anyway, no one around to check how long she takes.”

Even given the position you’re currently in, her words fill you with anger. You - and Clark - have worked ferociously all morning and she’s still thinking the worst of you. Knowing you can’t make a sound, you wriggle in frustration, taking a quiet breath to calm down that presses your chest flush against Clark. His other hand flashes up to grab your hip, a move that you only realise is cautionary when you feel something else twitch and press against you.

Your jaw drops as you realise what’s happening. Clark tries to shift away, but he immediately bumps the door, so you grab him again and pull him hard against you. You feel more than hear him swallow anxiously, and while there’s not enough space for you to shift back to look him in the eye, you hope he understands that you’re okay with this. More than okay, honestly, if your boss wasn’t just a few feet away.

Despite how closely you’re pressed together, the door still threatens to swing away, exposing you both to your boss. You try desperately to shuffle into a position that keeps you clear of it, unable to help rubbing against Clark in the process, until he takes things into his own hands - literally - by sliding them down your sides, gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you into the air.

Instinctively you grip his shoulders and spread your legs, allowing Clark to move even closer, silently stepping into the small gap where you’re now parted around him. You just barely swallow back a gasp; his sudden display of strength and assertiveness, your until now harmless crush on him, and the hard length you can still feel between you combining to make you inordinately, inappropriately turned on.

Clark keeps growing between you until his swelling length nudges against a part of you that makes your fingers curl into his shirt as you bite back a moan. His breath changes at your reaction and he hardens even more. You have to bury your face in his neck to stop your panting breaths giving you away, as pleasure throbs through your body.

You’re aware of how wrong this is, how close you are to getting caught, but to your amazement and mild horror, this realisation isn’t dampening down the feelings - if anything, it’s heightening them, making you intimately aware of every connection between the two of you.

You don’t know if Clark’s affected in the same way, but his body is certainly not backing down. He can feel your breathing speed up, and just as you’re starting to feel guilty for reacting to him this way, he rolls his hips against you.

The whimper that escapes you is muffled in his skin, and you’re rewarded with a noticeable pulse in Clark’s length, and you’re fairly certain you can feel him smiling against you. The small noise has gone unnoticed by your boss, and emboldened in a way that only arouses you more, Clark rocks against you again, and you cling to him in desperation, moaning breathily.

When Clark curls himself into you a third time, you gulp back a groan, electricity like you’ve never felt before shooting through your body - you’re so dangerously turned on that you fear one more thrust will send you screaming over the edge, regardless of your surroundings.

To your immense relief, your boss chooses this moment to leave the store room, muttering distractedly to herself as she pulls the door shut behind her, leaving you and Clark free and alone in the dark.

Neither of you move.

You don’t know if you’re too embarrassed about what’s happened - is still happening - to lean back and meet his eyes, or if you just don’t want it to end.

Clark’s hands are still on your thighs, his shaky breath hot as he ghosts his lips along your cheek, and firmly, determinedly rolls his hips again, dragging his heavy thickness along the most sensitive part of you until the spark catches and you explode in ecstasy, biting his shoulder in a desperate attempt to stop your ragged cries echoing through the building.

When the aftershocks subside and you slump against him, he carefully eases you down to the floor, a hand on your waist still gently supporting you while the other brushes your heated cheek, a tender gesture so at odds with what you’ve just done that it makes your head spin.

“Hi,” he says, his voice a soft rumble pulling you to look up at him. You’re shyly hopeful as you do, relieved when you’re greeted with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen, clear affection shining in his blue eyes shining behind smudged glasses. “I hope that wasn’t - out of line. I could tell you were - well, it would have been rude to leave you, uh…unfinished.” He explains, a dimple appearing in one cheek as his smile turns cheeky.

You laugh, your throat raw from the attempts to keep quiet. “That was - kind of amazing.” You admit.

Clark beams, looking almost as satisfied as you are, and moves to tidy himself up.

“What about you?” You ask, reaching for the very visible bulge still straining the front of his pants. But before you can press against him again, he gently stops you, hands on your arms.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” you tell him so earnestly you see his throat bob, and he takes a hand off you to push his glasses up, blinking rapidly behind them.

“Well in that case,” he clears his throat, a slight blush visible even in the darkness, “do you want to go out with me? On a date?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, your grin matching Clark’s own as you move closer, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t-”

He stops you again. “After I’ve taken you out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion, but before any doubts can set in, Clark gathers you in his arms with an explanation. “I couldn’t help myself - I wanted to make you feel good. You deserve it,” he leans down, his lips brushing against yours, “but I want to earn it from you.”

------------

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I saw Superman a while back but had no fic ideas, then I had a dream and now I’m a Clark demon 😈 so more of him to come

[lessersole]

Woooaah I love this!! Honestly grinning like Clark in that gif as I read it! Her separate feelings for him and Superman make so much sense, his reactions are adorable, and you got the sense of amazement being saved by Superman so spot on, even some of the films don't get that wonder and awe so well. And of course they'd have to have sex in the sky 😂 I totally adore this ❤️

Office Gossip

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary:

“Cat. Do you think Superman ever has sex in the sky?” Cat bursts out laughing, almost dropping her coffee, and somewhere behind you, there’s a Clark sounding groan in the distance.  “No, really, I’m serious. I mean, if you could fly, wouldn’t you?” You swivel around to look at Clark, who's practising the art of trying to look invisible. “I don't suppose you know if Superman has sex in the sky.” Clark lets out a deep sigh, adjusting his glasses with a familiar, flustered expression plastered on his face. “No, no, I don’t.” Or You have a big crush on Superman, and the whole office knows it, especially Clark. When you can't seem to stop thinking about him or talking about him, it has you asking yourself (and the office): Is Superman good in bed?

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, oral sex (male receiving), p in v sex, sky sex, smut, fluff, secret identity shenanigans, Clark is your work-husband, Clark taking care of you, getting together, breakfast for dinner because I'm obsessed with the fact that he likes that

WC: 7.2k

A/N: I felt like I was possessed when writing this, like I needed to get out a Clark fic immediately. Anyways, enjoy!

***

You loved your job. Being a journalist was your calling. Plus, you loved working at the Daily Planet. 

One afternoon, on a day like many others, you’re taking a break, lounging lazily next to Cat’s desk. You hope Perry won’t catch you slacking on the job, but then there's a flash of red and blue that appears on the newsroom screen.

Superman.

You sigh as you swoon most audibly and visibly.

Jimmy walks by, raising a brow, “Superman?”

“Superman,” you breathe, eyes fixed on the screen. He was so dreamy, how could you not have a crush on him?

“I swear this is the fifth time today,” Cat laughs without looking up from her phone.

“It’s not my fault he’s always on the news,” you mutter, dreamily.

You listen to the news report. He’s just stopped a monorail from falling off the track, and you sigh again, even louder this time.

On screen, live footage shows him lifting the train with ease, passengers cheering in the background. Then he takes off into the sky, all effortless and majestic. The segment cuts to a montage: Superman saving people from a burning building, catching a meteor fragment with one hand, lifting a kitten out of a tree. The man never stops.

A few minutes later, the elevator opens to reveal a frazzled Clark Kent, a.k.a your unofficial work husband.

You give him a little smile, which he returns in that bashful, lopsided way of his, the one that always makes your heart do an involuntary flip.

As usual, he's late. Normally, you'd be quick to tease him about it, toss a paperclip or some clever jab his way. Do that little thing you two always do, half-flirting, half-daring each other to admit this is more than banter.

But today...you don’t. There’s something on your mind, something which is a consequence of your horniness. 

Your smile fades just a touch as you turn back toward the TV playing quietly on the wall. Superman is still on your mind as you spin a pencil between your fingers, eyes distant.

“Hey, Cat?” you say absently.

“Yes?” she replies, not looking up from her computer.

You pause for half a second, then blurt, “Do you think Superman’s good in bed?”

That gets her attention and Clark's.

She looks up slowly, one brow arching with wicked amusement.

“For sure. I mean,” Cat chimes in, not missing a beat, “I imagine he breaks a lot of beds.”

You nod, completely straight-faced, like you’re having a perfectly normal, professional, maybe even insightful conversation.

“Right? Super strength. Super stamina. Just... structurally speaking, it’s gotta be a challenge but definitely worth it.”

Clark coughs into his fist, stumbling slightly as he walks again. “Uh— good morning,” he mumbles, not making eye contact as he practically dives into his desk chair.

Cat smirks. “Morning, Clark.”

You flash him a cheerful smile. “You’re late.”

He fumbles with his glasses. “Uh, yeah. Got... caught up. Traffic.”

You glance at the screen again, a replay of Superman’s earlier save. “You missed the monorail rescue. It was so heroic. And also, seriously hot.”

Jimmy pats Clark on the shoulder as he passes by. “She’s been like this all morning,” he says with a grin.

“I’m just sayinggg,” you drawl, throwing your hands up as if you’re the voice of reason in a debate no one else is having. “It’s Superman.”

You lean back in your chair, biting the end of your pencil, eyes drifting toward the TV again, where the footage is looping. “He’s got to be good in bed.”

Clark chokes on absolutely nothing.

Jimmy laughs and heads to his desk, while Cat just raises her brows, clearly enjoying the chaos. You look over at Clark with innocent eyes, like nothing you said was wrong. “You okay?”

He adjusts his glasses with slightly shaky fingers. “Fine,” he says, voice an octave too high. “Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You smile, slowly. “I mean… unless you have something to add?”

Clark looks at you, then at the screen, then at his computer, clearly calculating his odds of surviving this conversation.

“…Nope.”

“No, no, no, my journalistic instinct is telling me there’s a story there. Spill it,” Cat says enthusiastically.

Clark, across the bullpen, fights the urge to sink lower into his seat. Please don’t encourage her, he begs silently, already sensing where this is headed. 

“Please, Clark…” you say, giving him the doe eyes he can never seem to resist. “Can you at least tell me if he’s taken?”

He blinks. Fumbles with the notepad in his hands. “Uh… he’s very busy. You know, saving people, so uh… not really time for relationships.”

“Did you get that off the record?” Cat cuts in, sharp and amused as she walks by with a smirk.

“Uh, yeah…” Clark mutters, adjusting his glasses.

Cat pauses just long enough to nudge you with her elbow. “Looks like you’ve got a chance,” she teases, her grin wicked as ever.

You roll your eyes at her comment. Sure, you could fawn over Superman until the cows came home—hell, most of the city did—but deep down, the only one you really wanted to take you out was the 6’4” farm-raised journalist with floppy hair, kind eyes, and the cutest damn dimples anyone had ever seen.

 “Guys, can we switch the conversation… please?” Clark asks, voice a little desperate, eyes darting between you and Cat.

“Fine, fine,” you say, grinning. “I wouldn’t want you to implode.”

You spin away from Cat’s desk on your swivel chair, trying to distract yourself. But then, bam, a ridiculous thought strikes you and pulls you right back in. You spin right back around to talk your shit.

“Cat. Do you think Superman ever has sex in the sky?”

Cat bursts out laughing, almost dropping her coffee, and somewhere behind you, there’s a Clark sounding groan in the distance. 

“No, really, I’m serious. I mean, if you could fly, wouldn’t you?”

You swivel around to look at Clark, who's practising the art of trying to look invisible.

“I don't suppose you know if Superman has sex in the sky.”

Clark lets out a deep sigh, adjusting his glasses with a familiar, flustered expression plastered on his face. “No, no, I don’t.”

You giggle, the sound bubbling out of you, light and teasing, but it lands as sweet as ripe peaches in late summer. The kind of sound that makes everything feel warm. 

“For your sake, I’ll drop it. Oh! Before I forget,” you say suddenly, reaching over to one of the cups on your desk. “Got you your favourite.”

Clark accepts the coffee with that soft, surprised smile you love a little too much. You were always like this, thoughtful in the quietest ways. Acts of service have always been your thing, your love language.

“It might be a little cold now, but…” you trail off, suddenly feeling a little foolish. You knew he’d most likely be late, so a hot coffee maybe wasn’t your brightest idea, but Clark’s eyes soften instantly. “Thank you,” he says, gentle and sincere, the kind of tone that quiets every self-doubt before it fully forms.

You don’t know how he does that, how he can shut down your entire spiral with nothing more than a look. It’s something special. 

***

Clark knew about your crush on Superman.

It was… flattering, sure, but kind of painful. The fact that the girl he liked… liked him, but not him.

He’d watch you laugh and joke around the office, all casual ease and bright-eyed charm, but as soon as his alter ego appeared on a screen, your whole face would light up. You’d be practically glowing.

How it could feel so good, being adored, yet so maddening to know it wasn’t really him you adored.

It’s torture in slow motion as he watches you type away, headphones in, lost in your own world. And he stays quiet, hovering nearby through the whole day.

“How long are you going to stay here?” he asks gently, leaning against the edge of your desk. 

“Until I'm done,” you answer.

Clark continues watching you closely. It’s late now, the newsroom is nearly empty, just the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional creak of the old building settling for the night. You've been at it for hours, sleeves rolled up, a cold cup of coffee untouched beside you.

He admired this about you: your drive and unending determination. But it was also what was going to put you in an early grave.

“You haven’t eaten,” he says softly.

You pause, just for a second. “I will.”

Clark exhales. “That’s what you said three hours ago.”

“This piece is important, Clark.”

“I know it is,” he says, his voice sincere. “But so are you.”

The thing is, no one takes care of you the way he does. Not really. He notices the small things: when your coffee cup is empty, when your shoulders are tight from hunching over your keyboard, when you forget to eat because you're chasing a story.

He knows he has to act quickly before you convince yourself (again) that your article is more important than sleep, food, or basic human needs.

“What would you like to eat?” He asks, hoping the mention of food will lure you away from your computer.

“Asking me out to dinner?”

“No. I’m hoping you’ll let me cook for you.”

You're a sucker for a home-cooked meal. The mere thought of it breaking you from the work-induced trance you were in to look at him. “You mean it?”

“Cross my heart.”

The moment you get back to his apartment, you’re already kicking off your shoes and breathing a little easier. You’ve been here a few times, mostly to drop something off, crash after a late deadline, or borrow that one ridiculous external battery pack he always has on hand.

 You glance around as he shrugs off his coat. The space is so Clark. Neat, cosy, filled with books, records, and a well-loved flannel blanket folded on the couch. The warm glow of a lamp hums gently in the corner.

“How are you always late…,” you mutter playfully, slipping onto one of the stools by the counter, “when you live ten minutes from the office?”

Clark grins without turning around. “I like to make a dramatic entrance.”

You snort. “What, by nearly missing the morning meeting every day?”

“Time just…gets away from me.”

You snort at his response before you stretch and follow after him, drawn more by the promise of warmth and care than you’d admit out loud.

The two of you step into his apartment — modest, a little cluttered, full of books and quiet charm. The kitchen is small but homey, the kind of place where you want to stay awhile.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed with a playful grin.

“So, what’s on the menu, Chef Kent?”

“Anything you want.”

“Lobster,” you tease.

“Okay, anything I actually have in my fridge and cupboards.”

You stand beside him as you both look through his fridge. It felt sweet and domestic, being close to him, making plans for dinner. You know you shouldn't fantasise, but it was getting harder not to.

“Anything I can do to help?” you ask as you watch him roll up his sleeves to reveal forearms you wouldn't mind holding onto. Strong, dusted with just enough hair to make your heart skip a beat.

“Your company’s more than enough,” he says, glancing up at you with that warm, impossibly sincere smile.

The way he says it…you know he means it, giving you butterflies with only a few words. 

You smile and look down for a second, then back at him. 

“What?” Clark asks as he starts chopping vegetables.

“It’s just funny,” you say, watching him as he moves around the kitchen.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, curiosity, or maybe nerves, as he glances at you.

“What’s so funny?”

You shrug, half-smiling. “For someone so supposedly awkward, you're really suave. You've got the whole ‘soft-spoken farm boy with a hidden depth’ thing going for you.”

Clark pauses, mid-chop, then goes back to slicing garlic. “Is that something you like?” he asks casually, too casually, not looking up.

You weren’t expecting that.

Your breath catches, and suddenly your mouth is dry. You bite your lip, eyes darting down to your hands.

“I… it’s…”

Your voice fails you, your thoughts scattering like pins.

And Clark, damn him, just keeps calmly working over the cutting board, pretending not to notice how flustered you’ve gotten. But you know he notices. You can feel it in the silence “It’s okay,” Clark interjects gently, setting the knife down. “I know Superman is more your style.”

You pause, fiddling with your fingers, eyes dropping to your lap. There’s a long breath before you speak.

“I mean, sure… I have a crush on Superman,” you admit, softly, then you glance up at him, eyes searching his face like you’re hoping he’ll just know, that he’ll read your mind and spare you the embarrassment if he doesn't feel the same. “But… it’s just a crush.”

He looks at you, and you don’t quite know what he’s thinking. It makes your stomach warp and twist that much more. You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on the counter, the space between you shrinking.

“Just a crush?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

You open your mouth to answer, heart thudding in your chest—

CRASH.

The sound is sharp and jarring of broken glass and strained metal echoing from the street below. Clark straightens instantly, shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“I uh—” he starts, and you cut him off with a “Yeah”.

You’re on your feet in record time, rushing to grab your camera bag and shoes. “Could be a story.”

Clark nods, already backing toward the door, awkward and hurried. “You go ahead — I’ll, uh, catch up.”

You nod as you pull on your shoes before dashing off out of his apartment and into the rain. And by the time your foot hits the pavement, camera in hand, Superman is already in the sky.

Thunder rumbles in your chest like a warning drumbeat, low and deep. The rain pours harder now, splattering your camera lens, but you keep shooting anyway. 

You watch the whole fight unfold, Superman zipping through the air, faster than your eye can follow, trading blows with something you wouldn’t even know how to name. You move to get a better look when —BOOM. A ground-shaking thud knocks you off balance.

You stumble back, breath catching. Superman lays the creature down as carefully as he can, but there’s still debris flying. Metal, glass, chunks of concrete. You’re still too focused on getting the shot, heart pounding, adrenaline blinding, to realise the danger screaming toward you.

You don’t see the huge steel beam until it’s too late, hurling toward you like a missile.

And then suddenly you're not on the ground.

You’re airborne.

Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you up and away in a rush of wind. You’re weightless, the city falling away below you as you're swept out of danger in an instant.

Your arms instinctively tighten around his neck as you look up. Who else would it be but Superman? The object of your affections. Though never in your wildest dreams could you have dreamed that you’d be this close. Close enough to count the raindrops clinging to his lashes.

“Holy shit, you’re Superman!”

He doesn’t answer at first, just holds you tighter, flying higher through the rain before gently landing on a quiet rooftop nearby. His cape settles around you like a shield before he slowly sets you down.

Your feet touch solid ground, but you still feel stunned. You can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline or just the fact that you were literally held by Superman.

Does he have this effect on everyone?

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice smooth, calm and rich enough to send a chill down your spine. You stare at him, soaked through by the rain, shivering slightly, heart hammering.

“I, uh…” you stammer, voice cracking. He looks concerned, and from the way you’re swaying back and forth. You barely even register the question he asked you, … you had one chance and you had to make the most of it. 

 “I have one thing to say to you. And I have to say it now, before I pass out. Or cry. Or both.”

He nods, patient. “Go right ahead.”

You suck in a breath. “I don’t know who you are or why you do what you do… but thank you. What you do for this city — I mean… we can’t thank you enough.”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

But then, he smiles.

A soft, humble, utterly disarming smile.

And your brain short-circuits.

Superman is smiling at you.

You try to say something else, but all that comes out is, “Goodnight,” before everything goes blurry and your knees buckle. You barely register strong arms catching you again.

The last thing you hear, just before you black out, is a voice calling out your name. 

***

You wake up to the smell of pancakes wafting through the air.

The sheets beneath you are soft and warm, and for a disoriented moment, you’re sure you’re still dreaming or dead. Maybe both somehow.

Your clothes feel a little damp, clinging in places, but your skin is dry, your hair faintly fluffy like someone had towel-dried it gently while you were out.

The door creaks open.

Clark steps inside, hair tousled like he’d been running his fingers through it, a dish towel tossed over his shoulder, looking utterly domestic and, unfortunately, adorable.

“You’re awake,” he says, smiling, but his eyes widen a second later, and he freezes like he just remembered something.

Then, without a word, he spins on his heel and rushes back out of the room.

You blink. What?

A few moments later, he returns, balancing a tray loaded with pancakes, scrambled eggs, toast, and even a glass of orange juice. He looks slightly sheepish as he sets it down beside you.

Breakfast in bed at 9 P.M., Clark Kent being boyfriend material, what the fuck was going on? Was this a dream? If it was one, then you never wanted to leave. 

“I made pasta, but I figured you’d want something more comforting, so… Also, there’s a change of clothes over there,” he says, nodding toward a neatly folded pile on a nearby chair. “You might catch a cold.”

You nod slowly, “Always taking care of me.”

“Always.”

A little while later, after devouring the breakfast-slash-dinner he made you and changing into Clark’s dry clothes, you made your way to his kitchen table.

The second Clark sees you wearing his clothes, his breath catches in his throat. It’s quite a sight to see. You being so comfortable and snuggled up in one of his shirts, seeming so at home here, makes him want things he doesn’t know if he can have. 

“Still hungry? I have more waffles and pancakes.”

You nod and take a seat, taking a bite of a fresh waffle, crispy on the edges, warm and golden. Your head’s still a little foggy, the night before playing in fragments.

The last thing you remember clearly… was Superman. Smiling at you. Then—black.

You blink, looking up at Clark, who’s at the stove flipping pancakes with a spatula in hand.

“How did I get back here?”

Clark glances over his shoulder, slightly stiff. “Oh, uh… Superman dropped you off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Here?”

He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah, well—he knows I know you, so… figured it was safe.”

You chew slowly, narrowing your eyes. The only way Superman would know about you would be—

“Wait. Does that mean you’ve talked to Superman about me?”

Clark fumbles slightly with the spatula, flipping a pancake so hard it hits the roof. “Well…maybe. I mean—not in detail. Just—he’s aware of you. In a general, professional, fully appropriate sense.”

You chuckle, watching him a little more closely now. “Clark. Did you name drop me to Superman?”

“Yes, but…” he says, far too quickly, then hesitates. “It’s not like that.”

You wonder how you came up in conversation. You could just imagine it, Clark speaking about you enough during interviews for Superman to remember you. It made your heart flutter and soar like it had wings of its own. 

Not to mention the fact that Superman had to have recognised you to bring you back here. So did Clark show him a picture of you?

You tilt your head, grinning your face off. You were absolutely eating this up. “Oh my—What did you say?”

Clark fights to keep himself from blushing, but it’s far too late; he’s already halfway to becoming a tomato.

“I just…”

“Yes?” you tease, leaning forward a little, enjoying how flustered he’s getting.

He quickly turns away, pretending to be very invested in the pancakes sizzling on the stove.

“Just talked about how you’re an amazing journalist,” he says at last. “Tenacious, smart, honest…”

He flips the pancakes with unnecessary precision, buying himself a few more seconds before turning off the stove and sliding them onto a plate.

“Always running headfirst into danger,” he adds thoughtfully, glancing at you for the briefest moment before setting the plate in front of you. Then, after a beat, he sits down beside you. 

“And…”

“And?” You repeat back to him as your eyes meet his. 

The moment he looks at you, his gaze softens, something unspoken lingering there. And whatever it is, it makes you want to throw all logic out the window and dive into his arms right here.

“And… I told him you're really something special,” he finishes with that characteristically soft smile of his. Your eyes flutter as you try to keep yourself together. He was doing it again, quietening your mind with just a look.

“You really think that about me?”

“How can I not?”

After hearing that, you were so gone. There was absolutely no way you could come back from it; anything he said in that quiet, sincere voice was more than just words. It wasn’t just sweet, it was the kind of thing you’d only ever read about in novels or seen in your favourite movies.

“Fuck,” you murmur under your breath, biting your lip as your fingers curl against the tablecloth. For the second time tonight, you have that aching urge to hold on to him and never let go.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low and warm.

And you pause. Because the way he says it, the gentle cadence and the hint of concern feel… familiar. Familiar in a way that makes something stir in the back of your mind, but not enough to piece it together. So you just shake your head, as if you can physically rattle the thought loose.

“Yeah, I just…” You glance toward the window, rain pouring in silver sheets. “Would you mind if I stayed the night? It’s raining cats and dogs out there, and getting a cab in this weather is impossible, and…” You trail off, realising the real reason you’re asking has less to do with the rain and more to do with the fact you’re far too comfortable here, in pancake and waffle heaven, with the world’s cutest journalist.

His lips curve into a smile that reaches his eyes. “Stay as long as you like.”

***

Clark insists that you take his bed, even though his couch is far too short to hold all 6’4” of him without folding himself in half.

“But, Clark—”

“You’re my guest,” he says firmly, already steering you toward the bedroom with a gentle hand at your back. There’s no room for debate in his tone, just that quiet, old-fashioned kindness that somehow makes you feel like arguing would be rude.

You give in.

And it ends up being one of the best sleeps of your life.

It’s warm, the sheets soft and faintly worn, and you can smell him everywhere. It’s comforting in a way that seeps into your bones, like even though he’s not right next to you, you’re safe. 

Wrapped up in his scent, you’re hit with that strange, stubborn flicker of familiarity again. But before you can chase the thought too far, sleep pulls you under again.

You wake up earlier than he does.

You need to get across the city back to your apartment before work, plus you don’t want to overstay your welcome.

After a quick shower, you slip back into your now dry clothes from last night. Stepping out into the living room, you spot the long stretch of his legs hanging off the couch, feet peeking out from under a rumpled blanket.

His head rests halfway on a pillow, hair mussed, the blanket bunched haphazardly at his waist. He doesn’t snore because of course he doesn’t, but you can hear him breathing, slow and deep, the kind of sleep that only comes when someone finally lets their guard down.

You drift closer without really meaning to, studying the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes rest against his cheeks, the faint crease between his brows even at rest.

How does he look perfect even when he’s asleep?

You lean just a little closer, and then it hits you. Oh god. You’re standing over him like a total creep. You start to back away quickly, desperate not to have him wake up and find you looming like some sleep-deprived gargoyle.

But in your attempt to escape, your toe collides with the corner of his coffee table.

THUNK.

Before you can stop it, you let out a yelp loud enough to wake the city. Clark shoots up from where he lay on the couch, his glasses slipping off his face and landing on the floor.

He doesn’t even notice, too consumed with seeing if you’re alright.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep, and your head snaps toward him.

“Oh, I’m fine, I just…” You gesture vaguely at your foot, like that explains everything, even though your sleep-deprived brain is still catching up to reality.

And then, you freeze.

Was that just…?

You look again. And then again. Then a third time. Then a fourth, because surely you’re hallucinating.

But nope. The image stays the same.

Sitting there on the couch, wearing plaid pyjama pants and a soft, worn Metropolis University T-shirt that’s utterly Clark Kent in clothing, hair tousled into perfect bedhead… is Superman.

Your brain short-circuits. “I’m going to die,” you whisper to yourself.

Clark blinks, clearly confused until his hand drifts to his face and he realises, with dawning horror, that his glasses are not where they should be.

Meanwhile, your mind is sprinting at lightning speed, desperately grasping for some kind of explanation.

Maybe Clark’s been secretly practising magic in his spare time, and this is one of his tricks. Or maybe, and this one feels wild but not impossible, Clark is a shapeshifter who’s been pretending to be two people this whole time. Or maybe Clark is Superman’s long-lost twin brother. The theory swirls in your mind, but the simplest explanation is also the most impossible one.

Clark Kent. Your work husband. The guy who brings you coffee exactly how you like it. The man who makes you pancakes and lets you take his bed.

Is Superman.

“Let me explain—”

“Holy fuck, you’re Superman.”

Your feet feel glued to the floor, like you’ve just stepped in wet concrete. You’re swaying, your vision threatening to tilt, and you’re fairly certain you might faint in front of Superman... again. Twice in less than 24 hours has to be some kind of world record.

Clark slowly stands from the couch, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. He moves toward you like you’re a startled animal, with measured steps and keeping his hands visible.

“Hey… breathe,” he says gently. “You’re okay.”

You can’t seem to tear your eyes from him. The suit isn’t there, but it doesn’t matter — now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. The jawline, the voice, the way he looks at you like he’s seeing every thought you’ve ever had.

“Clark—” Your voice cracks. “You’ve been—this whole time—”

“Yeah,” he admits quietly, stopping just a few feet away. His eyes are earnest, almost pleading. “I wanted to tell you. I just… didn’t know how.”

You stand there, thinking it through — and suddenly, it all starts to line up in your head.

“This is why you’re always late to work,” you say slowly, pieces slotting into place. “Every time Superman’s on the news… you’re nowhere to be found.”

Your brain keeps running, ticking off the little details you’d ignored:

The way he always seemed to disappear right before something big happened.

The fact that he could carry three stacks of paper, a full coffee pot, and Jimmy’s camera gear without breaking a sweat.

And when you really think about it…how did it take you this long to figure it out?

“But how…?” you ask, voice half awe, half frustration.

“The glasses,” he explains simply. “They’re hypno glasses, so they change how people see me. I also keep my posture different, the way I move, the way I speak…”

You just stare at him, equal parts impressed and utterly dumbfounded.

But then another thought slams into the back of your mind like a freight train. Your eyes widen, and you gasp loudly. Oh no. Oh no.Every single thing you’d ever said about Superman comes rushing back, each one more mortifying than the last.

You slap your hands over your face. “I… I talked about how much I wanted to fuck you in the sky.”

“Well…” Clark clears his throat, tilting his head with a maddeningly calm expression. “You actually asked if Superman has sex in the sky. Not that you wanted to.”

“The implication was there,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face in despair.

You let your eyes fall shut, willing yourself to disappear. You really needed to learn to shut your damn mouth. The countless times you’d gone on and on about Superman, right in front of him, played on repeat in your head.

If you could, you’d pack yourself into a box and ship off to some remote island, where you’d spend the rest of your days never making eye contact with another human being again.

The embarrassment is still trying to eat you alive, but at least he’s not laughing at you… not in a cruel way, anyway. Still, your brain is a scrambled mess. What now? What happens now that you know? How are you supposed to act around him? You have no idea.

“I obviously won’t tell anyone,” you manage, your voice firm despite the chaos in your head.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, looking like he’s scared you’ll bolt and never look at him the same. 

“I mean, it’s a shock. Definitely in the top 10 craziest things that have ever happened to me.”

“Only top 10?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“I got locked in the archives with a raccoon once, so that’s pretty high up there,” you joke, and he laughs, and it makes your chest feel warm.

You watch him for a moment, feeling the shift between you, and you know exactly what you want to say. “But… you’re still Clark. And now it just… it feels like you’re even more the man I know you are.”

“And what kind of man is that?”

“A sweet, caring, funny man. The kind of man that would help an old lady cross the street or stop a monorail from crashing,” you say, reaching up, your hand resting gently on his cheek. “The kind of man I really like.”

He smiles softly, leaning in bit by bit like two magnets drawn together. Your lips meet in a kiss you've been yearning for. Gentle, tentative at first, then deepening. He holds you like you’re fragile, like he’s scared to break you, and in that moment, everything else fades away.

“For the record, I like you too,” he says.

“Can I print that?” you tease, already heading toward your laptop.

He takes your hand and spins you back to him effortlessly. The second he has you by the waist, he pulls you in and kisses you so deeply that you both lift off the ground. You're both quite literally suspended in the moment.

“This is going to take some getting used to,” you murmur against his lips. 

***

It’s been a little over a month since you found out, and you’ve never been happier.

You smile, reading another one of his Superman articles while covering for him when he suddenly goes missing to deal with a disaster downtown. The moment he comes back from saving the day again, you tease him. 

“You need to stop interviewing yourself,” you say, smacking him lightly with the paper.

“Lois would kick your ass if she ever found out.”

“I know,” he laughs.

You spend your days getting each other coffee, sharing quiet moments in the office, and stealing little glances across crowded rooms. It felt right, like everything was finally falling into place.

You’re spending the night at Clark’s place like you’ve been doing more often lately. He’s relaxed, in his usual comfortable jeans and a soft shirt, and you’re cuddled up together on the couch in front of the TV. It’s a quiet night, one of those rare moments where you’re both just taking care of yourselves, not rushing anywhere. 

You point at the TV with your ice cream-covered spoon. “See? I told you,” you say with a grin, nudging him playfully.

“There’s no way you guessed the ending,” he protests.

“I’m just that good,” you tease back, flashing him a smile.

Before you can say anything else, he looks at you and gently wipes some ice cream off your lip with his thumb, then sucks it off like it’s the sweetest thing he’s tasted.

He goes back to watching the TV like he didn’t just do something completely distracting. You’re focused only on him now. If he wants your full attention, then he has it.

“Clark Joseph Kent,” you scold.

He glances at you, innocent as ever, as he moves closer to you.

“I’m sorry,” he says before he leans down and kisses you. Honestly, you have no idea if he’s trying to get the ice cream off your lips or if it’s something much deeper. The moment his tongue slips into your mouth, it’s clear he’s not after the ice cream.

You toss your spoon haphazardly across the room and grip his shirt, pulling him closer. He smiles into the kiss, you are just too cute to resist.

Then, suddenly, as if he’s reading your mind, he lifts you up effortlessly, cradling you in his arms as if you’re weightless. In a few strides, he’s at his bedroom door, pushing it open with his foot.

He lies over you and presses you into the mattress, and you can feel his hard length through his sweatpants. Your body acts on its own as you buck your hips against him. The way you’re showing just how badly you need him is enough to make him smile against your lips again. 

“You keep smiling,” you coo, breathless.

“With you, I can’t help it.”

The way he says it with that pretty dimpled smile almost makes you combust. He was going to be the end of you, you were sure of it. 

Suddenly, you grab him by the hair, you pull him closer, your lips reconnecting in a fiery kiss. Your hands grip onto him like you’re afraid he might slip through your fingers if you don’t hold on tight enough.

He pulls back from the kiss just enough to catch his breath, and you find yourself wanting to follow him, to close that tiny space between you again.

He looks at you, breathless, his lips parted, shirt deliciously half undone. This is the picture of temptation. 

“You know, if you wanted to…” he says, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You definitely like where this is going.

“We could have sex—”

“In the sky?” you finish for him, practically buzzing at the thought.

The two of you go up to the roof of his apartment…

“Hold on,” he says, and before you can even process what’s happening, you’re clinging to him like a koala. His arms are solid around you, and then you’re in the air. Wind rushes past, cool against your cheeks, the ground shrinking away beneath you until the city is just a quilt of lights.

It’s… magical.

The moment you break through the cloud line, everything softens, moonlight spilling silver over endless white billows.

“Is this safe?” you ask, glancing around like you’re afraid the clouds might vanish if you breathe too hard.

“Yes,” he assures you. “You don’t have to worry. But if you’re uncomfortable—”

“No, I… I trust you.” The words come out quieter than you intended, but they’re true. Your eyes catch his, and you can feel your own sparkle with the rush of adrenaline and awe. Even though this was more than a little daunting, you knew you could trust Clark with anything and everything.

Being in his arms like this feels… right. Like you’ve been meant to be here all along. You give a small, almost shy smile. “Plus, you have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming of this.”

“Is that right? What else have you dreamed about?” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“Clark, you can’t just…”

“I can’t?” he whispers back, kissing your neck lightly, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make you lose yourself. Every one of your senses is set on fire… the cold of the air around you contrasting with the heat of your body. It was like holding onto pure sunlight, each one of his touches a soft kiss from the sun. 

Taking the lobe of your ear between his lips, he gently nibbles, and you let out a little whimper, your arms going slack from the sudden rush of sensation.

Thank goodness he was holding you up, or you might have melted right there and become a puddle in the middle of Metropolis. 

He’s only kissed your neck, and you’re already a shivering mess. He cups your face with his left hand, smiling at you like you’re the only girl in the world.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“Keep saying things like that and I might just drop dead.”

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your skin as he holds your waist securely with one arm. You can feel the gentle vibration of his laugh against your cheek, making your stomach do a flip. 

Using his free hand, his fingers expertly hook under the fabric of your panties, and with a teasing tug, they slip through his fingers, slipping off and disappearing into the wind, landing who knows where.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, a guilty smile on his lips. And honestly, when he’s that cute, how could you possibly be mad?

“Kiss me and I’ll forget all about it.”

And Clark obliges, kissing you deeply, your lips moving in perfect sync. You wrap your legs around his waist, and his hands slide down to hold your ass as he holds you that much closer.  

Just then, you can feel his hard cock, pressing against you; it’s dying to be released. You grind your hips, making him let out a hiss of pleasure, which has got to be one of your favourite sounds. 

“I want you,” you whine, and you don’t care how desperate you sound. The gentleman that Clark is, he doesn’t keep you waiting. He eases his thick cock inside of you.. Tears prick at your eyes as he stretches you out.

“Please, please…,” you beg, even though you don’t fully know what you’re begging for. Maybe for this feeling to never end. You dig your fingers into his back as he slowly brings you up and down on his cock to match his thrusts. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, and you nod quickly. You’re practically sucking him in with your wet cunt, you’d take nothing he could give you. You bite down gently on his neck, trying to keep yourself from losing control. His skin starts turning a light red with each bite you leave. 

“You’ll leave marks,” Clark moans, but there’s no hint of anger, only something more like approval. In fact, you think he likes it.

You catch yourself daydreaming about how beautiful he’d look, marked up with your hickeys, a little wild and wrecked. The thought sends a thrill through you.

“Because you’re mine,” you say as if it’s obvious.

“I’m yours,” he confirms. The words do more to him than he’d care to admit, and he puts all that energy into pleasing you.

He fucks you, the sound of your hips meeting echoing softly around you, surrounded by the endless clouds.

You can tell he’s holding back. You knew he could never literally fuck you through the clouds because you’d break in half. But still, you want more.

“You can go harder,” you whisper, breathless. “I can take it.”

“You sure?”

“Never been more sure of anything.”

With that, he flips you over, your legs dangling as his chest presses firmly against your back, impaling you on his cock.

His arms lock tightly around your waist, holding you close as you moan erratically, squirming in his grip. You might just be seeing stars.

“Clark!” is the only thing that comes out of your mouth clearly. The rest is just screams and moans, your mind completely overtaken, the part that handles logic shutting down entirely. He’s fucking the brains out of you, and you’ll be surprised if you’re capable of stringing together two sentences tomorrow. 

Not to mention the way he sounds. It was music to your ears, hearing his breathy moans as he lets himself go. He moves at a punishing pace, the bulge of his cock appearing and disappearing in your stomach as he thrusts, but you want it like that. You want him to have you completely, to stretch you out and use your pussy exactly the way you both need him to. 

***

After a fuck-session that left your bones aching and your body weak from having been put in positions you didn’t even think were possible, you were in bed together. You're pressed against him, lying more on him than the bed because he’s just that comfy. And who could blame you for wanting to run your hands up and down his abs? He looks down at you, the sun drafting in through the windows and bathing you in its light. You squint, blinking away the lingering haze—you two had really fucked the night away. 

“I’m not gonna be able to get up for work later,” you murmur softly. “You’ll have to carry me everywhere.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he replies, kissing the top of your head gently.

“My hero,” you whisper, holding him tighter. Now you could finally put the debate to rest. Superman is definitely good in bed.

Main Masterlist

[lessersole]

Aspen this is so good! I hadn't realised I missed this world until you gave us more 😍 You make it all seem so natural and real and tactile, and her growth and confidence, the relationship - and sex - all so satisfying. So glad we got another look at these two. And now I'm kinda curious about some of the other cult members...

A Chosen Sequel: Ascension

Characters/Pairings: Angel!Bucky x Elim-Angel!!Reader Word Count: 8.9k Summary: After living through the transformation and your first full cycle of the moon, it is finally time to emerge in your new form.

Content Warnings: explicit smut: oral (female receiving), vaginal intercourse; exhibitionism; cult themes; outdoor sex; terato/monster fucking (technically you're both supernatural beings now, so...)

Notes: To be completely honest, even though I built up tons of half notes of lore for the backstoy/futurestory/shape of this AU, once I finished the series last fall, I actually didn't know if I'd ever actually go back to it. I put Chosen!Bucky on the list of potential things to write for Hot Bucky Summer, but I didn't think it would really pan out. I decided to pull up the old doc anyway just to poke at it and say at least I'd tried. AND THEN THIS ENDED UP POURING OUT. So, @mumbles411, if no one else cares, I think at least you will!

Additional Note: This is my week WEEK SEVEN offering for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "put this on" and lingerie.

Chosen Masterlist

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

They say the body forgets pain, otherwise no one would ever give birth, or submit to a second tattoo. But whoever coined that phrase had never grown a pair of wings by force of sex and blood and magic.

You’re coming to the end of the first full lunar cycle since Bucky carved the sigil into your shoulder blade, since your body convulsed and split, since your mind blazed white at the threshold of human experience and then, impossibly, remade itself around the new truths. As he promised, the days that followed were devoted to rest, healing, and the slow, awkward courtship of your own transformation—a honeymoon of sorts, if by honeymoon one meant a period of feverish seclusion punctuated by equal measures of tenderness and torment.

Bucky had rarely left your side, and you hadn’t seen anyone else. But with all the rest you needed to build up your muscles and your stamina in your new form, all the food you could ever want (still delivered with ceremonial regularity), and the doting way Bucky anticipated your every change in mood or need, you hardly noticed the isolation. You imagined your horizons would broaden at some point, but as of yet, you did not crave or even think of the existence of anyone but Bucky.

It suited you, really, to spend your recovery largely horizontal—sometimes alone, sometimes wrapped up in wings and limbs, sometimes simply floating on your back in the solarium’s heated pool, watching dust motes spiral in golden shafts of morning sun. That was where you first dared to try and unfurl your wings in earnest, unsure whether they would soak up water like a down comforter or drag you under with their new and unknown weight.

They were clumsy things at first, always in the way, knocking over objects and sending glass vases crashing, mussing the covers off the bed, catching on Bucky’s biceps when he tried to lift you. The pain had not left you—not fully—but it had changed, softened, reshaped itself into new kinds of ache.

And you also ached in other, more literal ways, too. Sometimes with a throb so deep in your cunt it was hard to distinguish where the transformation left off and the wanting began. Sometimes with a kind of raw, hungry ache for Bucky’s hands and teeth and cock and the way he called you “my elim” in all moments of passion between you, even when he was knuckles-deep inside you, even when he had you bent over the terrace railing and was moving so hard and fast it seemed like he could split you open along every seam.

That’s the thing you wouldn’t have guessed and yet seemed so plainly obvious now about metamorphosis: how it makes you insatiable for the person who midwifed your new skin. There was a craving in you now, cellular and endless, to have him take you, warm you, fuck you until you were emptied out and built again. But also to hear his voice, to watch him, to have his softer, innocent touches. You had thought, before, that you knew submission, but this was a mutual devotion that made your old flames and entanglement seem like wisps of smoke.

“Put this on,” he says, rousing you from your languid sunset watching on the terrace.

He offers you a hanger with a slip of black lace and silk, the straps delicate. You raise an eyebrow at him, a silent question. Since the night of the transformation, you’ve been naked except for towels, bedsheets, and the occasional silk kimono. The idea of clothing now seems almost absurd, a regression, and yet—he’s looking at you in a way that makes your blood warm, and you realize there’s a ritual to this, too.

He grins, wicked and sweet, and runs his thumb along your cheekbone. “It’s a present,” he says, as if that explains everything. “For the last night of the cycle.”

You turn it over in your hand, letting the fabric trickle through your fingers. The lace is intricate, jet black, and edged in blue so dark it only catches the light at certain angles—midnight blue that reminds you of Bucky’s eyes when blown with the heights of lust in the middle of the night.

“Go on,” he says. “I want to see you in it.”

You let the hanger dangle from one finger and eye him—your wings shudder and gather about you almost unconsciously, a protective gesture you never had before. “Should I be nervous?”

He shrugs, looking deeply pleased with himself. “Not in the least.”

You retreat into the bedroom and slip the garment over your head. The silk is cool against your skin, and the lace cups you with surprising delicacy. The fabric draws attention to what you are now, the way your curves have shifted and become more themselves. Thighs and upper arms plush, torso sturdy. The flesh or your left shoulder blade is forever marked by the sigil Bucky carved, no longer inflamed but now a proud scar, though still tender. And, of course, the wings. The weight and swing of your own body—a body that moves more powerfully, more lightly, post-transformation—finally feels right. Almost regal.

You join Bucky again where he is standing by the balcony. His gaze drinks you in so intently you feel the heat rise up your chest and cheeks.

The desire in his eyes is instant, yes, but there’s another layer as well. Reverence. Maybe awe, as if he has not yet fully accepted that you have taken to this new form, that you grew these wings and survived and did not run from him, and what you are together is still possible. For one wild instant, you think you see something like hope or even relief.

He closes the small distance between you, fingers grazing the inside of your wrist, and you feel the gentle draw of his power in the pulse there, like a taste-test, like a question.

“You are—” He falters, almost laughs, like the right word won’t come. “Astounding.”

You snort, unable to help it. “You made me this way,” you remind him, but the quiver in your belly says you need the compliment more than you’d admit.

“Perfect,” he says, leaning in to brush his stubbled jaw against your neck, then lower, letting his lips follow the sweep of your collarbone and then the edge of the lace. He kisses the sigil, a ritual unto itself, and your breath stutters in response. The rush it sends through your body is fast, electric, and you have to reach for the balcony to keep your balance. You hear his amused exhale, feel him steady your hips with his hands.

“Is this how it’s going to be every month?” you ask, feeling him smile against your skin.

He gives a low, affirmative sound. “Potentially more intense,” he says, “as you grow into it.”

You try to muster a quip about the mystical PMS, but he’s already kissing you, one palm cupping the back of your skull, the other splaying wide over your waist, just beneath where the wings emerge. His kisses are always like this—consuming, almost violent, a hunger that can’t be contained. You let yourself fall into him, parting your lips, drawing him closer, closer. He tastes of salt and the faintest savor of metal, a trace of the rawness you associate with him and only him. The bond between you—sometimes feverish, sometimes just a hum at the edge of your awareness—snaps taut, like someone plucked a violin string inside your bones.

“Bucky—” you say, or try to, but shush yourself because you don’t really need words for this. You can feel everything he wants to say from the way his hands smooth down your body, the way he maps the geography of you, the ridge of newly knitted bone beneath your scapula, the gentle tease of silk over the curve of your ass, the way he palms your thighs showing how he is eager to be between them.

He stops himself, though, and you whimper.

His hands rest heavy on your hips; you’re ready to be taken, eager for it, but instead of laying you down or bending you over the balustrade, he pulls away, catching your face in his hands for a moment longer, searching you. Then he presses his lips, dry and cool, to your brow.

“We have to wait,” he says, voice thick with restraint. “Tonight is the full moon. Tonight we show them what you are.”

You blink, the heat in your belly cooling a little, replaced by the nervous jangle you haven’t felt since the first night. You’d nearly forgotten about the others, the cult, or whatever the Winged Heritage Foundation truly is. “Show who?” you ask, but you can already picture it: the clearing, the altar, the circle of masked faces, all of them awaiting the spectacle of your newly minted status. The debut of their new elim.

You don’t tremble, but your wings fold a little closer at the memory of your first night, at the primal attention of the crowd, the way your body and your needs had become a public devotion. You should be mortified by the prospect of another ritual, but you’re not. Maybe it’s the mark, or the bond, or simply a new constitution. But you want them to see, want them to witness you in your full glory—want to know, in a raw and unpolished way, that this was even more than what they thought, elevated by Bucky’s design.

But you have no idea what this will entail. Do you kneel? Do you fly? Do you speak?

He senses the direction of your thoughts. “You won’t be alone in this,” he says, voice rough but gentle. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

You nod, but your nerves are a frenzied little tap-tap-tap beneath your skin. Bucky’s thumb strokes your cheek, grounding you.

It is dark by the time he drapes a heavy, ceremonial cloak over your shoulders, velvet so deep a black that you wonder if it eats up light instead of reflecting it. Your newly strong body can bear the weight, but you feel the solemnity of it as soon as it rests on your shoulders; you’re being wrapped in a living history, entering into something ancient and sacred that far transcends your own rebirth.

Bucky has dressed as well, in the dark, severe robes you last saw on him at the altar. They all know of the magnificent wings that are an extension of him, but yours will be a revelation.

When the time comes, you walk out together, wings tucked, hoods up, footsteps a silent duet down the long gallery, past black and white portraits in which every pair of eyes seems to watch you.

You follow him down the winding, torch-lit path through the gardens. Each step feels inexorable, sanctioned by every version of fate you can imagine. Bucky’s hand rests at the small of your back, careful not to catch the new wings, but you feel the static charge between you, even through the deep velvet. At first, you expect others to join, to appear out of the hedges or along the gravel walk, but instead, it is just the two of you. You walk in shadow and silence, the night perfumed by honeysuckle and the ever-present Luna’s Tears.

When you reach the marble steps at the edge of the woods, Bucky halts, turns to you, and smooths your hair like a benediction. “Ready?” he asks, but there is no right answer. So you just nod, and the two of you ascend, taking a different path to the hedge maze, one meant perhaps only for him, and now you.

The maze is alive tonight, leaves trembling in the scent-thick air, the gravel white as bone in the scatter of lantern light. Bucky walks confidently, your hand clasped in his, and you have to stride a little more quickly to keep up with his pace.

With each turn in the labyrinth, you recall how you were brought here the first time: blind, nervous, first as a guest and then as a prize. Now you walk of your own free will, feet solid on the path, your own body attuned in ways you had not anticipated to this ritualistic place.

The path ends at the clearing. Unlike your initiation, the crowd here is two or three times larger, masked, humming, waiting. They’ve arrayed themselves in perfect rings fanning out and around the altar, some candlelit and some holding orbs of that eerie blue, so that shadows leap and shiver across every face. None of them avert their eyes from you.

The atmosphere is thick and reverent. There is the dais, the altar, both gleaming whiter than you remember.

Bucky parts the crowd. His presence alone clears a path, as if gravity acts differently around him, as if the whole assembly tilts ever so slightly toward his body and his will. He does not release your hand until you are at the altar’s base, and then, only when he must—when the moment asks for it—and you sense it, the silent prompt to step forward alone.

You do.

This was always going to be a spectacle, but you are not here for them; you’re here because this is the shape your life has taken, the next necessary surface to cross, and you want to do it with intention. You want them to see, yes, but more than that, you want to see yourself reflected in their gaze, to know how it is to surface in the world like this.

You remember the choreography from that first night—the ritual unrobing, the baring of your body to the moon and assembled eyes. But when your fingers slide the clasp from your throat and the cloak pools at your heels, you do not flinch or tremble. You stand still, head high, and let the wings unfurl—not in a hesitant flutter, but in a wide, deliberate reach that slides through the air around you, and the reveal sends a ripple through the congregation.

The shift in the atmosphere is immediate. There is a collective inhale, a flicker of awe, the surprise of every masked face in the crowd. The lace and silk slip glows blue at its seams where the moonlight catches it. Your wings catch every flicker and shimmer in the lamplight. Pearl and gold, at once softer and more savage than you could have imagined for yourself, and you feel, for the first time, entirely magnificent.

The weight of two hundred eyes is nothing compared to the sensation of Bucky at your back, a gravity that pulls all things into itself. He moves to stand behind you, close enough that you feel the heat radiate from him.

With one almost-casual flick, Bucky lets his own cloak fall aside. Then, in perfect synchronicity, he unfurls his wings—tremendous, one spectral white and the other jet-black, the span dwarfing your own but not diminishing it. The crowd ripples again, a low murmur rising, then falling instantly into a hush so total you can hear the soft slap of your own heartbeat in your ears.

He stands so close that if you leaned back a fraction, you’d rest against the hard plane of his chest and let your wings overlap in a strange, holy geometry.

"For those who bear witness," he says, voice pitched low, but carrying to the outer rings of the crowd, "behold the first and only to survive the full ritual. Elim, as she is and always will be."

He leans in and ghosts his lips against the shell of your ear, and you incline your head toward him. “Now they know what it means to be mine,” he whispers, low enough for you alone, though the crowd must see the shiver it sends through you.

Then his palm comes to rest at the curve where your wing roots into muscle and for a moment, nothing happens but the slow, deliberate movement of his thumb stroking the arch of your wing in a way that is so tender, so erotically reverent, that your breath catches. And the entire clearing, every last acolyte and devotee, hears the soft, ripped-from-you moan that follows.

You can feel the air itself grow charged, thick with longing and approval, as Bucky continues to trace the topmost row of feathers, all the way down to the quivering edge where sensation is sharpest. The crowd’s silence is not just expectant but worshipful, a hush as if the night itself holds its breath for what comes next.

“Observe the perfection of her transition.” He turns you by the shoulders so that the crowd sees the mark on your back, the script of the scar, the way your wings arch in a wide, impossible span. “She is no longer offering; she is elim. Bound to me. Elevated in status and power.”

The crowd—hundreds, maybe more—falls even further into absolute stillness. You are made aware, at last, of how powerfully you are being watched. Not just as a spectacle, but as a living invocation. You stand tall, but you know you’re trembling.

There’s a tension in you, an ache, almost a fever: you feel yourself vibrating with the pressure of being looked at, of being made into a myth, of being the only thing Bucky wants and the only thing this crowd will remember from tonight. When he kisses you, it’s not just a claim but a collision—mouth on yours, tongue demanding. You open for him. The taste is all salt and iron, wanting, and the promise of something you’ve never needed the way you need right now.

He lets the kiss go on, lets the crowd watch your lips part and your breath stutter, lets them witness the way you arch into him as his hands map every inch of your body above the slip, then under it, then through the fabric itself, and you’re barely aware that you may as well be naked for the barely there covering of the silk and the wings that shadow the both of you.

Bucky breaks the kiss only to turn you by your shoulders to face the congregation again. His next words are for them, but his hands never leave your body.

“Tonight, you see the truth of union. The ascension of an elim is not metaphor,” he says, and his right hand traces the line of your spine. The crowd’s eyes track the movement, hungry and intent. “Our bond is real. Her power is my own, and my own is now doubled.”

He presses your body forward, guiding you with both hands until you bend at the waist and brace yourself against the altar’s marble lip. Your wings flare instinctively and frame your body in a perfect tableau; you know, even without looking, that every eye is fixed on you now, every acolyte and masked onlooker spellbound by the spectacle.

He lowers his mouth to your shoulder, teeth grazing the edge of the scar, and you shudder, half-dazed by want. He pushes the slip up to your waist, exposing the plush of your ass, and the cold air hits you at the precise moment his hand does, palm cupping, fingers digging in.

You close your eyes and hear rather than see the crowd’s reaction—a low, collective intake, a shiver that moves the air around you. Bucky wants them to see, wants to show off the way you arch and yield under his hands, how you tremble for him. You realize, with a hot rush to your core, that this is the part of the ritual he loves most. To have everyone bear witness to your need. To make this the center of the cult’s gravity for one precious, endless moment.

He kneels behind you, kisses the backs of your thighs, and your knees buckle, almost giving out under the flood of sensation. You grip the altar with both hands, knuckles whitening. His hands pull your ass apart and the cold air makes you gasp. He bows his head and presses his lips to the base of your spine, then bites you there, sharp enough to linger. The crowd, sensing the intensity, shudders as a collective organism. Some of the masked faces tilt, mouths parting.

The first time Bucky fucked you on this altar, you were in shock, too dazed to do anything but tremble and whine. Now, you want to give them a spectacle. You want them to see what you have become, what it is to be remade, claimed by this fallen but all-powerful angel.

He urges your knees apart and slides his tongue up the seam of your cunt, slow and hot, and your moan breaks across the breathless silence of the clearing. You brace yourself, fingers grappling against the cold stone, as he works you with an unhurried, expert devotion that dares you to forget the onlookers—difficult, with the weight of their attention burning over every inch of exposed skin. He wants them to see you fall apart, and you want it, too.

You hear the tiny gasps and stifled shudders of the congregation, masked and faceless but not voiceless, as pleasure builds in you. Bucky is relentless, tracing circles around your clit, then lapping at your folds, then fucking you with his tongue. You arch shamelessly, needing more, feeling your wings spread wider, feathers trembling with each pulse of sensation.

It’s all so much—more than you’d ever have felt possible, more public, more sacredly obscene than any sex you’d ever imagined. There is no shame. No modesty. Only the sharp, honeyed flood of sensation as he devours you, as the entire congregation feels your pleasure as if it’s their own.

Bucky’s tongue is slow to start, then insistent, pushing you mercilessly toward the crest. Your vision goes white at the edges. You moan, you gasp, you cry out, and the crowd hums in sympathetic vibration—hundreds of witnesses made accomplices to your unraveling.

His tongue works you faster now, fingers pressing where you’re most sensitive, and you open your eyes for one daring second to see the rapt faces, the hands clutching at chests, the wide-eyed awe of the uninitiated and the giddy hunger of the initiated.

And Bucky doesn’t stop, not when you start shaking, not when you cry out. When you come, it is not a single bright snap but a rolling tide, a wave that breaks over your body and ripples out into the clearing, shaking the onlookers to their core.

Bucky holds you there, one huge hand bracing your thigh and the other splayed across your lower back, fingers gripping the base of your wing. You moan again, long and low, and ever affected by his touch, especially when he touches your new, feathered limb. It sings for him, pulses the ache for more.

When he finally stands, his hands are steady, reverent, but his cock is already thick and ready, and you feel dizzy at how much you want it.

He lines up behind you, doesn’t waste time. Hands sink into your hips; his cock pushes into you, slow at first, stretching you open for the show. There’s no privacy here and you don’t want it. You want the crowd to see the new body you wear, the depths you’re willing to bend to, the pleasure you take in being his—made and remade for this moment.

He rocks into you with strokes designed for spectacle, deep enough you can’t keep quiet, rough enough to make your wings flare, the muscles, new and old, clenching around the base of each feather. They’re alive now, the wings, shuddering with every thrust, registering every jolt of pleasure through a new, raw nerve system that feels connected to your sex in a closed circuit.

He’s speaking, maybe, or chanting, but your mind’s gone to rust and honey, aware only of the way you grip the altar, your chest and cheek pressed flush to the cool marble.

You hear your name—no, not your name, your title—intoned by the congregation as a low, answering chorus, and realize the whole assembly is echoing Bucky’s rhythm, their fascinated hush punctured at every snap of his hips into your. You can feel their eyes drinking in the spectacle, the way your wings flex and your body yields and the way you tremble, not from pain this time, but from a pleasure that seems to resonate through the entire forest and back again.

He takes you hard, relentless, and you love him for it, for giving you this moment, for making you something more than you could ever have been.

You are shaking, yes, and you are loud, but Bucky wants this of you. He gathers your hair in a handful, yanks you upright so your back arches and your wings flare out, impossible not to display. He bites your shoulder, over the sigil, and the pain is an exclamation mark on all the wild joy. Without being told, you know he wants you to look at them, to meet the gaze of the crowd, to make them complicit in this.

You find Natasha’s gaze at the front, cool mask betraying nothing but a slight tilt of her head, as if to say—see, this was always going to be you, that the rest of us are only spectators, lucky enough to bear witness. Steve, stoic as ever, stands sentinel at Natasha’s flank, eyes blazing with something like awe and unspeakable hunger. You spot a familiar sweep of blonde hair—Yelena, maybe, her lips parted around a slow, wicked smile. Thor’s massive hand closes around the shaft of an enormous ceremonial scepter, knuckles white, and Wanda, eyes huge and glassy, has an orb floating above her palm, its blue glow throbbing in sympathy with your mounting pleasure.

And if you needed any more evidence that your transformation was a miracle, there it is: every eye, every hungry mind in the clearing, enthralled not with Bucky, but with you. With your body and your wings and the way you can take him, withstand him, offer yourself up to this ritual with glorious abandon.

He fucks you brutally, beautifully, worshipfully, with every collision sending you further from yourself and deeper into the role that’s always been waiting for you. The spotlight of a hundred minds and the heat of his body keep you molten.

Bucky’s hands are unyielding as he rides you through the anchor points of your own pleasure, alternating between tenderness and delicious cruelty as his cock fills you, pulling your head back with one hand cradling your throat, not to constrict, but to frame it, to make an icon of your vulnerability.

You cannot say if it’s the energy of the crowd, the moon, or Bucky’s grip tightening at the root of your wing, but you come first and hard, the orgasm tearing through you with a violence that seizes your whole body. He does not slow; if anything he seems to draw power from it, fucking you through the aftershocks, groaning as you flutter and clamp around him. The sound you make is half scream, half sob. You know the entire congregation hears you, feels it, wants it. You are suddenly and perfectly aware of the hundredfold echo of that sensation, as if each witness is made to relive the pulse of your pleasure inside their own skin.

Even with your mind blown open by pleasure, you can pick out your new name among the ancient syllables, repeated and echoed, a new invocation: Elim. Elim. Elim.

Bucky’s hand on your throat becomes a caress; with the other, he spreads your wing to its full span, displaying you like a prize, like a victorious flag. He groans into your ear, “Do you feel them, my elim? All of them, worshipping at your pleasure? Do you sense their devotion burning a path right to your soul?”

The answer is yes, yes, and more—your mind dizzy with feedback as your body rides out the wave—and you nod, though you’re not sure if you can form words anymore.

He moves inside you with a final, punishing rhythm, and as you reach for the edge again, you sense the building need in him, the way he is feeding off you, the way the boundary of your bodies is a fiction, a pleasant little lie. In this moment, you are as much him as yourself, fused, doubled, impossible to separate. You want more, you want all of it, and you let yourself be greedy. You want him to come in you before them all, to finish the ritual and make the bond eternal, and he must know it, because with a shuddering, brutal grip he finally spills inside you, teeth bared and wings flexed so wide it’s as if he could tear open the sky itself.

A silence follows, a sacred ringing in your skull, and you sense the echo of it in the assembly—a resonance that splinters out from the altar and into the ground itself, through roots and soil and up into the night sky. There is a long, exhale-laden hush before the crowd reacts, the sound swelling not as a cheer but as a low, reverent hum, a final release of all the tension that had spun the entire night into being.

Bucky does not let go of you. For a count of heartbeats, he keeps you bent over the altar, and with his cock still inside you, you have a moment to understand what it means to be truly claimed, to be the axis of this cult’s attention and affection. When he withdraws, you feel the wet warmth spill down your thighs; there is no pretense to modesty, and you let every second of exposure stretch out, letting the crowd’s eyes drink their fill—not as judgment but as adulation.

Bucky holds the back of your head in one hand, steadying you while he waits for your breathing to right itself and your wings to stop quivering. He strokes a line up your spine, a gentleness in the aftermath, soothing and grounding, but also staking his claim. “You did so well,” he whispers, though you doubt anyone here doubts that now. He presses a kiss to the base of your skull, every bit as reverent as the crowd’s hum.

You stand, finally, upright, drawing a deep breath, and you feel your wings settle against your back. Bucky presses another kiss to the shell of your ear—an apology, perhaps, for how he just obliterated you in front of his entire congregation. Or maybe it’s a promise, that this is not the end but the beginning.

Bucky reclaims his place at your back, wings lifted to frame around you both like prophecy. He lifts your chin for a final viewing—your body open, painted in sweat and tremor, cunt already starting to take in the mark of his seed—and you see the approval in his face, so bright and absolute it eclipses whatever fragment of doubt you ever harbored in your own heart. The congregation bows as one, a ripple of submission that radiates outward through every living body present.

“It is done,” Bucky says, barely above a whisper, but the clearing trembles as if he’s loosed a thunderclap.

Strangely, you don’t want to wash the taste of him off you, or to let this night slip too quickly into memory. And you won’t. As you stand, Bucky helps you reassemble yourself—pulling down the slip, sliding the cloak over your shoulders again, tucking stray hairs behind your ears and smoothing your wings against your back with a gentle, practiced touch. He looks at you then, his own eyes rimmed with gold, breath still slightly ragged, and for a brief, vulnerable moment he looks so young and so old at the same time it makes your heart twist.

The crowd is dispersing in silent, streaming patterns, some in pairs, some alone, some pausing to stare a final time before vanishing into the paths. Natasha stands apart, her gaze fixed on you with a pride so subtle you almost miss it. No one speaks directly to you, but as you pass, you feel the air thrumming with gratitude, with awe, and a more carnal undercurrent that you thrum with pride for having stoked.

You walk behind Bucky, the two of you a matched set—wings, black and white, gold and pearl, a symmetry in opposites. There’s a path laid in salt and crushed blue petals, and he leads you down it, not as a spectacle now but as something private, sacred, a thing just for you. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t talk; his fingers thread through yours, and you sense that the rest of the evening will belong only to you, not to the congregation, not to the moon, not even to the legend of what you are becoming, but to the specific and ordinary moment of two bodies arriving home.

You are trembling, yes, but it is not from shame. You thought you would, but it hasn’t rooted in you, hasn’t found purchase among all you now know of hunger and devotion and rebirth. There is a power in being watched, seen so entirely, and yet still loved by the one who made you new.

Bucky keeps walking, past the turnoff to the main estate, to a side path leading into the trees. The hush of the woods closes around you, dense and humid, the air thick with sap and shadow. He leads you down a slope where the smell of loam grows richer and the silver-blue light of the moon dapples everything between the trees. You follow, cloak dragging in the soft moss, your bare feet silent on the packed earth.

The path ends abruptly at the edge of a small, perfect lake, black as ink and flat as glass, hemmed by weeping willows and the wild overgrowth of night-blooming flowers. The world is so quiet here, even the cicadas seem to hold their breath.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. He shrugs off his cloak, the wings folding tight to his back, and with a sweep of his hand, strips himself of the black trousers that fit close to his skin, the fabric clinging briefly before he slips free of them and drops them atop a flat-topped stone. Your own hands ease the straps of the silk slip from your shoulders, and you let it fall, soft as a sigh, to the ground. Bucky watches the motion with a kind of wonder, then steps toward you, not as a priest or a leader, but as a man who is simply and utterly yours.

You move together to the water’s edge. He steps into the water first, the surface breaking around his ankles, then knees, then thighs. He doesn’t look back, but the slow, certain way he wades in leaves no room for doubt that you’ll follow. You do, your feet sinking into the cool mud, the water rising up your calves and knees, sending shivers of cold and delight through your every new nerve. Your wings flare, the fine, downy tips skimming the lake’s surface and leaving a trembling wake in their path.

Bucky waits for you where the water comes to his hips, arms open. You find yourself hypnotized by the way he moves: the casual power of his shoulders, the way his body narrows to the waist, how his wings press sleek and wetted against his back, the way his eyes rest on you with a hunger that is somehow softer, more patient than before. The lake, under the full moon, is a mirror; you see the two of you reflected as creatures of myth and muscle, feathers and flesh, all of it so new and yet somehow inevitable.

You reach him and he draws you into his arms, cradling you to his chest. The water is cold at first, but you acclimate, and it buoys you together. He sinks lower, so your breasts just touch the surface, the water licking at your nipples, and he kisses you there, ghosting his lips over your skin in lazy, spiraling circles, until you shiver and cling to his shoulders.

Bucky floats you out, far enough from the bank that the bottom falls away, and you’re weightless for the first time since your body grew heavier with wings and meaning. You shiver, but not from the coolness of the water or the night air—it’s the delight and the odd, unsteadiness of being suspended, of being able, at last, to let go. The wings bloom out behind you, half in and half out of the water. When you look back, their reflection glows faintly, not quite earthly, a mirror image in silver and pale gold.

Bucky’s hands are large and warm in the chilled water. He rests one against the small of your back, the other cupping the underside of your thigh, your legs wrapped around his torso.

“It’s ancient, this,” he murmurs, voice low. “Older than the altar, older than the rites. Bodies, new-made, baptizing each other in moonlit water.”

Bucky kisses you, slow and loose, mouths open, soft exploring of what you’ve both endlessly mapped over the last month. When you finally break apart, needing to draw breath, the moon, bathes him in a silver, ethereal glow, showing in actuality the supernatural nature of who he is. You tip your head back to look at the heavens, and Bucky draws you closer, pressing his lips to your neck with fervent and feverish kisses.

The cold of the lake is nothing compared to the blaze of his affection, his hands gripping your waist, then your ass, then up to press fingers between your shoulder blades at the seam of your wings, and all the while he’s never not kissing some part of you, as if he needs anchoring as badly as you do.

You feel yourself melt, skin loosening, wings slackening and then reflexively tightening around him, feathered arches drawing up protectively. You don’t want to be separate from him; you want to be nested, bracketed together in the small, echoing space of the world where only you two exist.

He draws back to look at you, moonlight cutting across the blue of his irises, the cold of the water making the flush in your skin all the more stark. His hands move so gentle on your body, so assertive in their intentions. He studies you, thumb circling slow at the margin of your breast, then up to your collarbone, then deliberate, proprietary, at the sigil on your back.

“What comes next?” you ask. “Is this a baptism or a wedding or another full moon ritual, or… just swimming?”

“It’s whatever we need it to be,” Bucky says, the words a soft rumble against your collarbone. “You’re still healing. The body needs water to mend; the wings need it to become strong.”

You turn your face to his and press your lips to his, only briefly. “I don’t feel broken,” you say. And you mean it. There is still pain, sometimes, but it’s a new pain, the pain of a body being used in the way it was finally meant to be used. The pain of being seen, and wanting to be seen.

You frame his jaw with your hands and bring his lips back to yours, swallowing whatever he may or may not have said to your assertion. He’s content to let you. His cock is hard against you, as insistent and unrelenting as ever, but it’s about need, only about, about the necessity for connection, about the act of being with. You lower yourself, reaching to guide him inside, and groan as he slides into you with a slow, delicious drag, the cold of the lake amplifying every friction.

“You are insatiable tonight, my Elim,” he smirks against your mouth.

You laugh, a full-bodied sound that shakes your chest, your wings, and the water around you with ripples. “I think you like it,” you tease, and his answering growl is proof. He pumps into you, deep and slow, the drag of his cock through your wet heat almost too much, almost too intimate, given how nothing but the night and the water and your bodies are present to witness this. He holds you, arranges you, one hand fisting in your hair, the other bracing your hip to drive you down onto him, until you’re both gasping with exertion, the slap of skin, the lapping of water, and the hiss of breath the only sounds in the universe for a moment.

This isn’t a performance or a ritual, not really, but you can feel the echo of the cult’s energy still burning in your skin. Every movement of your wings, every roll of your hips, is a prayer. His mouth is everywhere—your lips, your jaw, the hollow at the base of your neck. The kissing is greedy, almost possessive, as if he can’t believe you’re real, here, his. Maybe you can’t either. One moon cycle of transformation, mysticism, magic, and only each other is no time at all, no time to believe in permanence and to barely grasp hold of the new reality.

And yet it can’t feel more real than it does right now, bathed in moonlight, wrapped up in each other.

When you come for him in the center of the lake, he catches your moans, swallows them greedily in his mouth and his wings unfurl majestically around you, a triumphant gesture. Your climax is quieter than on the altar, but somehow wider, deeper, and when Bucky feels your body pulsing around him he goes very still, jaw flexed, locked in the effort not to finish too soon. The restraint is a gift, even more than the pleasure, and when he finally lets himself go, the sound he makes fills your own chest with overwhelming pleasure that he feels that powerfully because of you, your coupling.

You float together, heat and breath and wing and limb, his arms locked around your waist and your hands braced at the base of his neck. As the aftershocks fade, you rest his forehead to yours, your noses almost but not quite touching. You share breath, feeling, heartbeats.

For a long time, you just breathe. The hush of the lake, the velvet press of the woods around you, the way your bodies bob and drift in the subtle wind—this is unlike any aftermath you’ve ever had. There’s no collapse or desperate scramble for comfort, only a quiet equilibrium.

Eventually, when your skin begins to pebble and you shiver, Bucky guides you toward the bank, breaking the silence only with soft encouragements and the warmest laughter you’ve ever heard from him. He helps you up and out, where the night is colder on your wet skin, and wraps you instantly in your discarded cloak.

The lake and the night have softened you, but also strengthened you, and the walk back to the estate is its own ritual. You know this will be a walk the two of you take together countless times in your entwined future.

Bucky runs his palm—warm, even now—along your spine, fingertips skipping over the dips where new muscle and bone have grown. “Next time,” he says, voice barely a rumble, “we’ll take to the sky together. I want them to see how we move—really move—when we’re not earthbound.”

Your heart flares at the thought. You wonder how it will feel to be airborne, unmoored together in the cold dark, to look down and see the world as a speck and the two of you, radiant, locked in some private orbit. You wonder what the cult will do, who they’ll become, if their new ritual will be a monthly show always or if you’ll be expected to preside over their other affairs as some kind of grotesque, lovely icon at the side of your mate.

But the question doesn’t unsettle you the way it might have before. You have time. You have Bucky. You have a future now that feels more like a future than anything you’d ever let yourself hope for when you were merely human, even if it is monstrous and holy and raw.

A month ago, you would have thought this was madness. Maybe it still is. But when Bucky slings you up in his arms and carries you the last distance to the house, you bury your face in his shoulder, right where the collarbone meets the curve of his neck, and you know you are home. You breathe him in and for one wild second, it feels like you are both a single living thing, knotted together by need and fate and magic.

Inside, the house is warm, and quiet, and there is food waiting on the sideboard—bread and cheese in thick slices, red fruit in a bowl, two tall flutes already frosted with condensation. He pours for you, and when you toast, you do it not as master and acolyte, not as angel and offering, but as equals, as two halves of something that is finally complete.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, not quite joking, not quite solemn.

There are no masks here, no witnesses, only the two of you.

You look at him, and the wings, and the cake, and the silvery crescent of the moon outside the window, and you realize the old self you wore, the life you'd outgrown, is as strange to you now as this unknown future was to you the day you came to this place and stepped into its secrets and impossibilities.

“No,” you say simply. You lean in, letting your forehead rest against his again, your wings folding forward to cradle the both of you in a fortress of glossy feathers. “Not for a single second,” you admit, closing your eyes to the old world, letting this new one rush through you, wild and unchecked and holy.

You mean it. You’re not just resigned to your fate. You’ve run your hands over every inch of it and found no edge that could cut you. There are still many mysteries to unravel, old and new truths to learn of his lore—lore that now belongs to you, too. But you’re exactly where you should be, a thing remade, with someone who knows how to hold every sharp and untested piece of you.

Bucky smiles, and the lights in the room seem to glow warmer for it. He presses his lips to the hollow beneath your ear, then lingers, as if inhaling your answer and storing it away for later. His hand finds yours, thumb tracing lazy circles against your knuckles.

In the hush that follows, you both settle onto the wide, velvet chaise. The world outside whispers in the darkness of the pre-dawn hours. It’s a strange, soft comfort, burrowed into the cushions of the gilded chair, the first bristles of dawn brushing at the ancient windows, the ache in your cunt a background hum to all the other aches, the good and the hard. You let your wings fall completely slack, pillowed over the edge of the chaise and hanging lazily down over the velvet. Bucky relaxes beneath you, hair mussed, eyes thick-lidded. For the first time in weeks, neither of you are in a rush to fuck or to eat or to recover. You exist together in this quiet interim, newly made, and neither of you try to fill the silence with anything but slow, careful, necessary breathing.

You could sleep, easily. But for the first time since the change, you aren’t tired. There is some buried, animal part of you that thrums to be awake now, at the hour when no one else is. You watch the moon’s last light through the window and wonder if this, too, will become some shared ritual—a night each month to simply be in the world, to sit together in a cocoon of sweat and feathers and unhurried breath.

The hush gets so thick you can hear the world outside shift gears: the wind nudges at the corners of the window, the birdsong from the orchard, the faint, almost tectonic settling of the old mansion into its foundations. You try to picture all the rooms you haven’t explored yet, each one with a ghost in the seams or a story of ancient moonlight painted up the wall. Which one will he show you first? Will it be the library, with its ladder and its dizzying heights, or perhaps the conservatory, where plants spill over the eaves and every window smells like citrus and old copper? Will you be shown some archived collection of daggers and blood relics, or the blueprints for whatever impossible projects Bucky is engineering in the scientific labs below?

You want all of it. You want the secrets and the abilities, and you want the thousand-year history of how every strange and celestial thing ended up here on this estate, tangled together like a garden of wild hybrids.

And you will want Bucky, always. Something always seems to hum, a want for him in a primal way, even now, but no less potent is the want to be with him as you are in this quiet—his hand in yours, the steady reassurance of his breathing as you both lie in wait for whatever tomorrow hatches. You don’t need to ask if he feels it, too. The bond is still a wicked, live wire running between every cell, but there’s a new undertone: a comfort you once thought impossible to find in any version of yourself.

Bucky seems to drift, eyes half-closed, the tips of his feathers gently brushing your wing in a lazy, unconscious rhythm. You get the sense that for him, too, this is a miracle he did not believe in until it happened. That all the years, centuries maybe, of ritual and memory and power, had never quite prepared him for the brute fact of you, reborn, lying there in abject, slack-jawed peace, refusing to regret anything.

Now you are something else—maybe even someone else—and yet you feel more nakedly yourself than ever.

When the room turns blue with pre-dawn, Bucky’s hand slides gently down your leg, hitched up over his hip, down your calf, and circles your ankle.

“Do you need to sleep?” he asks, and the question hangs there, curious but without force; he wants you awake if you want to be awake, dead to the world if you need the world to cease for a while.

“No,” you admit. “But I could just sit here, maybe forever, and be okay.”

He seems pleased by this. His thumb finds the notch behind your ankle bone, rubs it in slow, hypnotic circles. You watch the hollow of his throat, the way his pulse drums quietly and you wonder if he feels the same restless contentment you do—a hunger that is finally stilled, but never dulled. The idea pleases you.

There’s a future for you here, and it’s not the one you imagined—but it’s not diminished, either. The work is still there, and always will be: the cause, the research, the pursuit of knowledge that brought you into his orbit in the first place, things to unravel with Bucky. You feel the anticipation prickling under your skin, a scholar’s itch to start piecing things together.

And then, in the hush, almost as if he’s talking to himself, Bucky says, low and marrow-deep, “I never thought I’d truly love another being like this.”

You feel the words sharpen around your ribs, cut in, and you turn to him, half-waiting for him to brush it off or laugh at himself, or explain it away as legacy or destiny or some burden of the blood. But he doesn’t. He is looking at you, only you, blue eyes sharp as sky, no hesitation.

You don’t say it back. Not yet. You let it hang between you, a living, bright thing, but you know you will say those words to him in some fashion, soon. You feel the roots of it already, saplings of it planted through every impossible moment of that first night with him through so many other moments these past weeks. Undeniable. But you have eons of time now before you for it to grow.

Bucky draws a breath, seems about to say more, then only exhales. Whatever thought was there, he swallows it and lets the quiet fill in the space, which you think is maybe the best sign of trust there is. You close your eyes, listen to the drift of his heart under your cheek; the world goes soft and indistinct at the edges, and you understand what it feels like to need nothing else, only this.

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[lessersole]

Ugh yes, neeeed. Clark is too perfect 😍

Leftover Frosting

Pairing: Clark Kent x Female Reader

Summary: Clark bakes you a cake and has a plan for the leftover frosting

Word Count: Over 1.3k

Warnings: Established relationship, foreplay, talk of oral sex (f. receiving), light bondage, slight feels, a bit of humor, Clark Kent (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I meant to post this yesterday for my birthday. Oops! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Clark tried to give you a beautiful cake for your birthday. He really did. It wasn’t that he was bad at baking. He was a great baker who followed recipes to the letter. And the cake was going to be delicious. You just knew it. 

But the presentation… Well, Clark looked so sheepish when set it in front of you, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact. Thanks to the uneven frosting and the crooked letters spelling out your name and ‘happy birthday’, it wasn't exactly beautiful, but it was something. So, was it the prettiest cake? No. But did he put love and care into it? Yes. Absolutely.

“Sorry. One day I’ll be good at frosting cakes,” he mumbled, your heart cracking when he finally gave you a sad smile. 

He had steady hands, so that wasn't the issue. Cake decorating, like many things in life, took patience and practice. He’d nail it one day. Until then, you'd appreciate the effort he put into it and enjoy every treat he baked along the way. 

“Why are you apologizing?” You didn’t hesitate to snap a photo of the cake before you blew out the candle. “It’s perfect,” you said with a smile. 

“It’s not perfect. I messed it up,” he muttered, pushing his glasses up. “I just wanted to give you a good birthday.”

If your heart could've turned inside out it would have. You beckoned him with your finger so he’d bend down. Once he was close enough, you pressed your lips to his and sighed when he immediately deepened the kiss. You weren't going to let him talk down about himself. Not on your birthday. 

“It’s perfect to me because you took the time to make it, and you have given me the best birthday.” You didn't ask for much anyway since having Clark was the best kind of present, but he still went out of his way to get you gifts and bake your favorite cake. Most guys would've bought one instead of trying to bake one. It meant a lot. “So, thank you.”

His gestures of love whether they were big or small made all the difference to you, like when he once wrote your name in sky or when he just held you when you cried and always gave you a kiss before he left for the day. To so many people he was Superman. To you, he was Clark Kent, a good man and an even better boyfriend. A hero to the world, and a hero in your heart. 

“Still not perfect, but I appreciate the thanks.” The sheepish look faded into something slightly more confident once he cut you a slice and fed you a bite. The happy sigh you let out told him no matter what it looked like that it tasted delicious. It was one of the best you ever had. “I, uh, have some leftover frosting, too.”

“And what do you plan to do with the leftover frosting?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

His smirk sent a shiver down your spine. “You’ll see.”

He had the same smirk on his face when he stripped you down almost an hour later, like he was the one unwrapping a gift even though it was your birthday. His hands mapped your body with such care, like they had so many times before, his kisses lingering and full of longing. You tasted the cake and frosting on his lips and tongue, the flavor spreading a craving through you that grew stronger by the minute.

“It’s your birthday, but I want dessert,” he whispered.

He tied you down with a ribbon that matched the wrapping from one of your gifts, careful to be sure you were safe and comfortable. His strength alone would’ve been enough to immobilize you, but he liked the ribbon against your skin and so did you. He covered your torso in frosting, slowly and meticulously, like he was painting a masterpiece. You trembled and writhed, but he cooed and didn’t rush. If anything, he seemed to enjoy the slow torture, taking his time since you were the reason for celebrating today.

He leaned down once he finished, his breath warm against your skin, shivers trailing in the wake of his lips. “I may not be good at frosting cakes just yet, but you look good enough to eat,” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that had you clenching around nothing.

He tasted the sweet frosting along your collarbone first, the slow drag of his tongue drawing a gasp from your lips. He licked slowly, tracing your throat with a groan. You bit your lip as he continued his deliberate exploration, your heart racing faster when he reached your chest. He didn't trace your nipple or the swell of your breast yet, and you found yourself arching to meet the heat of his mouth.

“Clark,” you whined, the ribbons keeping you from moving any further. Waves of sensations crashed over you, his hands holding your hips steady when he finally licked and sucked your hard nipple. He made you feel like the most delicious treat, one he wanted to both devour and savor. 

“Maybe I should spell 'happy birthday' when I eat you out,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “Spell it with my tongue and fingers,” he added, his blue eyes sparkling with delight followed by a devastating smile before he moved to your other breast. He showered it with the same care and attention, his hold on you still firm yet gentle. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” you whimpered once he made his way down to your navel, his chuckle soft and deep. “Is that what I’m doing? Because the smell of you is driving me crazy,” he said, your thighs shaking as he opened them. He licked his lips and delicately ran a finger along your soaked folds. “Though I have to say it pairs well with the frosting.”

You couldn’t even cover your face since he had your hands tied, but you knew he heard the blood rush to your cheeks. “Frosting and pussy? That’s an erotic candle in the making,” you teased. 

He laughed again, but his eyes flashed red for a brief moment when he brushed his finger along your clit. “No one gets to smell you but me,” he declared with just a hint of possessiveness. “Or taste or touch or be inside you.”

You moaned and tried to buck your hips, anything to have more of his touch. “Only you, Clark,” you promised. Some guys didn’t understand why you dated a “geek” like Clark, but you always said that he was a god in the body of a man with the most loving heart. There was no other creature in the universe you wanted more than him.

He exhaled, putting your legs over his broad shoulders. Hearing that you were his alone put his worries at ease. Yes, even the Kryptonian had insecurities because he was human in heart. “That’s what I like to hear,” he whispered, pushing his tongue into your twitching hole and moaning at the taste of you. “But I also want to hear you say my name when I write ‘happy birthday’. Think you can scream my name for me?”

“You know I will,” you moaned, smiling down at him and feeling thankful that you had him. “Now get to it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiled back before he got to work, his name echoing off the walls within seconds. 

If Clark wanted you to spend your birthday on your back getting worshipped, devoured, and fucked, you weren’t going to complain. You’d lay back and enjoy as he drew every ounce of pleasure from you the way you deserved. When he finished, he could feed you some more of that delicious cake.

And if there was any leftover frosting after that, he could worship you all over again.

How can we not love this man? ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[lessersole]

Yyyyesss please! Love how Clark his reaction is 😂

You said you’d have to summon a demon for Clark fic ideas… I have arrived 😈

I’ve got a super good one (imo): Clark being obsessed/possessive of you (in a deep, romantic, sexual way, not stalker!clark (wait.. that’s an idea too..)) but babes I’m talking headboard breaking, earth shattering, Clark claiming his gf sex

*fans self* holy shit sorry 🤤😫

a/n: AAAHHHHH, I LOVE YOU!!! he is nothing if not just an obsessed puppy dog

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

You’d faintly heard the crack through the cacophony of sinful sounds that filled up your bedroom, but you’d simply chalked it up to being a groan from the bedframe as it complained about the way that Clark’s hips repeatedly collided against your own.

Or that was until your head tilted back and you spotted the wood of your headboard splintering around Clark’s fingers.

“Oh my god,” your eyes widened as you blinked up at his white knuckled grip, “did you just–…” before your palm drifted up to ghost against his own, “baby.”

Your touch swiftly softened up his own as he thought you just wanted to clutch his hand, still not noticing the fragments of the wood you swiftly dusted off of his palm.

“Clark, did you just break my bed?” your tone finally managed to snap him out of his blind bliss.

Promptly slowing his roll as he hovered above you, a slight crinkle found his brow as he first blinked down at you, before drifting up to see the mess he’d made.

“Oh darn it…” he groaned as his hazy expression swiftly scrunched up, “that wasn’t on purpose,” he told you, glancing between you and the cracked headboard, “sweetheart, I swear, I didn’t even notice–… you just feel so freaking good,” his head dipped down, nearly hiding as he pressed his forehead against the swell of your tits, “I’m sorry…”

“Well…” you exhaled before plucking his face back up, “at least it wasn’t the wall that you broke this time...” you planted a soft peck upon the bridge of his nose.

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[lessersole]

Love this!! It's so evocative, especially that scene where they're both in the ice rink alone, I felt like I could see it. The misunderstandings were so believable, and I really felt how much they care about each other as well as being attracted physically. And the final confession, the way their emotions come through in the way they have sex is just *chef's kiss*. These two are the best!

Skating the Line (2)

Pairing | star hockey player!bucky x curvy!reader

Word count | 14k words

Summary | You thought your time on the ice was over. As a former figure skater turned team physician, you landed a dream job with the world’s top hockey team, the last thing you expected was to be thrown back into the world you left behind— or to fall for the team’s star player.

James “Bucky” Barnes is everything you've sworn off: cocky, gorgeous, and dangerously charming. Your chemistry is instant, electric… and completely off-limits. But the more time you spend together, the harder it becomes to ignore the heat simmering beneath the surface.

He calls you Sunshine. You call him trouble. And when the line between professional and personal starts to blur, both of you will have to decide if you’re willing to risk it all for something real.

Tags | (18+) MDNI, hockey AU, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex, desperate sex, oral sex, kind of enemies to lovers? friends with benefits, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, mild trauma, betrayal, emotional vulnerability, bucky barnes is a player, bucky barnes also has feelings

A/N | This is the outcome of my entry for @artficlly's spin the trope challenge. I got "hockey AU" and love confession

Part 1 | Part 2

It had been a brutal winter. The cold had started early and it was the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there. The rink was always freezing— standard for an ice rink— but this year it felt worse. Or maybe your body just wasn’t bouncing back the way it used to. Your arthritis had flared up real bad this time too. Worse than it had in years. Your meds weren’t doing enough, and it was your hands that suffered most. Swollen. Stiff. Sometimes too sore to grip a pen, let alone wrap a wrist or tape a stick.

You'd been forced to succumb to using steroids to manage your flares and it was showing in your appearance. You felt bloated and swollen all the time. But you’d gotten good at hiding it though. Or so you thought.

You were in the med bay alone when Bucky snuck in, fresh from his morning skate, hair damp and curling at the ends. He didn’t speak immediately. Just watched you, leaning against the doorframe as you struggled to twist the cap off a bottle of ibuprofen with stiff, aching fingers.

“Hey, Sunshine. Need help?” he asked, voice low and familiar.

You jumped a little, but didn’t look up, not wanting him to see your discomfort. “I’m fine.”

He stepped inside anyway, walked straight up to you, gently wrestling the bottle from your grip, and opened it like it was nothing. Then, to make matters worse, he pressed two pills into your palm and nudged a water bottle toward you.

“Fine,” he repeated, followed by a short huffed breath. “Sure.”

You hated how tender he was when you were alone like this. How easy he made it feel to lean on him. You hated it because it made you want things you weren’t supposed to want. So you swallowed the pills and said nothing. Because things were different when you weren't alone.

Now that his good deed for the day was done, you expected him to vanish, in search of the attention of his groupies. But he didn't move. Instead he waited a beat, then reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled something out— soft, navy blue, folded together.

“Here,” he said, pushing the item into your hands.

You frowned. “What’s this?”

“Compression gloves,” he said casually. “Thermal-lined. Still lets you do your doctor-y stuff without locking your fingers up.”

You blinked, caught off-guard.

“I noticed you’ve been shaking out your hands more between games,” he said. “And Jim’s guy from rehab swears by these. Figured it was worth a shot.”

You held the gloves in your lap, still speechless.

“I mean— unless you already have a pair—”

“I don’t.”

He nodded, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

“You shouldn’t have,” you said, slowly, tracing your fingers over the delicate stitching. They looked high grade— expensive. 

He just shrugged. “Probably not. Did anyway.”

You stared at the gloves, warmth blooming in your throat.

You slipped one glove on. It hugged your fingers perfectly. Warmed them instantly. You flexed your hand, and the pressure felt… good. Supportive. Easing the ache without drawing attention to it.

You swallowed around the lump forming in your throat.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you murmured.

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and shrugged like it was obvious.

“I did.”

Six months into this arrangement— this no-strings, no-feelings, no-hope-of-it-ever-being-more thing— and somehow, Bucky Barnes still knew exactly how to get under your skin. And exactly how to take care of it.

Which made it infinitely harder to pretend this was just sex.

The silence between you stretched again, thick and too full of things neither of you wanted to say out loud. So instead, you slipped on the second glove— just to have something to do with your hands.

Bucky watched the way your fingers flexed in them. Something in his jaw ticked.

“They fit okay?”

You looked up. “Yeah. They’re perfect.”

The corner of his mouth tugged, soft and proud. But he didn’t leave. Didn’t say anything else. And neither did you. Because the air had shifted. Like it always did when you were alone together. The first few times, it had been easy— frantic, breathless, wordless. A way to burn off tension. But lately… lately, it always lingered too long. Held too much weight.

Just like now.

Your eyes met and stayed locked. He moved first— slow and deliberate— almost like he was giving you a chance to stop him. You didn’t. You never did.

His hand came up, brushed your cheek, the rough pad of his thumb dragging across your skin.

“You look tired.”

You huffed a breath. “Thanks,” you answered with an eye roll

He smiled. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Then how?”

He stepped in closer, breath ghosting against your skin.

“Meant you look like someone who could use a distraction.”

You swallowed hard. “And you’re volunteering?”

“Always.”

Then he kissed you.

And that was it.

Your back hit the exam table, gloves still on your hands as they tangled in his hoodie. His mouth hot, impatient against yours. Familiar and greedy. He pulled your hips right up against his with a groan so salacious that it screamed of exactly the kind of distraction he had in mind. His hands inched under your top until he had enough purchase to shove it up, baring your soft stomach to the cool air. Goosebumps erupted over your skin, but his warm palms were there to soothe them away. The callouses on them felt rough as he swept up your sides with an eerie confidence, tugging your bra out of the way with practiced ease.

“Still cold, Sunshine?” he murmured against your jaw, before taking the opportunity to graze his teeth over the skin beneath your ear.

“Not anymore.”

You clawed at his hoodie, fingers clumsy in your new gloves, desperate to get closer. The fabric bunched in your clothed fists until he took over, yanking it off in one swift, impatient pull. Before you could even catch your breath, his mouth was on your— hot and hungry— before moving down, trailing open-mouthed kisses over your chest. He bit and sucked at your skin like he couldn’t get enough, deliberately avoiding the one place you wanted him most.

You gasped and arched up into him, your hips twitching with need. Your gloved hands roamed his bare back, the velvety material dragging deliciously across his skin as you held him to you.

“Bucky…” you breathed, aching, pleading.

But he just chuckled darkly against your sternum, the sound vibrating through you like a threat. “Still wearing the gloves, huh?” he muttered, voice dark. “That’s hot.”

You laughed, breathless, tugging his waistband. “Less talking. More fucking.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His pants hit the floor, and yours weren’t far behind. And then he was between your legs, fingers sliding through your throbbing heat, teasing, tantalizing.

“God, you’re soaked, Sunshine,” he said, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you. “All this from just kiss and a pair of gloves?”

“You’re not that special,” you lied, following it up with a small scoff.

He grinned, sliding two fingers inside you. “I think I am.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Moaning as you tipped your head back and rolled your hips into his hand. His fingers curled perfectly, knuckles brushing that spot that caused your breath to hitch and made you see stars.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, mouth brushing your inner thigh. “Always so responsive for me.”

You bit your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a whimper to affirm his cockiness. But it spilled out the second his mouth replaced his thick fingers. Your fingers— still gloved— curled into his damp hair, gripping as tightly as you could while he licked you with maddening precision.

He groaned against you, before flattening his tongue and dragging it upward until his lips closed around your clit. Then with a knowing glint in his eyes, he started sucking, just hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Bucky— fuck!”

You gasped, sharp and helpless. Every single nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire. You were already trembling, your thighs straining in his grasp. That familiar tension was already curling low in your belly, getting tighter with every single suck of his lips. The absence of him where you wanted most made the ache almost unbearable. Your pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and pulsing as your hips instinctively chasing more friction.

It was maddening. The way he held you right on the edge, unraveling for him, but refused to let you fall. A ragged moan slipped from your throat before you could swallow it down. And even then he wouldn’t give in. Holding you, suspended in that delicious, torturous space between craving and release. Like he wanted to make sure you’d remember this moment. Remember him.

“That all it takes, Sunshine? Little pressure, little heat?”

“Don’t you dare stop,” you growled.

“Not planning on it,” he said, voice rough with smugness.

He took a step back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But you could still see the results of your arousal glistening in his beard. He gazed down at you, eyes darkened and blown wide with hunger.

You barely had time to admire the taut muscles of his washboard abs, or the small tuft of hair just above the low waistband of his shorts, before he hooked his thumbs into them and dropped them to the floor in one smooth tug.

Automatically, you reached for a condom. They were stored in a secret section under the examination couch. It was almost second nature now, muscle memory from all the nights over the last six months the two of you had spent pretending this all meant nothing.

He beat you to it. His hands trembled slightly as he tore open the packet, for some reason his fingers weren't quite as steady as usual, and somehow that shook you more than anything else. He was always so sure. So cocky. Always in control.

But not tonight.

You opened your mouth— the perfect biting remark poised on your tongue, a last-minute attempt to create distance— but it died the moment he stepped between your thighs, lined up, and sank into you.

Slow… deep… deliberate… different.

Like he needed to feel every inch of you. Like he was trying to carve the memory of your body onto his.

You hissed as he filled you, spine arching off the examination couch. The stretch of him sent sparks dancing through your limbs. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied. It was aching and intense in a way you hadn't felt before. A kind of connection that crackled between your bodies, bigger than you could name.

Bucky let out a low, ragged groan, his forehead dropping to yours as he buried himself to the hilt. Breath hot against your mouth. His hands braced on either side of you, biceps trembling under the strain, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re always so— fuck.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All you could really do was hold on. Gloves hands scrambled on his back. Legs curled around his waist. That's when he started to move.

Each thrust was deep and controlled. Like he wasn't just fucking you. It felt like he was trying to anchor himself inside you. Like if he stayed close enough, deep enough, he could forget whatever demons he’d been skating away from out on that ice.

Your ankles locked tight behind his back, holding him deeper with a breathless moan. He groaned at the shift in angle, the way you clenched around him. And the sound of it just spurred you on. His next thrust hit that perfect spot. And you cried out, arms locking around the back of his neck.

His hips settled into a rhythm that was all power and promise. Steady. Grounding. Devastatingly deliberate. Each thrust served only to stoke the heat between your thighs. Every push, every pull was a sweet and somehow punishing drag that sent electricity up your spine. Your eyes rolled backwards as his hands slid beneath you, palms flattening against your back, holding you so close that your chests were pressed flush, your sweat-slick skin sliding over each other.

“Fuck— feel so good,” he rasped against your neck, lips brushing hot against your skin. “Always do. Can’t— can’t get enough of you.”

You rocked into him, chasing every stroke, every moan, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Wet. Hot. Relentless. The friction burned in the most exquisite way and the pressure coiling in your belly got tighter with every thrust.

Heat flowed through you, reaching through your limbs. Your breath came faster and faster as he drove into you, harder and harder, chasing that edge, that high, that free fall. He needed it just as badly as you did.

“You close?” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, words gone. You could barely breathe.

His thumb covered your clit. He knew exactly where to find it— the north star for every one of your trusts. Your entire body responded immediately, muscles snapping taut in reaction to the pleasure denoting behind your eyes. 

A strangled cry ripped from your throat as you clenched around him, tight and pulsing, legs trembling uncontrollably as your orgasm ripped through you, wave after blinding wave.

Bucky swore, low and completely undone as he drove into you with one last desperate thrust, letting out a deep and guttural groan as his hips jerked and he spilled into the condom. Your walls milked his release as his body collapsed on top of yours, chest heaving, head bowed and jaw slack. His eyes squeezed shut as the last of the tremors wracked through him.

Neither of you moved. A mess of muscle and flesh, panting, trembling, limbs tangled with each other. Your damp, flushed skin glistened under the harsh lighting and your heart pounded like it was trying to escape your ribs. All you could hear was the sound of your mingled breathing and the soft hum of the air conditioning system in the walls of the building.

Slowly reality crept in.

Bucky eased out of you gently, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash like it was just another routine. You sat up slowly, tugging your shirt back over your head.

He handed you your leggings in silence. Not cold, just… neutral. Practiced.

You pulled them on, adjusting the waistband, then slipped your gloves back on like armor.

“We’re still good?” he asked after a beat.

You looked at him. That beautiful, dumb, caring idiot who got you thermal-lined compression gloves and made you come like it meant something.

“Of course,” you said. “Casual. That’s the deal, right?”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right.”

You nodded, heart thudding harder than it should.

“Thanks for the gloves, Barnes.”

“Thanks for the cardio, Doc.”

And just like always, you turned away before the truth could slip out— before he could see the part of you that didn’t want it to be just sex anymore.

You caught the end of the press conference on the muted TV in the medical suite. You were finishing up your notes taking following the game. You'd stitched up one of the rookies, iced two shoulders and were currently trying not to think about the way Bucky had looked at you when he passed your end of the bench after the game.

That lingering gaze that never failed to draw you in. The half-smile like he had something to say but wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

And now his face was on screen— larger than life— sitting at the media table beside Steve. He was still half-dressed in his gear, sweaty hair flattened under a backwards cap. His jersey was peeled down to his waist, and his lucky navy compression top clung to every inch of his broad, muscular chest. Every microphone crowded in front of him like a flock of birds.

He looked good. Too good to be real. Too good to be yours. 

You unmuted the feed.

“...nights like this,” Bucky spoke, his voice a little hoarse from the shouting on the ice. “They don’t happen without the guys beside you. I might’ve finished a few plays, but someone had to make the pass, win the battle in the corner, clear the lane.” He fiddled absently with the mic with his taped-up fingers. “We all showed up. I just got lucky being the one to put it in. I’m proud of what we did tonight, but we’re already thinking about the next one.

There was a flash of cameras. A reporter asked something you couldn’t hear clearly.

He gave a lopsided smile. That smile. It stupidly made your stomach flip, no matter how many times you saw it.

“I’m not gonna lie, I think my heart stopped when I missed that first breakaway. But Coach didn’t bench me, so I guess I owe him a drink now.”

His words were met with polite laughter.

Another reporter pushed in a follow-up question. “Barnes, anything you’d like to say to fans watching at home?”

Bucky turned to the camera, looking straight into the lens as he answered. And a slight change came over him. His expression shifted. Morphed into something softer, more sincere.

“Thanks for sticking with us,” he said. “Even when we’re a mess. Even when it looks ugly. We know you're there. We feel the support, every damn game. So this win’s for you.”

The words weren't for you. You knew that. But seeing the camera focus on those brilliant blue eyes, your chest tightened anyway. 

You turned away and that's when he said it. 

“And if you’re a girl, watching this in navy gloves and cursing at my missed shot and messy tackle? Well… I’ll do better next time.”

Your breath caught. Because that… felt personal. You turned back to the TV but the camera had moved on, focusing on Steve and Sam. 

It wasn’t for you. Of course it wasn’t. All the girls had navy gloves on. Those were the team colors. They sold navy gloves in the merch stalls before every game. 

But in your mind, you still felt the ghost of that smile tug at your mouth as you clicked the TV off and turned away. Your heart was doing that annoying thing it always did whenever he was in the room, or even just on the screen.

You hadn’t planned on going. But your body seemed to have a mind of its own these days. You’d told yourself over and over you were going home. What you needed was a nice long steaming shower and to catch up on sleep, and maybe for one night to pretend that you weren't tangled up in something so impossibly one-sided with Bucky Barnes.

But here you were. Loitering outside the bar the team always celebrated at after a home game win. It was a block and a half from the arena, a half-hidden hole in the wall that was easily missed and on the back side of the arena, which stopped hoards of people flocking into it in search of a celebrity.

You could still hear the lingering rumble of traffic and inebriated fans leaving the vicinity. It was cold out, so you slipped inside, taking off your coat and clutching it tightly to your ribs.

The place was packed, full with the usual crowd— many wearing jerseys, and all of them making noise. You scanned the crowd instinctively.  It was automatic, looking for him before you even told yourself why you were really here.

It didn't take long for you to spot him.

He was still wearing the same sweaty game tee, his locks messy and damp, like he hadn't bothered to shower. He was leaning back against the bar, beer in hand and laughing at what you presumed was a joke from one of his many admirers.

They surrounded him. A ring of moony eyes and tight dresses. All in the team colors. You knew who they were. Fans. Groupies. Puck bunnies. The kind who knew exactly how to flirt with a man like Bucky Barnes, and certainly had the confidence to do it in front of everyone.

Who could blame them? You were drawn to him in exactly the same way.

He practically glowed. You couldn't tell if it was from the win, from the pub lighting or your rose colored glasses, but he looked like he was under a spotlight. And he was totally at ease there, soaking in all the attention. It's where he belonged 

Being here was a bad idea. Watching these women fawning over him was something you hated. But you were glued to your spot. Standing there a beat too long. Just enough for that gnawing ache to crawl into your chest and settle there.

And if you didn't already think that the universe hated you, it took a knife and twisted it a little more. You watched Bucky slip his hand into one woman's hand and lead her away from the crowd into the booth where the two of you often hung out.

He didn’t see you. Didn’t know you were there.

You watched as they dipped into the shadows near the stairwell that led up to the VIP booths, half-hidden behind an old jukebox. Close enough to talk. Or kiss.

Your heart plummeted into your boots. You didn’t wait to find out which. You didn't want to see it.

You turned and left like a ghost before any of the rest of the team spotted you. You were met with a freezing gust of wind and you pulled your coat back on, hugging it tighter around you. No one stopped you. No one noticed. Not even him.

Outside, the night air bit at your cheeks. You blinked fast, kept your head down and walked quickly.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Just like between you, it didn't mean anything.

She was already touching him before they reached the edge of the crowd. Fingertips brushing his bicep, nails trailing lightly along the hem of his shirt like she didn’t care who saw. Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just gave her the same easy smile he’d offered every single other fan tonight.

She was stunning. Undeniably. Honey-blonde waves, dark lashes, that sharp, pretty kind of face that photographers loved. She had on a fitted crop jersey— his number— and a form-fitted leather skirt that hugged her hips just right. The kind of girl who knew exactly what she was doing. And exactly what people expected from her.

He leaned against the stairwell wall and let her talk. Mostly just smiling and nodding while she recapped the events of the final period, like he hadn't lived it himself. Every sentence was sprinkled with compliments, every laugh a little too long, a little too loud, a little too forced. She kept inching closer. Brushed something off his chest that definitely didn’t need brushing. Touched his chain. Tilted her chin up like she was expecting a kiss at any second.

“You were incredible tonight,” she purred, fingers playing with the drawstring of his sweats. “You’ve gotta still be buzzing. I know I am.”

He gave her a small, polite chuckle. “Thanks. Yeah, the team’s been working hard.”

“Maybe you need help coming down.” She leaned in, voice low, her breath brushing his neck. “We could go back to your place… if you’re not too busy.”

That was the opening. The cue. He could see it in her eyes, how easy it would be. No strings. No awkwardness. Just one night. She was offering herself on a silver platter, and everyone watching would probably bet he’d take it.

But Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t let his hand fall to her waist the way she clearly wanted. He just smiled. Gently. And shook his head.

“I appreciate it,” he said, voice softer now. “Really. But I’ve already got plans.”

She blinked. Her expression flickered for half a second. Surprise. A touch of offense, maybe. But she recovered quickly. Gave a light shrug, like she didn’t care either way.

“Your loss,” she said, tossing her hair back with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Maybe,” he offered politely.

She sauntered back toward the bar with a sway in her hips, already looking for her next victim.

But Bucky… Bucky just stood there. Alone. In the darkness. Hands in his pockets, gaze unfocused. Because somewhere deep down, he knew exactly where he wanted to be tonight.

And it wasn’t here.

You weren’t supposed to be there.

Even the cleaning staff had gone home hours ago. The building was dark, save for the dull hum of emergency lights and the faint rattle of the old HVAC system which kept the ice solid.

Your apartment wasn't far away and you'd left your tablet behind in your office. You needed to finish up your treatment notes for your meeting with Coach Wilson the next morning.

You padded through the dim corridor, footsteps muffled by the rubber soles of your sneakers. You had snuck in through a side entrance which had unfortunately closed behind you on the way in, which meant you had to take a detour to the main exit on your way out. The cold bit through your hoodie, as you approached the corridor beside the rink, the air stinging even in this area.

Suddenly a new sound caught your ears. It was a familiar one, you heard it often enough. The scrape of blades on ice.

Your breath caught and you froze. There shouldn't be anyone else around. You hadn't seen anyone when you'd come in and no one had been scheduled to use the space until morning. Despite your fear, you crept around the corner, closer to the source of the rhythmic hiss and scrapes that echoed through the empty arena.

Anxiously, your fingers curled tightly in the pocket of your hoodie as you got closer to the gap between the stands where the team usually made their first appearance on the ice. Only when you poked your head around that final corner did you see him.

Bucky.

He was alone, out on the ice. Skating up and down the centerline. There was something different about him. Normally Bucky would glide across the ice, it was surprisingly effortless for someone his size and stature. But this was different. His shoulders were tense, and his posture looked like someone had wrapped a coil around him and he couldn’t move his arms. 

This wasn’t at all like the team’s normal warm up drills. This was something else.

He hadn’t noticed you yet and you remained concealed by the shadows, watching the way he carved the ice, the edges of his blades slicing through the silence without his usual precision.

Short puffs of breath fogged the air around him, coming out fast and uneven. Now and again, he glanced over his shoulder, like he was trying to outstake someone chasing him. 

You wondered who or what he was trying to escape. A memory, maybe? A feeling?

Unfortunately you recognized the look in his face. You knew it all too well. The determined focus which masked the internal turmoil. The need to move so you didn't have to think. The need to be alone so no one would ask if everything was alright.

Without thinking, you took a step closer and your foot slipped on the damp hallway floor and the rubber sole of your shoe squeaked loudly and caught his attention. 

His wide-eyed gaze landed on you as he turned toward the sound.

“Sunshine?” he called, peering into the shadows. His voice sounded rough, younger. His breath shuddered and his chest heaved just a little too fast for it to be normal.

You stepped out under the bright arena lights, hands still hidden in your pockets and shoulders up to your ears— embarrassed at being caught snooping.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” you said softly.

He blinked, once, twice, like he was trying to get his eyes to focus but it wasn't working. And he didn't step off the ice. He didn't move any closer to the boards. His eyes were fixed on you, like he was trying to figure out whether or not you were real.

“I didn't think anyone else was here,” he murmured.

You offered him a smile. “Neither did I.”

He leaned forward, setting one end of his stick in the floor, letting it support some of his weight. You could see from the way his fingers surrounded it tightly and his labored breathing that he was still suffering.

Now that he had stepped directly under one of the spotlights, you could see the dark circles under his eyes. His hair was damp with sweat and clung to his forehead, the ends starting to curl. But it was the haunted look he wore, the dullness in his normally bright blue eyes that made your chest tighten. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“Forgot my tablet.” You held it up like proof of your presence.

He gave a tired laugh disguised as a small huff. “Figures. You're the most hardworking person in this building. And the only one I know who has trouble sleeping.”

You didn't reply immediately, stepping away from the safety of the rubber flooring out onto the ice. Now you were close enough that you could see the tremor in his hand, the way his fingers shook and his jaw ticked.

“You okay?” you asked in a tiny voice.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Peachy.”

You tilted your head to one side, that special way you had for him to tell him you already knew the truth. “Wanna try that again?”

His smile finally faltered and he shrugged, giving you a nonchalant answer. “Couldn't sleep. Couldn’t sit still. Figured skating would help.”

“And did it?” you asked gently.

He looked away with a sigh, staring down at his skates as though they had grown a second blade. “Not tonight.”

Silence settled around you both, as you watched him actively look anywhere but at you. Your mind frantically searched for the right thing to say.

You hesitated, then, clutching the table to your chest, you said, “Come off the ice, Bucky.”

He blinked, his face suddenly hard. “Why?”

“Because you’re spiraling,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear, even though no one else was around. “And I can’t help you from the stands.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, wearing the look of a petulant child who had been told it was time to stop playing. But after a few seconds, he slowed over, exhaling sharply and skated over to you and stepped off the ice, his skates clunking heavily on the rubber mats.

He stopped right in front of you, breathless. “You always do this?”

“So what?”

“Show up at the right time.”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Not always. But I try… for you.”

Your tone was light but he caught the meaning in them, earning you a broken breath of laughter.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he murmured, like it was the first time he truly acknowledged your place in his life. “With… with how you see me.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding, trying not to read into his words too much. “Maybe you could just let yourself be seen for once. Instead of being someone you want everyone to see.”

He flinched, it was subtle, but it was there. His eyes darted away as though he was afraid that you could actually see into the depths of his soul. Worried that you wouldn’t like what you saw.

You hesitated, then reached out— just enough to brush your fingers against the cuff of his sleeve. “Hey, can I tell you something?”

He nodded. Barely. But it was enough to get you started. You took a step backward, leaning against the wall.

“I used to do the same thing,” you said softly, nodding toward the rink. “What you were doing now. Skating. Not sleeping. Trying to outrun my own thoughts.”

Bucky watched you carefully for a second before joining you against the wall. Slowly he slid down to the floor with a small clatter as his stick fell out of his hand and he stared at the opposite wall. Now that he wasn’t looking directly at you, it was easier to keep talking. You sat down a little more gracefully and continued talking.

“After I had to stop figure— when my skating career ended, everything fell apart for me. I didn’t just lose my dream, I lost the only version of myself that I actually liked. I had no backup plan. And absolutely no idea who I was without my skates on.”

Bucky stayed silent, still while you got lost in your own past. But despite being back there in your mind, somehow it still felt like he was there next to you, giving you the courage to keep talking.

“And then in med school… it— it got worse. I kept thinking I’d fail again. That I’d screw it up just like I did the first thing I ever loved. The funny thing was I wasn’t failing, I was keeping up with everyone, and it showed in my grades. But somehow it didn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus on the material some night. So in the winter months, when they made a rink at the shitty little community rec center down the street from my apartment, I’d go there every night. Skate for hours. Not like training or anything, just laps… up and down…” You huffed a little laugh. “Skated ‘til my legs ached and my brain finally shut up… or I was just too tired to think anymore. Or the arthritis fucked with my joints so bad that I couldn’t get out of bed. Those days weren’t fun.”

You smiled faintly now, more sardonically than out of any kind of mirth. “It was the only way I thought to feel normal. The only way I could breathe when everything else felt like it was falling apart.”

Another moment passed in silence before you continued.

“So when I saw you out there tonight?” you said, looking at him now. “It felt familiar.” You put your hand on the floor beside him, not reaching out, but just there. Just in case.

He said nothing for a long time. But then he leaned closer and it was like the cold air that surrounded you vanished. And when he spoke, it was rough and filled with suppressed emotion.

“I thought skating would burn it off. Make it go away.”

“Does it?” you asked, looking at him.

Eventually he gazed back, eyes glassy and jaw tight.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

You nodded. “But it comes back?”

“It’s worse after games. Not every time. But when it hits… it’s like my body doesn’t know the game’s over.”

“Adrenaline doesn’t know the difference between a puck drop and a panic attack,” you said flippantly.

And he let out a bitter laugh. “That’s comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be, I guess,” you sighed. “Just… the truth.”

He fell quiet again, hands flitting around, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. Without all the hockey gear and protective clothing on, he looked small, as he sat beside you without flexing any of his muscles. Gone was the flashy personality he showed the world, the cameras, the team, the long line of women.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“I’m supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The one who doesn’t crack under the pressure. Everyone looks at me like I’m bulletproof.”

“Do you want to be?”

He didn’t answer.

So you shifted closer and said, gently, “You don’t have to be that guy around me.”

That got his attention. He turned, and for once, there was no flirtatious grin. No mask of confidence. Just exhaustion behind those blue eyes. An unexpected honesty. A question in his eyes that asked if he could really believe you. He wasn’t sure if he should keep going, but something about your presence made him keep talking.

He huffed out a breath and looked away, like he couldn’t risk the judgement he might see. Bucky’s voice was quieter— not guarded as you might expect— just small.

“He doesn’t come to the games.”

You glanced up at him in confusion. “Who?”

“My dad.”

It was said too casually to be casual. The softness and vulnerability in his tone made your heart clench. But you didn’t say anything, waiting for him to speak.

“He still watches them,” Bucky admitted after a beat, his eyes fixed on a random point out on the ice. “On TV… at home. I only know ‘cause he texts me sometimes after. If we win and I’ve played well.” He paused and his mouth twisted. “If I don’t… I don’t hear anything.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, like he was trying to stop that feeling from earlier from creeping back up his spine.

“I don’t think I was ever good enough for him. Used to tell me I was wasting my time. That I wasn’t good enough. Too slow… too small… too distracted. Said I didn’t have the right mindset to be a winner,” he scoffed. “Whatever that means.”

You stayed quiet, watching his face carefully.

“I made the fucking league.” He let out a hollow laugh. “And he still acts like it’s a fluke.”

You could feel the bitterness in his voice, but for some reason you didn’t feel like it was aimed at his father. It almost felt like he resented the fact that he let it all affect him.

“He always made sure I knew I wasn’t his idea of an athlete. Not the kind he could brag about at work or whatever.”

He paused again, his hand flexing into a fist. But the words were now crawling out of his mouth against his will.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m still trying just so he’ll… I don’t know. Say he’s proud or some shit.” He gave another bitter huff. “Which is pathetic, right? I’m a grown man. Got a contract. Fans. Everything a guy could dream of. And it still isn’t enough to shut that voice up.”

Your chest ached for him. “It’s not pathetic,” you said, softly. “It’s human. You wanted your dad to believe in you. That’s not a weakness, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his jaw ticked spoke volumes. Gently, you lifted your hand and laid it over his. It was barely a touch, you didn’t wrap your fingers around his in any way. Patient. Testing. He didn’t pull away. You could feel his fingers twitch under yours, like he didn’t know how to accept comfort— only that he wanted it.

He finally looked at you again. Really looked. And something in your chest shattered. There was something so raw in his gaze… unguarded… and in that still, quiet moment between you, something in the air shifted. The affection you’d both been pretending wasn’t real, pretending was just chemistry and comfort, pulsed between you like a live wire. He blinked slowly, and then gave you a faint, almost disbelieving smile.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Say exactly the thing I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

You smiled, small and a little breathless. “Guess I’m just that good.”

His hand turned under yours, fingers curling just enough to hold on.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and steady now. “You really are.”

The two of you sat with his revelation for a while until you realized that your ass had gone numb from the cold hard flooring.

“Hey,” you said gently, giving his hand a little squeeze. “You wanna sit somewhere that’s not freezing cold and made of rubber?”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked down at your joined hands like he wasn’t quite sure when that had happened. But slowly he nodded. It was small but it was grateful. He scrambled up quickly so he could help you up and then let you lead the way through the dim corridor to your small office.

It was much warmer than the hallway. The team always complained about how sweltering it was when they came in, but you needed the warmth to work, or your joints would protest angrily. You deposited your tablet on the desk and clicked on the small desk lamp in the corner. The light cast a soft glow around the room, making it feel more comforting than the harsh LED lighting overhead.

Bucky dropped heavily onto the couch, unstrapping his laces and pulling off the skates. He looked exhausted and not in the way that sleep would fix—but he needed rest all the same.

You grabbed a large fleecy blanket that you stored at the bottom of your supply closet. It was something that had appeared one day without any explanation. You had asked the team but no one had stepped forward to claim credit. It was meant for moments exactly like this one— long nights, late games, or painful flare-ups. You laid it across his lap.

He looked down at it, rubbing the fluffy material before looking up at you with something unreadable in his eyes. 

“You take care of everyone like this?” There was a subtle look of his mischievousness shining through as he asked the question.

You shrugged. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t need it.”

That earned the ghost of a smile. Without speaking, you curled up beside him, tugging the blanket around your legs. Your knee brushed his and he didn’t move away.

A minute passed. Then another. And that’s when you felt it— his arm slowly slipping around your shoulders. The movement was tentative at first, but when you didn’t flinch or pull away, he tugged you into his side. It was incredibly warm and you were worn out, so you let yourself sink into his side, curling into him as you rested your head against his shoulder.

A wave of peacefulness washed over the two of you. Something that didn’t happen often for either of you. Usually your moments of closeness were accompanied by a feeling of breathlessness and buzzing. This felt different. This was the sort of closeness that terrified you and yet you craved it with every fiber of your being.

His breath slowed. Yours did too. And as the minutes passed, you both started to melt into the quiet surrounding you. You didn’t speak again. Not when his head tilted to rest lightly against yours. Not when his fingers found the edge of your sleeve again and curled there. And not even when your eyes fluttered closed and you both drifted off, tucked into the corner of a too-small office couch, wrapped in one another like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Because maybe, just for tonight— it didn’t.

The Howling C’s had pulled off a rather messy, albeit hard-fought victory. You wrinkled your nose as you weaved through the team’s locker room into the back corner where there was a small supply closet for medical equipment. It smelled of sweat, adrenaline and pizza. You smiled, lingering in your concealed corner, listening to the rowdy conversations of the over-excited players.

Raucous laughter echoed from the benches as a gaggle of inebriated rookies caught your ear.

“Honestly,” one of the rookies said, obviously tipsy, “I didn’t think she’d be cool, y’know? She doesn’t look like— like someone who’d be chill around guys like us.”

Another rookie snorted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just… I figured the team doc would be, like, I don’t know. Gym rat type. Tight scrubs. You know, Instagram hot.”

Your hand froze around a packet of gauze. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. Heat rose over your cheeks, burning fast and deep, blooming from shame and anger in equal measure.

Their laughter was abruptly silenced and after a beat came Bucky’s voice— surprisingly calm, low and sharp as a knife.

“Maybe shut the fuck up before you say something worse.”

You heard the rookie mutter an awkward “sorry,” but you were already closing the med kit, sliding closed the cupboard door and walking out.

The door swung shut behind you with a soft thunk. Once you were outside the locker room, the hallway was quiet. Too quiet. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, the only sound competing with the tight, careful rhythm of your forced breathing.

You only made it half way down before stopping, leaning your back against the wall, pressing your hands flat to the cool concrete in an attempt to ground yourself. The cold made your fingers ache, and you found yourself ripping off your gloves in search of the physical pain to replace the emotional one.

You weren’t supposed to care. You knew that. But it still stung. Not because it was cruel, but because it was true. They were right, you didn't look like any of the typical stereotypes. Not a doctor. Not a skater. Nor the version of ‘attractive’ guys like that expected.

You’d fought to be here. You’d worked through every ache and flare and course of prednisone. And still… it took three seconds of a dumb comment to make you feel sixteen again. You sank down onto the floor and pulled your knees up to your chest.

Footsteps echoed behind you.

You didn’t look up.

“Hey.”

It was Bucky’s voice. Closer now.

You kept your eyes on the wall in front of you. “Don’t.”

“You okay?”

“I said don’t.”

There was another pause. Then came the soft sound of his body sliding down the wall beside you until he was sitting at your level, forearms resting on his knees.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. You both just sat there, surrounded by the hum of the arena above, the buzz of lights, your pulse in your ears.

Eventually, you spoke.

“You didn’t have to say anything.”

“Didn’t do it for you.”

You turned to glare at him. And he returned your gaze, unwavering. “Did it because that guy’s an idiot. Plus, if I didn’t shut it down, Steve would’ve. Or Dum Dum. Or Jim. Take your pick.”

“Still.”

“Still nothing. You don’t owe anyone ‘hot.’ You owe them ‘qualified.’ And you’ve got that in spades.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Was that a compliment, Barnes?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

His mouth tilted up a little. Not quite a smile. But not a smirk, either.

You let your head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. You took a deep breath.

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“It was just… stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But it wasn’t nothing.”

You opened your eyes again, tilting your head over to glance at him, if only for a second. 

There was a cut on his cheek and a bruise was already forming in his chin. He had an ice pack which lay forgotten on the floor beside him. You reached over and lifted it back into place.

“You’re a mess,” you muttered.

“Takes one to know one.”

You shook your head, but you didn’t move away from him.

“You want me to say something charming now?” he asked.

”God, no.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Good. ‘Cause I'm struggling to find the charm while I'm sat on this freezing floor. My ass is numb.”

That drew out a quiet chuckle and you got to your feet, brushing off your hands. 

“Come on,” you said, nodding toward the med bay. “I'm counting at least three new bruises I didn’t sign off on.”

“Lead the way, Sunshine.”

He followed you, matching the energy of an obedient puppy. You stood aside while he ambled in and the door clicked shut behind you both. The sounds of the team and the world outside were now muffled. Inside, everything was immediately warmer. Quieter and familiar.

Bucky hopped up onto the treatment table without being asked, wincing as he did.

“Jesus. Feels like I got hit by a pick-up.”

“You kind of did,” you said, flicking the overhead lamp on. “Twice. And then you punched it.”

“Still scored.”

“Congratulations. Here’s your prize: a black eye, a bruised shoulder, and a split cheekbone.”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Totally worth it.”

You stepped between his knees, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves, and gently peeling back the shoulder of his jersey back to inspect the bruising. There were angry purple splotches blooming beneath his skin.

“Any pain when you breathe?” you ask, gently. 

“Only when I’m near you.”

You shot him an exasperated look.

“That was weak, even for you.”

“I’m tired,” he said, flashing you a grin before grimacing. “My good material’s reserved for when I’m shirtless and horizontal.”

“Unfortunately for you, that happens weekly.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond. Instead, you pressed your thumb just under the worst of the bruising, testing for signs of something.

He flinched. Not much. But just enough.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You’re gonna hate the wrap.”

“Promise to kiss it better?”

“Promise to make it worse if you keep talking.”

That earned a huff of a laugh, low and warm. But he stayed still after that, letting you wrap the bandage tenderly around his chest, hands braced behind him as you moved with well-versed efficiency… mostly.

Your fingers lingered for half a second too long. Noticing the way his breathing slowed. The quiet tension in his shoulders. How he wasn’t flirting anymore. Not really.

You stepped back. “There. Done,” you concluded.

“No gold star?” he pouted.

“I’ll draw one on your forehead if you keep complaining.”

“You’d still make it look good.”

You tossed the gauze in the trash and pulled off your gloves. “You’re good to go.”

“Sure you don’t want to run a full-body assessment?” he teased. “Could take all night.”

You gave him a flat look. “You smell like beer and ego.”

He slid off the table with a soft groan, straightening slowly.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, voice lower, less performative.

You hesitated. Just for a beat before answering. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He nodded like he believed you. But he didn’t leave right away.

“That rookie’s a dumbass, you know.”

“I know.”

“But just so we’re clear?” He reached for the door, glanced back. “I think you’re hotter than fitted scrubs and filtered selfies combined.”

You raised an eyebrow, arms folded. “That your way of saying your standards finally improved?”

“Call it character development. Turns out I’m into women who could medically sedate me and emotionally eviscerate me— bonus points if they make it look effortless.”

He winked and your heart jumped— just slightly. You hated that it did. Hated how you felt like a high schooler with a crush. Hated that he gave you butterflies. Hated that you cared when this was all you were to him.

The room felt smaller suddenly. Bucky placed your compression gloves on the edge of the table, damp and cold from their brief stint on the floor.

“You like me in the gloves?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light.

“I like you in everything,” he said, stepping back toward you. “Or nothing. I’m not picky.”

He lingered there, fingers grazing the edge of the table like he was stalling. Like if he moved too fast, something between you might snap. Like you might break. Did he think you were too fragile for this?

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But something in the air had shifted. The space between you buzzed, held in a state of suspension. He glanced down at your gloves. Then back at you. His voice was softer when he finally spoke.

“You shouldn’t let assholes get under your skin.”

You shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah. Well… can’t always control that.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood. And you realized that he did understand. Probably more than anyone else in your life ever had.

“You deserve better.”

His words were low. Steady. Like a fact. Not a compliment. Not like the charming words he normally showered over you. You looked up, expecting to see his signature grin, but there was no teasing glint in his eyes. Just a calm certainty. He stepped in close, lifting a hand to your cheek and brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he kissed you. Not the way he usually did. Not with the usual lust or desperation for something more. No, it was slow, soft, tender. Like it meant something more to him.

Your breath caught. You didn’t move— didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away. You just let it happen. His hand cupped your waist, resting there lightly. Not pulling. Just holding. The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. And that— that was what made it more dangerous than anything the two of you had done to date.

Slowly your hands came to rest on his chest, palms sliding lightly over the taped curve of his ribs. You felt him flinch, but not from pain. No, it was from restraint. He pulled back slightly like it was the only way he trusted his self-control. But his forehead stayed close to yours. His breathing was shallow and his eyes dark, but his voice— when it came— was soft and unshaken.

“For the record?” His thumb traced your cheekbone again, featherlight in its touch. “I think you’re stunning.”

Your heart stuttered. You hated how much it meant to you. How much you wanted to believe it meant something more.

His forehead brushed against yours, and for a long second, neither of you moved.

You could’ve closed the space again. Could’ve kissed him harder. Could’ve tugged him down onto the table and given in to whatever this was building into. But—

“BUCKY!”

The shout shattered the silence like a slap. You both jolted apart just before the door slammed open and one of the rookies— red-faced and clearly tipsy— poked his head in.

“We’re doin’ shots and Wilson’s already got his shirt off— come on!” The guy blinked, eyes widening as he took in the scene in front of him. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh—just—yeah. Okay.” He ducked out before you could respond, the door swinging shut behind him.

Bucky sighed through his nose, the moment splintering into something half-frustrated, half amused.

You cleared your throat. “Duty calls.”

He grinned. Crooked. Reluctant. “Apparently.”

You bent forward to grab your gloves from the edge of the table. “Guess I’d better finish up here.”

He lingered a second longer, gaze roaming over your features as if begging you to ask him to stay. But you stayed silent and he turned away, throwing one last look over his shoulder, he said, “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Sunshine.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers to your lips as if to convince yourself it had really happened. But the buzz under your skin? That lingered. Long after he was gone.

You didn’t even bother to text him back. Your unspoken agreement didn’t necessitate it. You made a quick trip to the shower, shaved efficiently and applied a thin layer of make-up before grabbing your coat and leaving your apartment.

You moved on autopilot, going through the motions like muscle memory. Like this was the only option you had. Because deep down, it felt like this was the only version of closeness he’d ever offer you, and you hated yourself for taking it. Hated the way your chest ached with anticipation for his texts, how your stomach flipped at the thought of his hands, his voice, his heat… even when you knew it wouldn’t last.

Somewhere along the way, sex had stopped being simple… at least for you. Somewhere along the way, you’d started craving more than what he could give. You weren’t sure when exactly it had happened, only that it was too late now. The feelings had already taken root. And no matter how often you told yourself you were fine with this arrangement— casual, convenient— you weren’t. Not really.

But still, for whatever reason, when he called, you came running. Even if it left you feeling lonelier than before. Even if every touch carved out a little more hollow inside you when you left.

It was different when you were with him. You felt like you were his whole world. And that's why you kept going back.

Bucky opened the door to his luxurious penthouse apartment. Shirtless and grinning like he’d scored the winning goal in overtime.

“You took your sweet time,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

“You texted half an hour ago.”

“Exactly. An eternity.”

“God, you’re so needy,” you teased in an exasperated tone, dropping your bag on the floor.

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Congratulations, you ruined me.”

You rolled your eyes, already toeing off your shoes by the door. “Yeah, well. You had it coming.”

“Still do, if you’re in a generous mood.” He stepped towards you, fingers skating over the waist tie of your trenchcoat.

You didn’t respond. Just stepped inside, grabbed him by the waistband of his grey sweatpants, and kissed him. Hard. He responded instantly, hands sliding up your back, under your coat, pushing it off your shoulders.

“You wearing those compression gloves?” he muttered against your mouth.

“No. Why?”

“I like how they feel when you—” He broke off with a groan as you reached between you and cupped him through the thin fabric.

“Guess you’ll have to settle for bare hands.”

“Shame,” he said, peeling off your top. “I was gonna ask real nice.”

You smirked. “That ever work for you?”

“Once or twice. Mostly when I’m naked.”

“Wow, how convenient.”

He was already guiding you toward the bedroom, his lips trailing down your neck. “Come on. Don’t pretend you’re not dying for it.”

“Me? Please.” You shoved him back onto the bed and climbed into his lap. “I’m just here to check your vitals.”

“Mmhm.” His fingers were already unfastening your bra. “Hope you brought your stethoscope.”

“Didn’t need one. You’ve been loud since the moment I walked in.”

He laughed into your mouth. “God, I missed this.”

You straddled him, palms splayed over his chest, feeling the strong muscles beneath your fingertips as he leaned back on his elbows, eyes wandered over you like you were something to be unwrapped and he couldn’t decide where to start first.

“You're staring,” you said, breathlessly amused.

“Yeah. Trying to figure out which part to bite first.”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. “Dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t hesitate. There was no second guessing when it came to his mouth finding somewhere on your body to suck. He started on the curve of your neck and worked his way downwards, teeth dragging along your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. You pressed your crotch against the bulge in his sweats, rolling your hips against him and smirking when he groaned.

“Shit Sunshine, think you’re trying to kill me.”

“I’m the team physician,” you whispered, grinding slow and deliberate. “That would be against the Hippocratic oath. Technically, I’m reviving you.”

His hands slid behind your thighs, gripping tightly as he bucked up against you. “Then consider this a near-death experience.”

You kissed him hard, messy and hungry, biting his bottom lip just enough to make him chase your mouth with a frustrated growl when you pulled back. He flipped you effortlessly, pinning you under him with a practiced press of hips and thigh.

“You wearing anything under that?” he asked, dragging his fingers up your leg.

“Why ruin the surprise?”

He hummed. “God, I love when you make my job easy.”

He tugged your bottoms off in one smooth pull, tossing them aside without looking. His hand trailed up your inner thigh, warm and confident, like he’d memorized every part of you. You arched into the touch, already slick, already buzzing with needy excitement.

“You always this wet when you storm into my place uninvited?” he asked, voice husky, lips brushing just below your navel.

“You invited me,” you shot back, determined not to be so undone that you couldn’t counter his cheekiness.

“Didn’t think you’d sprint here,” he said, sliding two fingers through your folds, teasing, not yet giving you what you needed. “Next time I’ll add a disclaimer to slow you down a little.”

“Oh please, next time,” you panted, clutching at the sheets, “I’m making you wait.”

“Oh, Sunshine.” He looked up, lips hovering just above where you wanted him. “That sounded like a threat.”

Before you could think of a snappy retort, he was deliberately exhaling his hot breath all over your sensitive skin.

Your hips bucked instinctively. “Bucky—”

“Hmm?” he hummed, lips so close to you that you could feel the shape of his smirk in the heat of his breath. “Something wrong?”

“Don’t play with me,” you warned. Your breath was already shaky and your thighs had started to tremble.

“I’m not,” he said innocently.

You smirked mentally at the irony, there was nothing innocent about this mouth, or the way it moved. Down, but not close enough. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh instead.

“Just admiring the view, Sunshine.”

“Admire faster,” you snapped, voice sounding wrecked.

Bucky chucked, the sound low and dark as he dragged his nose up the inside of your thigh. All the way up till he was maddeningly close to where you wanted him most. “You’re soaked.”

“Wonder why,” you bit out, fisting your hands in his sheets.

“Maybe I should take my time,” he mused, brushing the very tip of his nose against your folds. Grazing the skin with a featherlight touch. “You know, really get a read on the situation.”

“Barnes—”

He kissed you then. Just once. Slow. Firm. Excruciatingly exquisite. And all the air left your lungs.

“God,” you gasped.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as he finally settled in between your thighs. “Now hold still.”

Your breath caught the moment his mouth met you in earnest— none of the teasing now, none of the delays. Just heat, pressure, and the maddening rhythm of his tongue. Your hips jerked, while one hand flew to his hair and the other clawed at the sheets as a lightening sensation shot through you.

It was too much and not enough all at once. The drag of his lips, the way he groaned softly against you. It felt like he was enjoying this every bit as much as you were and that sent a fresh wave of heat pulsing through your bloodstream.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

Each flick of his tongue lit up nerves you didn’t know you still had. Every movement was deliberate, practiced, like he knew your body better than you did. Your thighs trembled, trying to close around him, but his hands were firm on your thighs, holding you open, keeping you at his mercy.

And you were. Completely. Utterly his.

There was a fluttering sensation building low in your belly. Familiar, devastating and totally inevitable. You tried to warn him, you really did. Tried to choke out a sentence, but all that came out was a gasp and his name, broken and desperate on your tongue.

“Buck—”

That was all he really needed. Not that it stopped him. If anything, he doubled down. His tongue pressed deeper, mouth claiming you completely. And you shattered completely. Everything inside you came undone, hips bucking, hands fisting tight in his luscious hair as the orgasm tore through you like a ravaging storm. It left you spent and breathless. Every muscle inside you trembled as the waves of pleasure crested and broke before slowly, achingly, they ebbed away.

He didn’t move away immediately. Staying a moment longer, lips still on you, but softer now, gentler, before pressing a final kiss to the inside of your thigh like he knew you needed to be put back together after what he’d done to you.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes met yours— dark, intense, and far too knowing.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, rough with heat.

You couldn’t even speak. So you just nodded, chest still heaving. And somewhere, deep down inside— you hated just how much of yourself you gave away in that silence.

Your chest rose and fell as the last of the tremors of your release faded away, leaving your body feeling heavy but sated. But even in this state, you could feel him, the tension that radiated off him, the restraint was practically humming beneath his shin. He hovered over you, one arm on the bed to brace himself. His lips were swollen and glistening and his chest was heaving, his eyes never leaving your face.

You reached for him slowly, fingers trailing down his stomach, brushing over the waistband of his sweats, still clinging low on his hips. You could tell there he had nothing on beneath them, not with how well you could see him growing for you. He hissed through his teeth as your hand found him— hard and aching and already damp at the tip. There was already a dark stain on the light grey material. You stroked him lazily at first, over the top, letting him rut into your palm as your fingers tightened just slightly, coaxing a low groan from his throat.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut.

Slowly, you slid your hand under the waist band, moving lower. Your touch teasing the base before you dragged your thumb back up through the slick mess he was making of himself.

“Fuck—” His voice was rough and shaky, forehead dropped to your shoulder as you kept working him, slow and deliberate. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Sunshine.”

You didn’t answer. Just shifted slightly under him, spreading your thighs a little more as you let him press forward — the thick length of him sliding through your wet folds, dragging him through the heat and slickness he’d just pulled from you. He rutted against you gently until he was glistening with both your release and his arousal. He groaned against your softness, hips rolling in tight, shallow thrusts. Not inside you— not yet. Just grinding against you, letting your wet heat coat him, drag along him, every pass more desperate than the last.

It wasn’t just teasing anymore. There was more pressure. Friction. Need. His breath suddenly became more ragged, as his body trembled above you, the threads of his self-control fraying with every pass through your folds. You tightened your grip at the base, just enough to make him gasp.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped.

“I know,” you whispered, shifting your hips just enough to let him slide deeper through your lips, not quite where he wanted, but close enough to make him groan like it hurt. His jaw clenched and you felt it against your shoulder.

You shifted again, just enough for the blunt head of his cock to slip a little lower— still not guiding him in, but brushing where you were already sensitive. It made your breath catch and back arch.

Bucky growled low in his throat. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last.”

“Then don’t,” you said, voice thick. “‘m not stopping you.”

He nudged forward, slick and hard and desperate to be inside, but you pressed your hand against his hip.

Not yet.

“Sunshine…” His voice was strained, eyes nearly black as he held himself still, every muscle in his body vibrating with desire. “You’re gonna undo me, you know that, right?”

Your lips curved in something akin to a smirk, but your breath was still shallow. “Just… stay like this for a minute.”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not with how tightly you were pressed together, his cock hot and heavy against your soaked folds, your thighs clamped around his hips. He rolled them again— so incredibly slow and tortuous— dragging himself through your essence, barely holding himself back from slipping inside.

You moaned softly, head falling back against the pillow.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice hoarse, his mouth near your ear. “That’s what you do to me.”

You nodded, lips parting but no sound came out.

He rolled his hips again and there it was again, another delicious grind. Not just a hint of pleasure, but the kind that makes your whole body clench. Your thighs shook from overstimulation and need all at once.

But still, he didn’t push in. And he didn’t ask to. Because you both knew how dangerously close he was to filling you completely. It wouldn’t take much. Both of you were walking on a razor's edge. The careful balance you’d achieved could tip straight into something neither of you could pretend was casual.

You closed your eyes, not daring to look at him. Not with the way your body responded to his— trembling, every nerve alight and buzzing, caught between craving and caution. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath ragged against your skin. He was still rocking into you— slow and shallow, sliding through your slick folds like he belonged there. And you wondered when he’d earned the right to be that close. But when it really came down to it, you let him. You let it burn.

Your fingers traced the ridges of his spine, curling at the base, your hips arching involuntarily with each glide of his cock. Not inside— not yet— but enough to keep you wanting.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like the word had been ripped from him.

You turned your head just slightly, and it was like you were possessed. The words spilled from your mouth like they were coming from someone else. Your lips caught the edge of his jaw as you purred. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, stilling his thrusts and looking down at you.

“Desperate.”

He groaned. Half in frustration, half in something closer to surrender. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He moved in a retaliatory way, the grind rougher than before. Hungrier.

You whimpered, nails digging into his back. “I—” You started but the sound caught in your throat.

He paused and you made the mistake of looking up. He lifted his head, not to kiss you, not to taunt you, but to look at you. His eyes locked onto yours and really looked. Like he was searching for something he hadn’t dared ask for out loud. Something that went deeper than skin and heat and friction.

Your breath hitched. You froze. Because for a second, you saw it. Felt it. The weight of everything. The desire, yes, but also the longing. His gaze softened, focused, like you were the only thing in the room that made sense to him.

It undid you. Because he couldn’t mean it. Could he? He couldn’t know what that look would do to you. How it cracked you open from the inside. How it fed a hope you’d spent weeks trying to starve out. 

This wasn’t connection, you told yourself. It couldn’t be. But you felt it creeping into your soul and it ached behind your ribs. That bitter, ugly tug of truth that you’d convinced yourself wasn’t possible. Not like this.

So you squeezed your eyes shut. Tried to ride it out. To stay in the moment, not dwell on the things you knew couldn’t be. You blinked, hard, chasing away the tears that burned. Tried to swallow down the feelings that bubbled up in your throat.

“Too slow, Barnes,” you teased, pushing at his shoulder and twisting your hips. “Switch.”

He let you. Let you guide him onto his back, let you swing a leg over and settle above him. You reached between you and lined him up, sinking down in one smooth motion that pulled a low growl from his throat.

For a moment, you rode him just like that— hands on his chest, breath shallow, movements precise. Controlled. Detached. No eye contact. But then he sat up. Wrapped his arms around your waist. Pulled you close again. And that look was back— full of heat and ache and something far too close to tenderness.

You couldn’t take it. So you leaned in, and he lifted his jaw, almost like he thought you were going to kiss him. Instead you shifted again, sliding off his lap and onto your hands and knees.

“You wanna finish or not?” you asked over your shoulder, almost petulant.

Because in reality you couldn’t watch him look at you like that anymore, not when it didn’t mean anything.

He didn’t argue. Just repositioned himself on his knees behind you, ran a palm down your spine, and eased himself back inside. This time, he didn’t hold back. His rhythm was harder now, his thrusts deep and steady, hands gripping your hips pulling you into him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to let it numb you. Trying to let him fuck the feelings out of you like he always did.

But they wouldn’t leave. Every time he hit that spot just right, your body jolted with pleasure— but your chest twisted tighter. Every moan that slipped from your mouth felt more like a sob. Because it still felt like too much. Too close. And somehow, not close enough. You bit your lip hard, knuckles white in the sheets, willing yourself to hold it together. But your heart was already breaking— and he didn’t even know it.

You didn’t make a sound at first— just a sharp inhale through your nose, forehead pressed to the mattress, as if you could force it all back down with one well-timed breath. But Bucky knew your body too well. He slowed. Just slightly. The steady slap of skin softened, his hand on your hip gentling like he could sense it.

“Sunshine?”

You didn’t answer.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you rasped, too quickly. Too flat.

He stilled completely. You felt his hand slide up your back, warm and careful, tracing along your spine.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head. Kept your face buried in the sheets.

“I’m fine,” you said, voice cracking on the lie.

He eased out of you— slow and reluctant, like part of him didn’t want to admit the shift had happened. You stayed frozen in place, but he gently coaxed you to roll over, to face him. And when your eyes finally met his, it was over. Because whatever resolve you had left crumbled under the weight of that look— worried, searching, soft. You covered your face with your hands.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please just— don’t look at me like that.”

He crouched beside you on the bed, a beat of silence hanging between you before he said softly, “Like what?”

“Like this means something,” you whimpered. “Like I’m more than a warm body you can call when you’re lonely or bored or—”

“Jesus, Sunshine.” His voice was laced with disbelief. “That’s what you think this is?”

You didn’t answer. Your breath came out far too fast, your chest far too tight. All of it was spilling out before you could stop it.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you admitted, choking on the words. “I just— every time I tell myself I won’t come back. That I’m done. And then you text, and I… I run to you like a fucking idiot, because it’s the only time I feel close to you. And then it ends and I go home and I hate myself.”

He blinked. His mouth parted, but nothing came out. You pushed yourself upright, dragging the blanket across your chest like it could hide more than your body.

“I can’t do this anymore, Bucky,” you said, voice shaking. “I can’t keep pretending this is casual when it’s killing me.”

Bucky didn’t move at first. Just watched you like he was trying to memorize the way you came undone— not just from pleasure, but from the weight of everything you’d been holding back. And then he did something you didn’t expect. He reached for you. Not to pull you close or coax you back into bed or kiss away the tension like he could distract you from the wreckage. He just… held your hand. His fingers slid against yours, hesitant but steady, and when you didn’t pull away, he laced them together.

“I didn’t know,” he said at last. Voice low. Thick. Honest. “Sunshine, I didn’t know it was hurting you.”

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. You were afraid that if you did, your resolve would shatter all over again. That you would give in to him.

He let the silence stretch out for a moment. Giving you time to breathe. Before—

“You always seemed like you wanted to keep it casual,” he said finally, voice rough but oh so gentle. “So I followed your lead.”

You blinked, confused. “What? What’re you talking about?”

“I asked you out,” he said, watching your face carefully. “More than once. But every time, you turned it into a team hang. Invited everyone, changed the plan. After a while I figured… okay. She doesn’t want me. She just wants something easy…. So I gave you easy.”

Your lips parted, breath catching. “Wait… those were dates?”

He let out a dry, almost amused sounding laugh. “Yeah. They were supposed to be. Sushi night. That screening downtown. Even the stupid art gallery thing you dragged Steve to?”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you said, stunned. “I didn’t realise…”

He gave a soft shake of his head, almost smiling— but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always made it a group thing. I figured you weren’t interested. So I thought if this was the only version where I could have you…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “I would take it.”

You sat in silence for a moment, reeling.

“I didn’t know,” you said quietly. “I didn’t realise they were meant to be dates.”

“I know that now,” he murmured. “But at the time? It felt like a rejection.”

“I thought… you had plans with your friends or something. That you were just— being nice. Inviting me along to prove we were… nothing more than teammates. Or friends.”

Bucky let out a sharp exhale and dragged both hands down his face. “You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding.”

You winced. “I didn’t think you meant meant it. I thought you were just being polite. Making me feel like part of the team.”

“Polite?” His hands dropped, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “I practically begged you to come with me. Took me a week to plan that sushi night, and you told Sam, Sam! Who then told everyone. I was trying to flirt and you sat me between Gabe and Dum Dum like we were chaperoning a high school dance.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning softly. “God. I didn’t know. I just— I didn’t think…”

“What?” he snapped, not harsh, but dark, dismal. Like the feeling had been buried, waiting to be let out. “Didn’t think I wanted you?”

“I didn’t think you wanted anything more than sex,” you said quietly.

The silence was loud. Broken finally by a laugh. Loud and bitter and so full of disbelief it made your stomach turn. “Jesus Christ, Sunshine.”

“What?” you asked defensively.

“You seriously thought I was just using you for a good time?”

You didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

“Do you even hear yourself? Do you know how many times I talked myself down? Told myself you weren’t interested, that I was just lucky to get even a piece of you?” His voice dropped, hoarse. “I thought you wanted this to stay casual. Every time I asked you out, you turned it into a team thing. So yeah— I stopped asking. Figured I’d take what I could get.”

“I didn’t know they were dates.”

“I know that now. But you have to understand how that felt.”

You looked at him, really looked. The tension in his jaw, the lines around his mouth, the bruised vulnerability in his voice. He wasn’t angry— he was hurt.

“I just didn’t think someone like you…” you started, faltering. “You’re— you. Bucky Barnes, the Casanova of ice hockey, the star of the team. You could have anyone. And I’m just…”

“Don’t,” he cut in. “Don’t do that.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.” He leaned in. “You think I kept texting you ‘cause the sex was good? You think I memorized your schedule, got Coach to stock your stupid favorite almond milk in the kitchen because I was trying to be a fuckbuddy?”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t think you… liked me like that.”

“Liked you?” His laugh was quieter now. “God, Sunshine, I fucking love you.”

You blinked, speechless at his confession.

“I kept telling myself this was all I could have. That I should just be grateful for what you gave me. But every time I touched you, I hoped it meant more. Every time you left, I hoped you’d stay.”

Your throat tightened, emotion rising fast and hot. You felt the first tear slip down before you could stop it, and he was there, brushing it away with his thumb like it physically hurt him to see it fall.

“I never meant to hurt you,” you whispered.

“You didn’t. Not really. I just wish…” He shook his head, brushing off the apology, even though it meant everything to him. “I wish I’d been clearer, said something sooner.”

“I wish I’d seen it sooner.”

Bucky’s thumb lingered on your cheek, brushing away another tear. The tenderness in his touch surprised you, it was like he wanted to feel you, every part of you, even the broken ones.

Your chest ached. But not in the way it had before. Not with grief or longing. With relief. And love.

You leaned forward first, lips brushing his lightly. He returned it just as gently, like you were fragile. Like one wrong move and you might disappear. But you weren’t. You were right here, in his arms. You were his.

His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, thumb tracing over your bottom lip. “Still can’t believe you didn’t know I was in love with you,” he murmured, a little frown on his brow. “You’re impossible.” he finished with a pout.

You rolled your eyes, but it was fond. “I didn’t exactly see the signs.”

“Well, they were neon,” he said dryly. “Like Vegas- style bright.”

You leaned in and kissed him, capturing his lower lip between yours before you sucked lightly, as if to say yes, I know now. Yes, I’m sorry. Yes, I love you too.

He smirked against your mouth. “You thought all that flirting was just team morale?”

You kissed him again, a little longer this time, your hand curling around the back of his neck.

“I invited you to an art exhibit on my off day,” he said, giving you a look. “And you brought Steve.”

You kissed him before he could say more. Another soft press of your mouth to his, equal parts apology and affection.

He smiled against your lips, carrying on now that he had caught onto your antics. “That was supposed to be a date. I even showered twice.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, fingers threading through the short hair at the back of his neck.

“You made me a third wheel our date,” he mumbled. “Steve talked about brushstroke technique for forty-five minutes.”

Another kiss. He barely managed to keep speaking this time, his hands sliding to your hips.

“I held your coat and bought you that overpriced matcha latte. And Steve got the thank-you hug.”

You huffed a laugh and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I sent you flowers that week,” he said, mock wounded. “You thought they were from the gallery.”

You groaned and kissed him again, cutting off the rest of his sentence.

“God, you’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.

“You’re lucky I’m still here,” he murmured back, voice low, hands smoothing along your thighs.

You looked into his eyes, soft with affection.

“You know I love you too, right?” you said quietly.

He froze, eyes searching yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You kissed him once more. “I love you, James Bucky Barnes.”

His breath hitched. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. His forehead fell to yours, taking slow breaths, like he needed to stay grounded.

“Sunshine,” he whispered. “Don’t ever stop saying that.”

His hands gripped your thighs, warm and solid.  Just holding you. Steadying you.

You didn’t stop touching him. You couldn’t. Your fingers traced along his jaw, the stubble there rough beneath your fingertips. It was like you needed to make up for all the times you could have shown him.  Shown him what he meant to you. His lips brushed yours again, so softly it was barely a kiss and more like a promise.

“I love you,” you whispered again. Just to see the way his eyes fluttered shut. Just to hear the shaky breath he let out, like the words reached somewhere deeper than you rralized they could.

Bucky kissed you then, really kissed you— like he couldn’t believe he’d gone this long without doing it like this. Like he didn’t just want your mouth, he wanted your heart. Your soul. Everything you’d never imagined giving anyone else.

You climbed into his lap without another thought. Immediately, his hands slid up over your back, reverent and slow, never breaking eye contact.

“Still not over how fucking beautiful you are,” he murmured.

You blushed and shook your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, smiling softly.

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, leaning forward to press his lips to your jaw. Then your breast bone. Then lower. Then lower still. His hands were patient as he eased you down onto the bed again, following you, his body covering yours.

Every movement was gentle. Intimate. His hands on your waist, your ribs, your thighs. They explored your curves without urgency, like he was rediscovering you from the inside out.

When he finally pushed inside you, slow and steady, you both exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for months. Because in a way, you had.

You held onto him tightly, hands splayed across his back, your legs around his waist, and for a while, neither of you moved. You just breathed. Really feeling each other for the first time.

His forehead rested against yours again. “Okay?”

You nodded, your eyes shining up at him. “More than okay.”

Then his hips began to move. Deep, slow thrusts that weren’t about urgency or chasing release. They were about being close. Staying close. Feeling every press of his body against yours. Unspoken words, like an I missed you… or I’m sorry... and even I love you.

The room was quiet except for the sounds of your joined breaths, the faint rustle of sheets, the occasional soft moan when he hit a spot that made your toes curl. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice barely there. “You always have.”

And when you came, it was slow and aching and beautiful, and you did it with his name on your lips, his body wrapped around yours, his mouth at your temple whispering, “I love you.”

[lessersole]

Love this 😍

ooc but idgaf. yelena steals bob's sweater.

[lessersole]

I am so into this!! (Putting a read-more because my comment got overenthusiastically long 😅)

I've not read an ice hockey AU before 🙈 even in published books I don't go for them because the first few chapters never grab me, but here I'm hooked right away! (And not just because it's Bucky.) The characters, including Sunshine are so well drawn, I love how her backstory makes sense and how you've worked all the elements of the Howling Commandos into them all! And Sam as coach makes so much sense, it's like he's in charge as well as Steve. And the way their emotions play out into the game is so good!

Plus Bucky "Flirting was probably something he did between reps" Barnes is just the right amount of cocky, even his reason for being late shows that he's a good guy! And I'm guessing his dad is a big part of the reason he's like that. Then "wear something you can beat me at darts in" plus tripping over himself saying goodbye after he invited you out had me swooning 🥰 although my heart broke a bit when he left with the other woman, especially after they had that moment!

Then the urgency of it when they hook up is mindblowing! And going straight back to banter after is just perfect. Wonder how long the fwb deal is going to last...

Love this Skittle! ❤️

Skating the Line

Pairing | star hockey player!bucky x curvy!reader

Word count | 10k words

Summary | You thought your time on the ice was over. As a former figure skater turned team physician, you landed a dream job with the world’s top hockey team, the last thing you expected was to be thrown back into the world you left behind— or to fall for the team’s star player.

James “Bucky” Barnes is everything you've sworn off: cocky, gorgeous, and dangerously charming. Your chemistry is instant, electric… and completely off-limits. But the more time you spend together, the harder it becomes to ignore the heat simmering beneath the surface.

He calls you Sunshine. You call him trouble. And when the line between professional and personal starts to blur, both of you will have to decide if you’re willing to risk it all for something real.

Tags | (18+) MDNI, hockey AU, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex, desperate sex, oral sex, kind of enemies to lovers? friends with benefits, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, mild trauma, betrayal, emotional vulnerability, bucky barnes is a player, bucky barnes also has feelings

A/N | This is the outcome of my entry for @artficlly's spin the trope challenge. I got "hockey AU" and love confession

Part 1 | Part 2

Every game you were there. It was your job to be there. The Howling Commandos’ team physician. It was a coveted position, one that you’d secured with ease, much to the chagrin of many of your medical school colleagues. The opportunity to sit rink-side on every game played was the equivalent of having an all-season pass for the best hockey team around.

Skating had been your passion since you were a kid. You used to live on the ice, at the local rink in the summer and on the huge local pond when it froze over during the frigid winter months. But you were a small town girl with big dreams. That was until you were fourteen.

That’s when your life was turned completely upside down. That’s when the problems started. Your joints swelled. Your body ached. At first you thought it was from the repeated falls, but it happened when you were away from the ice too. Eventually your parents took you to see a doctor. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. That was what it was called. The thing that ruined your dreams of being a figure skater.

It wasn’t the pain that stopped you, it was the treatment. The medication affected everything. You gained weight, your bones became fragile and you broke several of them, but worst of all, it ruined your sleep. Over time, it stole all the joy from your life on the ice until, one day, the thought of it filled you with dread. That’s when you poured all your passion into something else. Medicine. The hours where you couldn’t sleep would find you slaving over medical texts instead. And now, here you were. Twelve years later, you were the lead physician for the World Champions on Ice.

It’s not where you’d pictured yourself. Ice hockey wasn’t something you’d ever shown any interest in before. You had imagined long hours in hospitals, even a private practice one day. But when the opportunity to join the Howling Commandos' medical staff came up, something in you stirred. Something you’d buried deep long ago.

When you filled out the application, you told yourself it was just another job. That you weren’t doing it for the ice. Or the nostalgia. Or the thrill of lacing up. But the first time you set foot on the ice again, you knew you were lying to yourself. You were early. It was a trait your father had instilled in you early in life. If you wanted to succeed, you needed to be on time. But there was no such thing as being on time. You were either early, or you were late.

The rink was empty when you arrived, and you couldn’t resist the opportunity to don your custom made official team skates and test out the ice. You glided around silently, completely unaware of the audience of one you had acquired. A pair of steel blue eyes tracked your fluid motions, filled with awe… and someone else.

Over time you got to know the players. And there were a number of repeat offenders who you got to know better than others.

First there was Jim Mortia. Goalie.

You referred to him in your head as the backbone of the team. He was calm and unshakeable in the midst of total chaos. He could read the movements of the opposing team like he was analyzing a chess board. And he had the reflexes and instincts to match. The California born Japanese man was incredibly stubborn about his own injuries— always insisting you treat everyone else first— and one of the most observant people you’d ever met. You suspected he knew more about anyone on the team, including some of the coaching staff. And sometimes… he saw more than you wanted him to.

Next came Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan.

The mountain shaped man with his thick beard and even thicker New York accent had only one job: make the other team regret stepping on the ice. His defense only had one tactic— block the opposing team. Which wasn’t hard, his size made it near on impossible to pass him and his weight made his tackles a brutal take-down. His style was old-school, and so was his loyalty. Despite his gruff exterior, Dum Dum was surprisingly sweet and cracked jokes like his life depended on it. But you got the feeling that he would knock someone’s lights out if they so much as looked at you wrong.

Then there was Gabe Jones.

He was an excellent marksman. Opposing goalies feared his onslaught. He was cool-headed and moved like water on the ice. Sometimes, no one knew he had the puck until it was in the opposing team’s net. He was quiet in the locker room too, but when he had something to say, everyone listened. You liked Gabe. He respected people’s boundaries and was always the first to ask how you were doing instead of just listing off his complaints. He had a quiet laugh and an appreciation for jazz and sometimes you caught him humming old show tunes while icing his shoulder.

Steve Rogers was Captain.

He was the anchor of the team. Calm. Reliable. He wasn’t flashy, didn’t dazzle people with tricks up his sleeve. He was smart, clean, fierce and totally relentless. He really could do it all day. Where others might have used taunts to deter their opponents, Steve used strategy. And a moral compass that pointed north even under the worst kind of pressure. When he came in with injuries, he was polite. To a fault. Never complained. Always said thank you. He trusted you, and you trusted him right back. He was the kind of man you idealized. The kind that you’d expected to have been attracted to. Blonde hair, blue eyes. The picture of perfection.

At least that’s what you thought, until James Buchanan Barnes skated into your life.

The star of the team. Assistant captain. Media darling. He was the public face of the Commandos. Bucky skated like the rink belonged to him. So did the puck. His aim was flawless. Off the ice, he was annoyingly charming, dazzlingly handsome, exceptionally flirty and totally irresistible to man and woman alike.

He had skidded in late to practice when the coach was introducing you to the team. You remembered it like it was yesterday.

Coach Sam Wilson was half way through his pep talk. The season would be opening soon and they had games to prepare for. His voice echoed round the empty rink while the players stood around sizing you up.

“This is the new team physician,” Sam said. “She’s not here to babysit, so don’t act like children and she won’t treat you like them. You show her respect, you follow her instructions, and maybe— just maybe— you’ll spend less time in recovery and more time scoring goals.”

You offered the players a nervous smile. They were all practically double your size. A few of the players mumbled greetings, offered a reluctant wave or just nodded their acknowledgement. You felt yourself blush under fifteen pairs of eyes, all trying to figure out if you were a rookie, a hardass, or— worse— someone who didn’t get hockey.

Just as the silence was getting uncomfortable, a door slammed open behind you, making you jump.

There was the sound of skates skidding across the rink and coming to a stop with a shower of ice particles over your brand new uniform. You knew who the latecomer was without an introduction.

Bucky Barnes. The team’s star center. The hotshot. Fan favorite. King of the last-minute goals. And apparently, zero concept of punctuality.

Coach Wilson didn’t miss a beat. Without even turning his head, he barked out a question.

“Barnes! You wanna tell your teammates why you’re fifteen minutes late to the first official practice of the season?”

Bucky’s voice called out, bright and breathless, in response. “Sorry, Coach. Got held up in the lobby.”

“Held up?” Sam asked skeptically.

You turned to look at him. Helmet in hand. Perfect hair. Beautiful eyes. Signature grin which had women throwing themselves at him at every street corner. “There was a crowd. Kids, mostly. Pens and jerseys. You know how it is.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Didn’t have the heart to say no.”

A few of the guys chuckled appreciatively, but Sam stayed stone faced.

“You want sign autographs through playoffs, or you wanna get on the damn ice?”

“Sir, no sir,” Bucky saluted Sam, trying to keep his face serious.

“That’s it, Barnes, extra sprints for you.”

“Awww, come on, coach,” Bucky groaned. “Just wanted the kids to start the season off right, s’all.”

Sam huffed through his nose. “Skate your ass over here and make a proper apology to our new team member before I’ll have you doing sprints til you puke.”

Bucky pushed off, gliding around the rest of the team until he came to a halt right in front of you. He skated like he was born for it.

“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”

Coach Wilson grunted, unmoved.

He turned to you and gave a bow, flourishing his helmet around before looking up with the biggest, most shit-eating grin.

“And you must be our new doc.”

You waved your hand over the stitching on your jacket which spelled out medic.

“Sorry for the dramatic entrance,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Nice to have you here, Sunshine.”

You blinked in surprise. “Sunshine? Really?”

His grin widened, like this was just the reaction he was waiting for. “Suits you. All wrapped up warm and serious, shining just a little too bright for this grim bunch.”

“Thought you were the star of the team, Barnes.”

“One of many,” he pointed over at his teammates, before taking a step forward so he was only a few inches from your face. “But you, you’re THE star. Special.”

You thought your heart stopped beating right there and then. The way he looked at you, the impish sparkle in his eyes spelled trouble.

“Fifteen minutes late and you’re handing out nicknames?” you answered sarcastically, trying to regain your composure.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good first impression.”

You opened your mouth to reply— something sassy but ideally keeping it professional— but Sam beat you to it.

“Barnes,” he barked, “move.”

With one last wink, Bucky turned, pushing off and rejoining the team with that same effortless glide.

You were left standing on the edge of the rink, trying to pretend that your heart rate hadn’t just spiked in the same way it used to when you were about to try out a new figure skating routine.

No. 

You were the team’s physician. An adult. This wasn’t high school. Or a romance novel. And James Buchanan Barnes was not going to derail your career with a charming smile.

You turned back and skated to the bench. One of the ways you wanted to prepare was to examine each player’s skating technique, to help you prepare for potential injuries and ways to avoid them. But every time the men started practicing their maneuvers, your eyes were drawn to one player. Bucky.

One word still floated in your head. In his voice.

Sunshine.

Damn him. You were screwed.

It didn’t take you long to find your rhythm. The team was chaotic, incredibly loud, a little rough around the edges, but they were surprisingly good company. And every single one of them showed you the utmost respect and often tried to take care of you. None of them knew about your skating background— it wasn’t something you talked about— so they frequently flanked you when you were called for on the rink to assess an injury.

It tickled you, being surrounded by these giants. It was nice to know they cared. Each of them had their own way of showing their appreciation. Dum Dum had come up with a variety of nicknames for you, Jim would often bring you cups of tea once he found out it was your go to beverage. Gabe shared with you his wide range of music, recommending his favorite tracks and the history that accompanied them. Steve was a little more reserved. Dependable and caring. He looked after his team and you were a part of it. “Need anything before I head out?” he’d always ask, like it was second nature to make sure everyone else was good before thinking of himself.

And then there was Bucky.

He was a tough nut to crack. One minute he was on the ice, laser-focused, impossible to catch, and the next he would be leaning against the squat rack in the weights room, surrounded by a gaggle of women who had somehow infiltrated the private facility and were fawning over his muscular torso.

On this particular occasion, you’d been passing by to pick up some resistance bands for a rehab assignment. The sight in front of you made you pause. One of the women— tall and blonde with a model-worthy figure— was laughing a little too loudly at something he had said. On his other side was a redhead with a high ponytail and shockingly long legs who had her hand on his bicep which he was flexing in a less than subtle manner for their benefit. You watched him murmur something in her ear, making her giggle.

You rolled your eyes at the visual. But inside your heart ached. You should have known better than to read anything into the smile he’d given you on the first day. This was the real Bucky Barnes. Flirting was probably something he did between reps. Trying to avoid drawing attention, you quietly bent down to pick up the bands you had come for and sneak out. 

You thought you’d made it; you were waddling down the hallway and were about to turn the corner and disappear down the hall when you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. Instinctively, you glanced back.

It was Bucky. He was jogging to catch up to you.

“Hey, Sunshine.”

There was that smile again. Within seconds, he was at your side. A strong arm draped casually over your shoulders and he tugged you gently into his side as he fell into step with you. The first thing you noticed was his solid presence— warm and effortless. The next thing was the scent of his cologne, subtle and devastating: something clean, masculine, and of course, disgustingly expensive.

“You always sneak around corners like that,” he asked, voice low near your ear, “or is this just a ‘running away from me’ kind of thing?” You could hear the smirk without even looking up.

“Didn’t realize I needed to schedule my exit,” you answered snarkily.

Bucky’s lips curled up further. “Not usually. But when someone sees me getting groped by gym groupies and bolts like I’ve committed a crime, I gotta assume something’s up.”

“Didn’t think you noticed I was there,” you said coldly, looking forward again. “You seemed pretty… busy.”

He hummed against your ear and his hand gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’d be surprised at what I notice, Sunshine.”

You hated the way your stomach flipped. And you did your best to ignore it.

“Besides,” he went on, not noticing the change in your expression, “I was only half-listening to what they were saying.”

“Oh? Which half?” you asked sarcastically. “The compliments or the giggling?”

“Neither,” he chuckled. I was trying to see if you’d look back.”

His words gave you pause and you wondered if he was serious. You cast him a sideways glance to see if he was serious. “Why?”

He shrugged. And in the most shameless tone, he said, “Because I like it when you look at me like you want to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

Your eyes widened and your face burned. “I do not—” you spluttered.

“Sure you do,” he teased, pulling you a little closer. “It’s cute.”

You huffed and tried to wiggle out from under his arm, but he held you there gently. Not forceful. Just insistent.

“Come on, Sunshine. Don’t get all shy on me now,” he murmured, dropping the cocky tone and replacing it with something surprisingly sincere. “Listen— I was actually on my way to find you.”

That surprised you. “Why?”

“Team’s going out tonight. MacLaren's. Nothing wild or fancy. Just the guys, great beer and darts. Someone will probably get too drunk and hit their head.” He glanced down at you with those piercing blue eyes. “You should come.”

You raised a brow. “Me? At a team night out?”

“Yeah, you.” His thumb brushed the curve of your shoulder. It was casual enough but didn't fail to make your skin tingle. “You’re one of us now. And it’s about time you had some fun.”

For a moment you hesitated, scanning his handsome features for signs of mirth— was he teasing, or even being sarcastic? But when you looked into those dazzling blue eyes, all you found was sincerity— and was that a hint of nervousness you detected?

“I don’t know…” you started, but he cut in smoothly.

“If it helps, I promise not to flirt with anyone else tonight. Just you.”

There it was, that trademark smile. You felt your stomach do a whole somersault this time.

“Have you flirted with me before?”

His grin widened. “Sunshine, I’ve been flirting with you since the moment you skated into my life.”

You stared at him, stunned for a beat too long.

Then, before you knew it, he winked— because of course he did— and added, “Seven o’clock. Wear something you can beat me at darts in.”

And just like that, he peeled his arm off your shoulders and walked backward down the hall pointing at you with both hands then mimicking a tennis serve, as if to say that the ball was now in your court. Only when he tripped over himself did he turn around, not before tossing you one last smile over his shoulder before vanishing around the corner.

You were left standing in the middle of the corridor, clutching the resistance bands to your chest, wondering how the hell you were supposed to get any work done for the rest of the day.

MacLaren’s was buzzing. The team had taken over the back half of the bar. All the players were crowded around a chaotic mix of pitchers, fries, onion rings and rows and rows of shot glasses. They had taken over at the pool tables and their laughter rang louder than the cheesy music. Dum Dum was holding court with two pool cues and zero coordination. It was shocking for a man who had such precision on the ice.

Gabe was fiddling with the jukebox, attempting to make it play something with more taste and Steve was trying to stop a couple of the rookies from gouging each other's eyes out with darts.

As soon as you entered, Jim Morita grabbed you, wanting to discuss his hydration routines. Not your idea of a good time, but you endured it for a full ten minutes before you felt a warm hand brush the small of your back.

You didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

Bucky.

Up close, under the dim lights of the bar he looked beautiful— like he’d walked off the cover of Sports Illustrated magazine. He was in the team colours— black skinny jeans (which stretched dangerously to cover his thick thighs) and navy henley (which accentuated his eyes) with his sleeves pushed up over his forearms. And there was that scent again. 

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, his familiar grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Come with me?”

“Where?” You raised a brow, suspiciously. 

He leaned in, voice low in your ear but clear against the buzz of the crowd around you. “Somewhere I can actually hear you.”

Without waiting for your answer, he grabbed the empty glass from your hand and pointed toward the booths tucked away near the back of the bar. Clearly a place reserved for couples to make out. You hesitated, but Bucky had grabbed two full glasses of beer and sauntered off. So against your better judgement, you followed.

The noise from the rest of the team dulled as you walked, until you could just about make out the tune from the jukebox and the sound of distant laughter. Bucky waved you into one of the empty booths, and patted at the spot next to him. Instead of sitting beside him, you slid into the seat across from him, heart pounding in your chest for reasons you didn’t totally understand.

What was even more unnerving was as you sat down, he didn’t immediately wink at you, or crack a joke. He just watched you, with a soft smile on his face. One you hadn’t seen before.

“You look good tonight,” he said quietly, with more sincerity in his voice than you had ever heard before.

You snorted softly. “Did you just drag me away from the rest of the team to badly flirt with me in private? Ashamed of your moves, Barnes?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah… well— maybe a little. But, no, not why I asked you here.”

“Then why?” You tilted your head curiously.

He leaned back, arms over the soft back of the long seat behind him and shrugged lightly.

“‘Cause I realized that you’ve been with the team for weeks now, and I still don’t actually know you,” he said, leaning forward onto the table now. “Not the med bay version, at least. Not ‘Doc Sunshine.’ I mean the real you.”

Your chest tightened, not expecting to hear that. So naturally you deflected.

“That’s because you’ve been too busy flirting with anything that moves to get to know me,” you said with a smirk, taking a sip of beer to hide the flush on your face.

Bucky ignored your snark. “The team loves you, you know that right? They used to hide their injuries until Coach threatened to bench them so they would see the last doctor. Now they’re lining up at your door.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing?”

“Jealous that I treat everyone equally? That you don’t get any special attention?”

Bucky laughed again, blue eyes sparkling bright in the darkness. “Oh I definitely get special attention.”

You scoffed. “Oh please.”

Bucky gave a slow shrug, watching you too carefully for it to be casual. “I so do. With Steve, you’re all business— tight wrap, straight lines, you're done in under a minute. But with me…” He tilted his head, mouth tugging into a smirk. “You take your time.”

“Oh please, I’m thorough with everyone.”

“Thorough, yes, just efficient,” he said, and his voice dropped a little lower. “You’re more careful with me. Like you think I might fall apart if you wrap too hard.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“And you always press your thumb right here—” He tapped the inside of his wrist, just below the bone. “Same spot, every time. I know it's not about assessing the bones, because you always do that before you start wrapping.”

He watched your expression carefully as the blush rose from your neck, covered your cheeks and tinged your ears. Your stomach flipped.

You forced a scoff, putting down your beer and trying to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt. “Maybe I’m just making sure your delicate ego stays intact.”

His smirk deepened. “So you admit you’re paying special attention to me,” he cried with delight, slapping his hands on the table 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes. Maybe I’m just taking my time because I don’t trust you not to pass out from a paper cut.”

His grin widened, like he loved that you were scrambling behind all that bravado. “Uh huh. That why you always smooth the tape down twice? Real thorough of you, Sunshine.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe I have to do it that way so it shuts you up for thirty seconds. Miracle, really.”

Bucky leaned back in the booth, clearly enjoying himself. “There are far better ways that you could get me to shut up, sweetheart. This way, you just keep giving me more to talk about.”

You crossed your arms tightly because you were afraid that he would actually be able to see your heart through your chest. “Pretty sure my job description doesn’t include being your entertainment,” you answered scathingly.

He leaned in again, eyes gleaming. “Pretty sure you like doing it anyway.”

You blinked, heart thudding traitorously in response to his words.

“I—” you started, then caught yourself, mouth snapping shut.

Bucky just smirked and sat back victoriously, his gaze very much still fixed on you. It felt like he was cataloguing every one of your expressions and reactions— what made you smile, what got you flustered. Suddenly his usual rink-side antics and charm vanished. Gone was the swagger but not his smile.

“You know,” he started after a moment’s silence. “I’ve been watching you. You don’t just fix people because it’s your job— you actually care.”

You raised an eyebrow at him “Is that… an actual compliment?”

“Just an observation,” he said quietly. “You make us feel like more than slabs of meat with skates on.”

You barked out a short laugh, suddenly uncomfortable at his sincerity, deflecting his words with sarcasm.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, Barnes. I didn’t bring enough tissues for that sorta thing.”

He smirked. “Bet you brought gauze though. What do you think we’d find in that little bag you brought?”

“You’re insufferable,” you said, shaking your head.

“And you’re smiling. I’m right, aren’t I?”

He was and you were. Shit.

He pushed himself off the back of the seat and dropped his elbows on the table, leaning across it. His voice dropped a notch in volume. “So tell me something real.”

You gave him a withering look. “Like what?” you challenged.

“Something none of the guys know. Something about you.”

This caught you off guard. Was he really interested? You couldn't think over the way your heart fluttered.

A dozen answers came to mind— easy ones, safe ones. So many things you could’ve said— you hated cardio, or that you had a weird thing for horror movies, or that you found ice cream too cold. 

But you didn’t say any of those things. Instead, you hesitated. You bit your lip and your eyes dropped to the half drink beer glass in front of you. You ran the tip of your finger over the condensation while you worked up the courage to tell him your story. The real one. 

When you glanced up again, his expression hadn't changed. His dazzling blue eyes were fixed solely on you. Not pressing, but curious. 

“It’s just…” you started slow but stopped.

He waited. No pressure. No urging. Just silent support.

“This job… it wasn’t really where I thought I’d end up,” you said finally, ending with a little laugh. “I didn’t even like hockey growing up.”

He tilted his head, eyebrows rising up in surprise. But he stayed quiet.

You shrugged lightly, fingertips drawing patterns on the side of the glass with the water droplets. 

“But I loved the ice. I always loved the ice.”

You saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. 

“I figured as much,” he responded softly. “You don’t move like someone who’s new to it.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Your first day,” he said with a knowing smile. “I saw you on the rink, you were doing laps before anyone else showed up. The way you moved— it was beautiful.”

He paused, like he was searching for the right words.

“You weren’t just skating. You were… gliding. Like you were a part of the ice rather than being on it.”

Your chest tightened. You had no idea that anyone had been there that day, let alone watching you. But he had been. Just like he was watching you now.

It was hard to know what he was thinking, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. So you looked away, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. 

“I used to be a figure skater,” you said quietly.

That got his full attention, but he still didn’t speak, didn't interrupt. And that's when you finally looked at him. 

“Used to have plans. The most amazing routines. The biggest dreams. I wanted to compete in the Olympics. Well, that used to be the plan before …”

“Before?” he asked gently.

“Before the arthritis started.” You forced a breath. “And then it all kind of vanished overnight.”

The weight of your revelation settled between you. Not dramatic. Just honest.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“I still love the ice,” you added, as though he hadn't spoken, lost in your own reverie. “Guess I found a different way to stay on it.”

Bucky nodded slowly, letting you have a moment before he said anything.

“Funny, isn’t it? How the thing you love most can hurt you the deepest. And you still chase it anyway.”

You looked at him then— really looked— and for a second you forgot where you were. Forgot the noise of the bar, the rest of the team, the half-empty glasses in front of you.

Your chest tightened again. This version of Bucky— soft, focused— was a rare sighting. But it was the real man under all the bluster and bravado. And it terrified you and made you swoon all at once. It made you want things you couldn’t afford to want.

So you said the only thing you could think of to break the spell.

“Are you planning on sleeping with me to get out of doing recovery exercises?” 

He smirked, but it was a touch slower than usual. “Would it work?”

You grinned back, grateful for the return of the overly flirtatious banter, the familiar rhythm. “Not a chance.”

He raised his glass. “To full-contact physio then.”

You clinked yours against his. “To concussions and poor choices.”

And just like that, the moment had passed. But that feeling? It lingered.

One of the team had hollered for Bucky soon after that, demanding he come and assist with a tie break decision on the latest pool battle tournament. He flashed you a smile and a wink as he bounced off to settle the score.

You’d drifted back to the crowd after that— feeling relieved… maybe? Or a little rattled. The men had already ordered another round of shots. Dum Dum was now holding three pool cues and claiming he could play left-handed if “someone taped his right arm behind his back.” Steve was playing referee again. The music was louder. The mood, lighter.

Bucky wasn't there. You tried not to look around for him, telling yourself you didn't need to. You tried. You really did. But it was like you craved his presence, the way he made you feel. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

But when you finally glanced around, he was nowhere to be seen. Not with the team, not at the bar, not by the jukebox. You glanced back toward the booths but he wasn’t there either.

Steve sidled up beside you as you were sipping the last of your beer. And you were grateful for his calming presence. 

“Hope we haven't scared you off from any future nights out,” he said softly, nodding toward the team's rowdy antics.

“Nah,” you answer in the same tone. “Grateful that you guys asked me to join you.”

Steve gave you a warm smile. “You’re officially one of us now. Survived your first team night out.”

“It was good of Bucky to invite me.”

Suddenly, like your eyes were drawn to him, you spotted him near the door. He was leaning over someone— a woman. Now that you looked closer, you realized it was the same one who had been clinging to his bicep at the gym. 

Blonde. Snatched waist. Long legs. Perfectly done makeup with lusciously painted lips. She laughed airily at everything he said. And she held his gaze.

He reached down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before leaning down to whisper against it.

Your stomach flipped. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs were being squeezed like a vice. Of course he wasn't interested in someone like you when he could have someone like her.

It felt wrong, sulking in the shadows watching them but you couldn't seem to tear yourself away.

He looked up once, eyes skimming the bar like he was searching for something. Or someone. But then without another glance backwards, he opened the door. She walked out first. He followed immediately after. He didn’t look back.

You blinked hard, dragging your gaze back to the bar, not wanting Steve to catch your eyes lingering. Taking a slow breath, you forced yourself to focus on the rest of the team.

Beside you, Steve didn’t say a word.

He didn’t mention Bucky at all. Didn’t even glance at the door. But you knew he had seen. He knew everything about his team.

He just nudged a fresh glass of beer into your hands. “This round’s on me.”

You nodded, fingers curling around the cool glass without looking at him.

“Thanks, Cap.”

He stayed beside you while your brain spiraled. 

The next day after practice, the team was stoked. Riding the high energy of a perfect practice session. Morale was high even though their bodies were battered and bruised.

You were in the med bay, as always, ready to deal with the stream of grown men who would whine and wince over the smallest injuries. You were ready, running through your trial and tested recovery plans and icing regimes.

Bucky made a beeline for you the second he stepped off the ice.

You had just finished splinting a rookie’s fingers and slapped an ice pack over it before sending him on his way. Normally you would have looked up and smiled when you caught sight of him in your periphery, but today there was nothing. No smile. No acknowledgement. 

He smirked to himself. Alright, Sunshine. Let’s see how long you can ignore me.

He strolled over, wearing only his compression tee. “Morning, Sunshine,” he said, grinning, eyes soft.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t even glance up from your chart.

“Oof. Tough crowd,” he smirked, not letting your silence deter him.

He stepped closer, leaned casually on the counter next to your tray of supplies. Close enough for the scent of his aftershave mingled with sweat to drift over.

Still you said nothing.

“You lose a bet or something?” he asked with a frown. “Or is this just the vibe now?”

You finally looked up. Your face was unreadable, your voice clipped. “Do you need something strapped or are you just here to make noise?”

His eyebrows rose, caught between surprise and confusion at your tone.

“You’re in a mood today, huh?” he teased.

You turned away to hide your scowl, rifling through the tape drawer. “No mood. Just work.”

He narrowed his eyes, still grinning, but it was tighter now. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Why would I be mad?” you asked, your voice still icy.

He shrugged. “Dunno. You usually call me out when I’m being a pain in the ass. Now you’re just… cold.”

You turned around with the ice pack and gestured toward the table. “Shirt off. Let’s go.”

He smirked as he tugged his shirt over his head. “If you wanted to see me naked, Sunshine, all you had to do was ask.”

A fresh purple bruise was blooming near his ribs, but you couldn't take your eyes off the smaller bruises at his neckline.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes,” you snapped.

“Hard not to when I’ve got you glaring at me like that.”

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t even roll your eyes. Just slapping an ice pack against his chest, pressing a little harder than necessary into the bruised spot on his ribs.

He winced. “Shit— okay, you are mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, teeth gritted together. 

“Then what is this?”

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

“This is me being your team physician.”

His smile faltered just for a second. But only a second before he put his charming facade back on.

“You’re a lot more fun when you’re roasting me.”

You stepped back, stripping off your gloves. “You’re good to go,” you said dismissively.

“That’s it?” he asked, voice rising and octave.

“That’s it,” you answered without changing yours.

He stayed seated, staring at you as you moved across the room. Something was off— he could feel it now. You weren’t teasing him. Your warmth had vanished. You weren’t his sunshine anymore.

But instead of asking the hard question, instead of acknowledging the tension pulling between you like a taut string, he leaned back and winked at you with all the bravado he could muster.

“Well, I’ll win you over at tomorrow's game.”

You didn’t respond.

He finally slid off the table and left with a cheerful, “See you out there, Sunshine.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, you let out the breath you’d been holding with a sigh, still wondering if he knew he had shattered your heart the night before.

Bucky wandered into the locker room, the ice pack still clutched against his chest. Most of the guys were filtering out, cracking jokes or heading toward the showers.

Dum Dum passed by, towel slung over his shoulder, a protein bar already half-devoured in one hand. He stopped mid-bite, squinting at Bucky’s exposed torso.

“Jesus, Barnes,” he said around a mouthful. “You been in a fight or a porno?”

Bucky glanced down at his chest, peering at the purple crescents blooming near his collarbone.

“Damn,” Gabe muttered, stepping up behind him with a smirk, stating the obvious. “That’s not from the game.”

Jim, drying off nearby, chimed in. “I thought we agreed: no leaving visible evidence. You’re ruining the team’s illusion of professionalism.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I tripped,” he deadpanned with a careless shrug.

“Onto someone’s mouth?” Gabe snorted.

“Repeatedly,” Dum Dum added. “Judging by that mark, she’s either really into you or trying to eat you alive.”

Bucky just smirked proudly which got a chorus of groans and whoops from the guys still around. Dum Dum threw the wrapper of his protein bar at him.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re jealous,” Bucky retorted, dropping his shorts and heading into the shower.

Bucky was toweling sweat off his neck when Steve appeared beside him, arms folded, a look on his face that said this wasn’t going to be casual.

“Got a minute?”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah, sure. What's up?”

They sat side by side on the bench. And for a second, Steve said nothing. Bucky waited, rubbing the towel against his shoulder like the silence didn’t bother him.

It did.

“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky glanced sideways. “That was a winning practice strategy. You're welcome.”

“Cut the crap, Buck. I'm talking about last night.”

Bucky’s grin faltered.

Steve stared at him. “You just disappeared last night.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I left with someone. Big deal.”

“It is when you spent the whole night flirting with someone else.”

Bucky stiffened, jaw tightening. “You keeping track now?” he asked, scathingly

Steve shook his head. “No. Just... looking out for the people who get caught in your wake.”

Steve regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth, but it was too late.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky said, voice going cold.

Steve raised his hands, trying to defuse. “Buck, you're my best friend, but I have a responsibility to this team. And sometimes I just think maybe you don’t see the damage.”

“Damage?” Bucky repeated, like it tasted bitter. “You think I’m damaging her?”

“No! I think…” Steve hesitated. “I think you act like none of this matters. And it does. To her. Probably more than you’re willing to admit.”

Bucky stood abruptly, like he couldn’t sit still a second longer. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he shouted.

Steve followed slowly, keeping his voice low. “Maybe not. But I do know what it looks like when someone’s trying to prove their worth to someone who never gives a damn.”

Bucky froze. But Steve kept going.

“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself just to prove something to him.”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell— sharp, shallow— like Steve had physically struck him. 

“Don’t you bring him into this.”

Steve tried again, hands open. “I’m not—”

“You are!” Bucky’s voice was a low growl now. “You think just ‘cause you grew up with decent parents and a goddamn support system, you can read me like a playbook? You think I haven’t heard that shit before? ‘You’re not enough, James. You think talent’s enough? You don’t have what it takes.’”

Steve took a step back, his heart sinking.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No. I won't ever be good enough for you, either.”

He shouldered past Steve, yanking his duffel bag off the bench with an angry swipe.

“Next time, you can psychoanalyze someone who gives a shit.”

The door slammed behind him, leaving a guilty looking Steve staring after him, wondering how trying to help had made things ten times worse.

You knew from the moment the puck dropped that something was off. It wasn’t the team— they were dialed in, sharp, focused. But Bucky?

Bucky was downright feral. He was playing like he had something to prove. 

Every pass, every shot was laced with something vicious. Every check hit a little too hard. Every sprint faster than normal. And every time the other team so much as breathed near Steve or Gabe, Bucky was there, shoving, growling, taking up space like he owned the whole rink.

Soon the opposing team were playing just as dirty and the game was rapidly descending into a brutal bloodbath.

Try as you might, you couldn't keep a neutral expression behind the glass. You were on the edge of your seat, fingers curled tight around the edge of your clipboard as you bit down on your bottom lip.

Half way through the first period, Bucky was checked so hard against the boards that you gasped and stood up. You stepped towards the edge of the rink, heart lodged in your throat, but ready to rush over if needed. But he jumped back up right away, shaking off the tackle like it was nothing.

But you knew it wasn't nothing. You could tell from the way he skated, the way he blinked, like he was seeing stars. Steve skated over to him and whispered something, but Bucky ignored him, skating away.

“He’s playing angry,” Jim muttered beside you, watching the ice.

You nodded, biting the inside of your mouth. “I know.”

“That’s not good.”

No. It wasn’t.

He wasn’t playing for the team tonight. He was playing for something he wouldn’t name. And all you could do was watch helplessly.

By the second period, the score was tight. 2–2. And the atmosphere was tense. Every single movement on the ice felt frantic.

Minutes before the end, Bucky broke away with the puck. Skating toward the opposing team with a gleam in his eyes that you had never seen before. There was a fire that burned bright, but it wasn't passion, no, it wasn't the love of the game fueling him. This fire burned like the ice below him.

He struck the puck as three opposing players surged towards him in an attempt to block his play. But they were too late. 

GOAL!

The arena erupted.

But that didn't stop the momentum of the players in the rink. Two of the defensemen slammed into him, shoulders slamming into his chest and sending him flying off the floor.

Bucky went down hard, hitting the ice with a thud that silenced the roar in your ears.

Your body was moving before your mind had the chance to catch up with your emotions. Kit in hand, you sped across the ice with long purposeful strikes. You tried to control your breathing and push down the bile in your throat as you shoved his teammate’s aside and dropped to your knees.

Don't be unconscious. Don't be unconscious.

As you got there, he was already trying to sit up, hands braced against the cold floor and shaking his head as if it would clear the cobwebs from his mind.

You grabbed him by the helmet to stop him moving his head.

“Hey,” you said, tone sharp but even. “Look at me.”

His eyes met yours. A little unfocused. A little glassy.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“No, you’re not,” you said, gently. Your voice was warmer than it had been yesterday.

He was clutching his ribs, the bruise he already had was probably bigger now. Somehow his lip had split and his knuckles were red raw from punching someone earlier.

“You should come off.”

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there on the ice, blinking slowly, like he wasn’t sure if getting up was something he could even do.

You shifted slightly, unbuckling his helmet and taking it off. “Can you follow my finger, Buck?” you asked, moving it from side to side.

He did so without any trouble.

“Think you can get up?”g

Bucky nodded.

“Then come off the ice, Bucky. Please.”

You weren't sure if it was what you said or how you said it, but something cracked behind those brilliant blue eyes and he finally gave in. 

He nodded again, all the fight gone from his form.

You helped him to his feet. Slowly. Carefully. He winced as you looped your arm under his to keep him steady. He didn't resist. 

The arena thundered with cheers, but it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like you were both underwater. He raised his arm to the crowd before skating out with you. 

Neither of you spoke as you led him down the tunnel, skates clicking sharply against the rubber floor in the tunnel. His fingers twitched just slightly where they gripped your shoulder.

And you didn’t miss the way Steve watched the two of you go.

The moment you reached the med bay, Bucky slumped over onto the examination couch, his adrenaline levels crashing down. You approached him quietly, helping him out of his gear. Silently, you undid his laces and put guards on the blades before pulling them off his feet.

He was able to sit up enough for you to pull his jersey over his head. Then, you snapped on a pair of gloves and got to work. His ribs were a darker purple than they had been yesterday and you ran your fingers over the now faded love bites, before moving to cleaning his split lip.

Once you were done you moved back to checking his pupils — clearer now, but still a bit fogged. And for some reason it made you angry.

“How many fingers?” you asked, holding up three.

“Two,” he mumbled, then corrected himself with a small, dazed smirk. “Three. I’m kidding. I’m not concussed.”

You didn’t smile.

“You’re not funny.”

“You used to think I was,” he said, sadly.

Your hands stilled for a beat before resuming their actions, brisk and clinical.

“What the hell was that out there?” you hissed finally, pulling out tape to strap his ribs. “You cracked a rib, Bucky.”

He rolled his eyes, the smirk back in place.  He was looking more his usual but obnoxious self as time went on. “Please. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stepped between his knees, rubbing salve to the bruise below his collarbone a little harder than necessary. He hissed.

“Jesus, Sunshine, take it easy.”

“I am taking it easy,” you snapped. “Because if I wasn’t, I’d be yelling at you for acting like an idiot. For playing like you're invincible. You’re not superman, no matter how much you want the world to think you are. You break, Bucky. Just like the rest of us.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much,” he said, voice dropping into that teasing drawl.

You shoved the tape roll into his hand. “Here. You wanna be reckless? Strap your own damn ribs.”

That made him go still. But he caught your wrist before you could pull away.

“Hey.”

You didn’t look at him.

“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, hard. “You scared me.”

There it was. The truth laid bare.

His hand softened around your wrist. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you— charged and cracking. Then he broke it.

“You gonna kiss me, Sunshine,” he murmured, “or just keep patching me up and pretending there's nothing between us?”

You looked at him, eyes locking. Then finally something snapped inside you.

The next second, your hands were in his hair, his mouth on yours, and everything else went quiet.

The kiss was messy. Desperate. The slight clash of teeth as you found a rhythm amidst the heat. The sound of you moaning against his lips was something he'd been waiting years for.

He tugged you between his legs and his hands worked under your shirt with an urgency that sent a bolt of electricity straight up your spine. You gasped as his palms slid up your back, rough and hot against your skin. In return, you dragged your fingers down his bruised chest, making him flinch and hissed through his teeth.

“Fuck, Sunshine— if you’re gonna be that mean, at least let me get my pants off first,” he growled against your lips. “Come on, shirt off.” He was already tugging the fabric over your head.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t stop to think. You let it fall to the floor as you climbed into his lap, straddling him where he sat on the exam couch. His hands gripped your hips, greedy, like he was trying to brand the shape of your body into his palms. Your mouth found him again, open and hungry.

He groaned into your mouth as you rolled your hips down over him, the friction sharp through the thin barrier of your leggings and his compression shorts. His fingers flexed, tightening on your waist as he pulled you closer, his mouth dragging down your throat.

He groaned when your nails dragged down his bruised chest, the pain making him break from the kiss.

“Thought I told you to take it easy,” he breathed.

You pressed your mouth to the bruise this time, gentler. “Maybe next time don’t scare the shit out of me on the ice, and I’ll consider being nice.”

His laugh was low and rough. “So I’ve gotta almost die to get your soft side? That right, Sunshine?”

You rocked your hips again, much slower this time, smirking as you watched his breath hitch.

“Not my fault you only respond to pain and sarcasm,” you murmured, dragging your nails up his sides, dipping and rising along the curves of each of his ribs, gentler still— but still enough to make him flinch.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Sunshine, you’re gonna kill me. What happened to that bedside manner?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Don’t be such a baby. I thought you were supposed to be the tough one, Barnes?”

His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “I am. But you keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last long enough to prove it.”

You grinned and rolled your hips again, deliberately slow. “Guess you better shut up and focus then.”

A deep, guttural sound emanated from his throat, and then his hands were in your waistband, tugging at them with an impatient insistence.

“You got any rules for your med bay?” he muttered.

You arched a brow. “Yeah. Don’t get blood on the floor. No one said anything about coming on it.”

His laugh was wicked, right before he ducked his head and bit down on the curve of your shoulder. “Jesus. You’re gonna be the fucking death of me,” he muttered before helping you off the couch.

His fingers hooked under your waistband and yanked your leggings down. You helped, kicking them off in a rush, your underwear coming right off with them.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, eyes raking over your bare thighs as he leaned back slightly to take it all in, lips parted, pupils blown.

You climbed back onto his lap.

“You really gonna ride me right here?”

You leaned forward, gripping his jaw and tilting it so your mouths almost touched. “Unless you’d rather cry about your bruises and go home alone.”

His grin was downright sinful. “You know I love a little pain,” he murmured, voice rough as he pressed his forehead to yours for a beat, breath hot against your face. 

Then he leaned back and slapped your ass with a quick sting that made you jolt. “Up.”

“Why?” you frowned.

He smirked. “So I can get my damn pants off before you ruin them… or I do.”

You stood again, just long enough for him to shove his compression shorts down, groaning low in his throat as he finally freed himself. His cock slapped against his stomach, hard and already flushed.

“See?” he muttered, voice thick. “Told you you’d kill me.”

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you noticed his size.

“No complaints?” he asked cockily as he saw your reaction. He grabbed your hand and pulled you back across his thighs.

You shook your head, moaning in ecstasy as he guided the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, dragging it through you once, twice. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“Condom?” you asked, your voice rasping.

“Back pocket,” he grunted.

You fished it out, tearing it open and rolling it on without ceremony. He throbbed in your hands, hot against your palms despite the latex barrier.

He caught your hips, guiding you into place, his hands firm, but breath ragged. Then slowly, you sank down onto him. Your breath stuttered. The stretch was intense, but it was the fullness that hit first. It was a sweet, aching pressure that made your entire body feel alive. It started in your core, flaring out in hot little bursts all over— up your spine, across your thighs, curling behind your knees and down your toes like sparks under your skin.

Bucky let out a breathless curse, fingers flexing hard around your hips like he needed to ground himself against the pleasure. “Jesus, Sunshine…”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your body already rocking toward him. “Stop teasing,” you bit out.

“I’m not teasing,” he said, breath catching. “I’m savoring.”

And then he pushed your knees apart, filling you completely in one long, delicious stretch that made you gasp against his neck.

“God, Bucky—”

He groaned as your hips settled flush against his. “That’s it. Just like that. Fuck, you feel unreal. So tight.”

Slowly, you adjusted and started to move, grinding down with each roll of your hips and letting his thick length push over your slick walls. His head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, jaw clenched, hands gripping your thighs like he was stopping himself coming undone right there.

You were sure there would be marks on your skin tomorrow, but you didn't care. Instead you kept moving, moaning as you chased the high, the inevitable release. “Mmmghhh!”

“Look at you,” he groaned through gritted teeth. “Bouncing on my cock like you don’t give a fuck who hears.”

You smirked, breathless. “Maybe I don’t.”

It didn't matter, you could both hear the roar of the crowd from the stands above you and it spurred you on to move faster.

His hands shot up to your waist, guiding your rhythm, pulling you down harder. “Yeah?” he groaned. “Then take it. Fucking take it.”

Your nails raked through his hair, tugging just enough to make him swear again. He leaned forward, catching your mouth with his. The was sloppy, urgent, filthy but didn’t let up as he thrust up into you now, meeting every grind with a pussy ruining rhythm.

The table creaked beneath you, paper tearing beneath your knees. You didn’t care.

Nothing mattered but the heat, the slide, the way his cock hit just right, over and over. The familiar coiled in the bottom of your belly appeared out of nowhere, making pleasure build overwhelmingly fast as it worked its way outward in pulsing waves. Your thighs trembled under the strain, your nerves firing up like electric shocks under your skin.

Every thrust sent a ripple through your entire body, that white-hot ache filled you, curling into your toes and clenching in your fists. You cunt closed around him involuntarily and he choked out a groan, hands tightening like he was holding on for his life. The friction was maddening, delicious, just on the better side of too much, and every roll of your hips sent that fizzing heat spiraling higher.

“Shit— don’t do that. Don’t— Sunshine, I’m close—”

You bit his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Then come,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Come with me.”

And he did— with a low, rough growl, buried deep inside you, hips stuttering as he came, overwhelmed by your slick heat, the way your body gripped him like you were made just for him. His breath hitched, forehead pressing to your shoulder, lost in the blinding surge of release. Your walls fluttered around him, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’d never let go— and for a second, he didn’t want you to. Couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

You stayed like that for a moment, breathing heavily, sweat coating your skin.

He finally leaned back, his smug grin returning. “Guess I don’t need full mobility to fuck you stupid.”

You rolled your eyes and climbed off, grabbing gauze and cleansing wipes like it was just another shift.

“Next time,” you said, tossing his boxers at him, “keep your pants on until after the final buzzer.”

He discarded the condom and grabbed a towel from the drawer like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t new. You’d just finished putting on your bra when said buzzer echoed through the floors.

Shit!

You pulled your shirt back over your head in a rush, heart pounding for more reasons than you could name. Bucky was already half-dressed again, finally pulling on his compression tee like he hadn’t just had you on top of him moments before.

He caught your eye and grinned. “Gotta say… not the worst post-game treatment I’ve ever had.”

You shot him a glare. “You breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll stitch your mouth shut.”

“That would be a damn shame, Sunshine. You'd be missing out on a real treat.”

You scowled and he raised both hands, still smug. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Suddenly the sound of footsteps down the hallway echoed in your ears. You grabbed a fresh pack of tape and moved to your desk.

Bucky stepped toward the door, hand on the knob, then paused and glanced back.

“So… is this a one-time thing, or…?”

You hesitated. Just a beat. What had you been expecting?

“No strings. No feelings. Just…” you gestured vaguely between you. “When it works. When no one else is around.”

He tilted his head like he was locking the terms into place. “That an official medical agreement?”

“Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

And then he was gone, just as the first of the team came down the corridor, his usual easy swagger in place, like he hadn’t just rearranged every molecule in your body.

You exhaled, sat down, and pretended your pulse wasn’t still racing.

Friends with benefits.

You could do that… right?

[lessersole]

SCREAMING I love this so much!! Protective caring Bucky is the best, and even the way he picks up her keys is super hot 🔥 totally worth being in danger to get him looking after you. Also love Emma, and Sam totally knew what he was doing 😁

Then the instant need for each other in the kitchen 🥵 I'm also giggling thinking of Alpine still in the bed like what are these two up to 😂

SO GOOD JO ❤️

Take Care

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 5.2K

Summary: Now that Sam is Captain America, being his childhood best friend brings you into the spotlight and makes you a good bargaining piece. Sam won't settle for you ever being in danger so he asks you to stay protected...but not by him.

Author's Note: I recently heard "I will always love you," by Whitney Houston on my playlist and it made me think of bodyguard!Bucky. While it isn't official in this story he is keeping us safe and protected so it's the same idea. I just love him being a bad ass but also soft for the girl he wants. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: some angst over being in a dangerous situation, flirty fun, sexual tension, fluff, Alpine being cute, Bucky being gorgeous, some curses, fingering, smut, p in v (wrap it before you tap it friends- except in fanfic HA!)

“SAM! This is…is…ridiculous! I’m a grown woman!”

Sam shakes his head before he drops his eyes to the ground, staring at his feet as if they’ll provide the answers he needs.

“You don’t think I know that?” he replies softly. “But I can’t be here all the time…can’t be watching your back every second. And after what happened…”

You absentmindedly wrap your arms around yourself at the mention of your near abduction last week, the threat still lingering in your everyday existence.

“I want to move on,” you whisper. “Just live my life.”

“I know. But how can you expect me to just be ok with you being in danger, especially when it’s my fault!”

“It’s not your fau…” you start but he cuts you off.

“I…I need you to do this…for me.”

You meet Sam’s pleading eyes and your shoulder sag under their weight. “Fine! But he better not give me any trouble. I want him to be invisible.”

Finally Sam smiles, his wide grin lighting up his face and making it hard for your own not to tug at the corners of your mouth.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” you tell him as you walk toward his waiting open arms.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I promise he’ll take care of you and keep you safe.”  

“Ok,” you mumble into his shirt, squeezing him tightly.

Sitting at the small table in the back of the cafe you keep your eyes on Sam while he waits in line for your coffees. For all you know Bucky could be in here already, unseen to the untrained eye. You scan your surroundings, but you don’t see anyone who resembles him.

Sam finishes up at the register and heads your way, setting your drink down in front of you and sitting with a smile.

“He’s not here yet. If that’s what you’re wondering.”

You give him a nonchalant shrug. “I know what he looks like from seeing him on TV and all that. I just thought maybe he was blending in.”

Before Sam can crack a joke on Bucky’s behalf, the chime over the door sounds and he comes into view. You don’t know what detail to take in first. His towering build: broad shoulders, thick arms, long legs-all wrapped in dark colors. Shoulder length dark hair tucked away from his face, a face shaped by a strong jaw lined with dark stubble, or his startling blue eyes framed by long dark lashes.

As he moves closer you can feel the power in each of his strides, the distance he covers disappearing quickly.

“Hey Buck,” Sam says as he stands and pats Bucky on the back.

Bucky gives Sam a lopsided smile then looks down to you.

“Bucky Barnes,” he says and holds out his hand.

“Hi,” you whisper, swallowing loudly and then clearing your throat before giving him your name, your words louder now.

Lightning zips down your arm at his touch and you feel the slight tensing in his hand.

“I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible,” Bucky says, still holding onto your hand.

“I appreciate that,” you tell him, finally pulling away with a small tug.

Sam looks between the two of you and tries to hide his growing grin.

True to his word, for the first week, Bucky keeps his distance, only making his presence known when necessary and keeping in touch with you and your schedule through simple texts.

It isn’t until you’re walking home after a long day of errands, your bag resting against your stomach as you look for your keys, keys you know you had when you left the house this morning, that Bucky finally makes an appearance.

“Looking for these?” he says as your keys dangle from his long fingers.

You look up at the sound of his voice to find him casually resting against the brick front of your building, his jaw tight.

“What? I…?”

“You need to be more careful doll,” he says as he takes a powerful step forward.

He twirls the keys around his finger before taking your hand and dropping them into your palm.

“What if someone else found them?” he asks, holding your gaze.

“But…I didn’t even know I dropped them.”

“Exactly,” he grits out. “How much shit do you have in there that you didn’t notice?”

His words take you by surprise and you step closer to him, sticking your finger into his hard chest. “That’s none of your business and what does it matter. I’ll carry around what I want!”

“It matters if you’re going to lose things like keys so someone can find them and get into your apartment. You never know who’s watching.”

His words make you shiver, and you heed Sam’s warning. You know being associated with him, especially as someone important to him, brings the possibility of danger but the harsh reminder of it makes your heart race.

As if sensing your unease, Bucky’s eyes soften.

“Just pay more attention,” he says, as he holds the door of your building open for you.

You’re about to say, ‘thank you,’ but he walks off, those purposeful strides carrying him away quickly.

“Does he sleep outside your window?”

You laugh at your best friends question but not before crawling across your bed to peek out the window of your bedroom.

“I don’t think so,” you answer into the phone.

“At least he’s easy on the eyes.”

“Oh stop,” you tell her. “It’s not like I even see much of him.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” she counters, and you can practically see her raised and challenging brow.

“Well…yeah. It is,” you reply with a huff, shaking your head to clear the image of his handsome face from your mind.

‘I have plans with my friend tomorrow night.’

You watch the three dots pop up on your phone screen as you wait for Bucky’s text reply.

‘Just tell me the time and place.’

With a sigh and a roll of your eyes you text Emma so you can decide where to go and then let Bucky know.

“Is he here?” Emma asks, eyeing you over her drink.

“Yeah, he’s sitting in the corner back there, nursing his beer.”

She starts to turn around, but you grab her arm. “Don’t make it obvious!”

“Well how am I supposed to get a look at him!?”

“Bathroom?” you suggest, and she nods enthusiastically.

You swivel and head toward the hallway, her head and eyes remaining on Bucky until you make the turn toward the bathrooms.

“Wow,” Emma says when you walk in.

You wrinkle your nose at the stagnant and pungent smell of the bathroom.

“Yeah, not the best,” you murmur.

“What? NO!” she says. “Wow for Bucky. Damn girl.”

“Oh.”

“OH?! Do you have eyes?”

You pin her with a glare.

“And I didn’t even get a good look because he’s sitting down in that dark corner…”

Her words come out with a dreamy sigh.

“I think he’s single,” you say suggestively.

“Perfect. GET ON THAT.”

You look at her incredulously. “Why not you?”

She blows a raspberry and waves you off. “He’s probably smitten with you already.”

“It’s not like we’re hanging out or anything. He’s just here to keep trouble away.”

Emma smiles deviously. “I think he’s the most trouble you’re gonna find.”

You both giggle as you walk out of the bathroom, not paying attention until you run into what feels like a brick wall.

“Hey there doll, you ok?” Bucky says quietly as large, warm hands envelope your waist and he steadies you against his chest.

Your pulse quickens and a thrill stirs beneath your skin as does an awareness of every point at which you touch. You blink then look up to find his eyes trained on you.

“Yeah, fine. What are you doing here?”

His eyes slide to Emma, and you give him a subtle nod to let him know she knows what’s going on.

“Two girls…bar…dark hallway.”

“Got it,” you say then introduce him to Emma.

The rest of the night is spent sipping your drink and stealing glances at Bucky. Every time you look his eyes are on you, the weight of his stare making your skin tingle and heat.

“He’s staring isn’t he?” Emma asks.

“He has been all night,” you reply.

She just smiles and grabs your hand. “Let’s dance.”

You fall into an easy rhythm with the music, your hips swaying and your hands floating around you. Suddenly you’re pulled from your rhythmic movements by the feel of hands at your waist.

With a jerk forward you pull away and turn around to find a drunk stranger grinning at you.

“Don’t wanna dance beautiful?” he slurs.

You shake your head no and move closer to Emma. The man moves into your space and tries to act coy, but it just makes you cringe.

“I’m…” you start to say but get cut off when a large shadow looms over you and Bucky says, “she’s with me.”

The stranger backs up and lifts his hands in surrender before stumbling off.

“You ok?” he asks, assessing you intensely.

You nod then he looks to Emma to check on her.

“All good here,” she says with a smile. “I’m just going to get a water.”

Strong arms encase you, wrapping you in a delicious warmth and the scent of leather and something woodsy and fresh. You inhale without thinking and lean closer.

His breathing hitches and you’re brought back to reality. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing,” he says on an exhale.

“This isn’t exactly a song for a slow dance,” you laugh.

He drops his head, and you can see a light blush gracing the tops of his cheeks under the dim light from above.

“Just trying to keep your suitors away,” he teases.

“Ugh,” you say, peeking around Bucky for the guy who tried to dance with you.

You can feel him chuckle before someone bumps you from behind and you’re pressed closer. His laugh dies on a pained groan and your own laugh bubbles out of you.

“What’s so funny doll?”

You cover your mouth, but your eyes are lit up with mirth. “You are,” you mumble through your fingers. “I find it funny that it’s so painful for you to actually hang out with me.”

He stares at you, stepping away and running his fingers over his hair. “Fuck,” he says and spins around. “It’s not that at all…”

Your eyebrows draw inward, but he just walks back to his hidden seat.

When you slide up beside Emma at the bar she’s grinning.

“You two looked cozy.”

“He smells nice,” you blurt out. “But I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” she asks.

“Sometimes it seems like he wants to be around me and then…”

“The complete opposite?”

“YES!”

“He likes you.”

“What? That makes no sense.”

“It does. Think about it. He has a job to do so he has to stay focused but you’re hot and amazing and he sees that so…what’s a man to do but act like a complete ass.”

“Well now that makes total sense,” you say wryly.

After getting Emma home safely you walk next to Bucky down the quiet street toward your apartment, his fingers occasionally brushing yours. He listens with a focused intensity as you tell him childhood stories about you and Sam.

“I can’t wait to use this as ammo,” he laughs when you share something particularly embarrassing.

“Oh please do. He deserves it.”

When you reach your apartment he insists on walking you up and when your key gets stuck you grunt in frustration, pulling harshly and rattling the door.

“Need some help?” he asks, his voice closer than you realized.

His hand closes over yours and you try to ignore the heat of his body so close and the shock of his initial touch, almost familiar but still so new.

He presses his chest into your back and removes your hand from the knob; the instant mourn of the loss of his touch making you inwardly chastise yourself.

With deft but gentle movements he maneuvers the key until it turns cleanly in the lock.

“What would you do without me?” he whispers.

“I was doing just fine before,” you state with a shaky breath.

You turn to face him, and he gives you an inch of space and you catch his disbelieving but playful expression. You’re about to say something cheeky but you see his jaw tighten and his body tense.

“Get inside,” he says, pushing the door open.

You do as he says, your heart dropping into your stomach. He follows, shutting the door quietly behind you and reaching into his boot. He pulls out a knife, twirling it skillfully before he presses his shoulder to the door and listens.

He holds a finger to his lips, motioning for you to remain quiet. Your breathing is ragged but you do as he says, plastering yourself to the far wall.

You hear heavy footsteps in the hall, followed by hushed voices. Bucky waits and he’s so calm you wonder if he’s still breathing. After what feels like a lifetime he moves into your space, gently taking your chin between his fingers.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, and your eyes go wide, darting around the room in panic.

“Baby, look at me. I promise. I’ll be right back.”

You head moves up and down. “Ok.”

“Don’t move.”

He searches your fearful expression once more before sweeping the pad of his thumb over your trembling bottom lip.

“I promise,” he says again, then disappears stealthily out the door.

You hear nothing but the loud thumping of your heart against your rib cage and just as you start to fear the worst you hear a light knock and Bucky’s voice.

“It’s me doll.”

He steps instead and locks the door. You sag against the wall, your entire body becoming too heavy. Before you can slide to the floor he has you in his arms, carrying you to the couch until you’re comfortably laying down.

“I’m gonna get you some water and something small to eat.”

You grab his hand, hanging on tightly.

“I’ll be right in the kitchen. Just a few seconds.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and brushes his lips across your knuckles. “Right back. Ok?”

You nod with a hard swallow.

True to his word, he’s quick, smiling at you from the kitchen as he grabs some cold water and a snack. He sits on the edge of the couch and makes you take a big drink and a have a bite of food. Once your breathing is more even he turns on the tv and lifts your legs, sitting back and resting them over his lap.

You wake to find your hand engulfed by Bucky’s and your body cocooned in strong arms. He’s holding you to his chest, every inch of him flush against you, the heat of him soaking through your clothes. In his sleep, he pulls you closer still, creating hot friction between you that you impulsively arch into.

He stirs, slowly, every movement amplifying your awareness of every point where your bodies touch. A low hum of pleasure sounds at the back of his throat and then…

“Shit doll,” he says, sitting up quickly. “I’m sorry, I-,” he stammers, letting out a loud exhale.

“It’s fine Bucky,” you assure him. “We must have fallen asleep.”

Your eyes drop to his jeans and the obvious bulge pressing against the tight fabric. He curses again and stands, turning away from you before spinning around to close the gap between you.

He breathes out your name, his gaze dropping to your lips and his voice low. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. You were scared. I didn’t want to leave you.”

You grab his wrist before he can turn away. “I’m glad you stayed with me. I wanted you to. And I wasn’t…I’m not uncomfortable at all.”

He sighs, seeming resigned to your declarations and reaches for his phone.

“I’m going to call Sam. I have some questions.”

“And I need some answers. What the hell happened last night?”

His thumb swipes over the red button, ending the call before it even rang. “Yeah, of course, doll…those guys were from the same group that tried to get a hold of you last time. Apparently they’re going after Sam for the shield, and they want some collateral. They thought they had it last night, but they weren’t expecting me.”

He doesn’t elaborate on that before excusing himself to finally call Sam. You sit with a plop, your head swirling with so many different emotions you have to close your eyes and lay back.

“I think you should come stay with me for a few days.”

Your eyes pop open at his words. “Your place?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Unless you want me sleeping here. Which I’ll do but I think it’s safer at my place.”

“But..Where…How…?”

“You can have my bed,” he says. “I…uh, honestly don’t sleep in it much anyway.”

Something in his tone makes you know not to push any further and before you can ask more questions he says, “I have a cat. You’ll love her.”

“OH! Is this Alpine?” you ask as you walk into Bucky’s apartment and spot the prettiest white fluffy cat.

“There she is,” Bucky coos.

Alpine immediately hops off the counter and saunters toward you, rubbing between your legs.

“Wow, that was quick,” Bucky muses. “Usually doesn’t take to people that quickly.”

“She’s such a sweetie,” you sing, rubbing her soft fur.

“Listen, I have to go see Sam but make yourself at home. There’s food…I’d rather you not order take out, so you don’t have to open the door…”

“Bucky.”

“What? I’m the only one you should be letting in.”

“Fine.”

“Lock up behind me.”

He walks toward the door and waits for you to follow. You step up next to him and give his shoulder a light shove.

“Already kicking me out of my own place?”

The playful smile that was tugging at the corner of your mouth falls and your eyes drop to the floor.

“Just hurry up so you can come back.”

You feel his arms wrap around you, softly at first but when you circle your arms around his waist he tightens his grip and smooths his hand along the curve of your spine.

“I won’t be long. Call or text me any time you want. Hang with Alpine. She helps.”

“Ok,” you say as you pull back and give him your best encouraging smile.

His eyes fall to your lips, and he dips his head. Your breath hitches and when he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth time stops and you forget to let out an exhale. He pulls away and clears his throat.

“See you soon doll. Lock up.”

You wander around his apartment, looking but not snooping while Alpine trots behind you and tangles herself in your legs any chance she gets. When you walk into the bathroom you’re surprised to see an old freestanding tub with iron claw feet nestled under the window.

The weight of the last two days settles on your shoulders, and you let out a sigh. “A bath would be so nice right about now…”

Alpine meows as if in agreement.

“He did say make myself at home…”

Without a another thought you grab your bag and rummage through to find your body wash then start to peel your clothes off before approaching the edge of the tub. You start the water and wait for the right temperature, tentatively dipping a toe in to check. Slowly, you step into the bath and ease your body into the water.

At last you let out a deep, gratifying sigh, and submerge yourself. The warmth soaks into your tense muscles and you let the unease wash from your skin.

As you bask in the relaxation of the warm water, the world outside fades and you consider all that’s happened in the last few weeks. The fear of almost being kidnapped, then the emotional rollercoaster that followed and Sam’s pleas for you to accept Bucky’s protection…

“Hey doll, where are y…?”

Your eyes fly open at the sound of Bucky’s shout, and you see him looking down at you, his lips parted at the sight. You jolt in the water, scrambling to scoop as many bubbles in front of you as you can. But he’s already seen. Everything.

“Oh my god. I didn’t even hear you come in. I…”

“It’s ok doll. I’m uh…I’m sorry if I scared you…”

His gaze is hooded as he explores the tub. “Pretty sure this is the first time anyone has used the tub.” He takes a measured breath, his eyes lowering to your lips, your collarbone, and the small expanse of skin that glistens above the water.

A flush of warmth spreads through your body, every inch of your skin suddenly sensitive to the cool air that touches your exposed shoulders.

“Can you just give me a minute?” you ask quietly.

“Oh, shit. Sorry doll. Yeah of course. Take your time.”

He starts to move away but with hesitation, his eyes still trained on your body, and it emboldens you. You had rarely let your mind go to these thoughts, but you knew you weren’t imagining the connection between the two of you, the lingering looks or the heat in every one of his touches.

Anticipation travels down your spine as you rise above the water, soap sliding along the curves of your body.

You stare is challenging. “Are you sorry?”

He grunts out a frustrated sound before following with a deep rumbling, “no.”

With all hesitation gone he drinks in the sight of you and your lips part as you too, take him in; the way his strong jaw is tight, his fists squeezed at his sides, and the undeniable bulge pushes against his jeans.

A knock sounds at the door, and you jump, instantly searching for the towel. Bucky steps closer, grabbing it from the sink and handing it to you slowly.

“That’ll be Sam. He wanted to come by to check on you.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Ok. I’ll be right out.”

He backs up and turns to go out the door, yelling to Sam that he’ll be right there. You exhale shakily, all the heated tension leaving your body as you let out a frustrated groan.

Once you’re dried off and decent you pick up Alpine, who had opted to stay in the bathroom with you, and walk out to the small living room. Sam smiles, getting up from his chair and lifting you in a hug.

Alpine meows in irritation and Sam’s smile widens. “I see you’ve made a new friend.”

You scratch behind Alpine’s ear. “Yep. We’re besties now. She probably likes me better than Bucky.”

Bucky scoffs and relents with a quiet, “probably does.”

Your gaze darts to Bucky and lingers there long enough that his blue eyes raise to yours, his weighted stare sending a thrill through your body. A muscle twitches in his jaw and his eyes tell you that he’s still thinking of you in the bath.

After talking with Sam and having him catch you up on the latest information you feel tired all over again and when you yawn for the third time Bucky chimes in. “Think we’re gonna call it a night Wilson.”

Sam’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Oh. Are you?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “It’s been a long day.”

Your half-hearted smile is met by Sam’s apologetic eyes. “Yeah. Of course. That’s fair. All right you two. Get some rest.”

Sam says something quietly to Bucky before he gives you a hug goodbye and heads out the door.

Bucky stands by the closed door for a beat before he turns around to meet your eyes.

“The sheets are clean and the bed’s all yours.”

You stand, holding his gaze and unable to tame the pounding of your heart or the pulse of desire between your thighs. The charged silence lingers, and he seems to sense it because his eyes drop to your mouth.

“Thank you Bucky.”

“Of course doll,” he says with a swallow.

“Can I…” you start to ask as you look down at the sleeping cat in your lap.

“She’s all yours,” Bucky says with a smile.

You pull the sheet up over your body, tucking your arm under the pillow and inhaling the faint scent of Bucky that lingers on the pillowcase. You’re not scared. Not in his bed, in his apartment, with his cat curled next to you and him in the next room over. But you are restless, and you can’t stop the ache between your legs.

Pushing the sheet off you press your bare feet to the cold floor and start for the kitchen to get some water. As you walk by the bathroom door you notice the light is on and then the door flies inward, the frame filled by Bucky’s broad shoulders.

He stands in the doorway, gripping the towel slung low around his hips. He’s dripping wet, the droplets of water following the carved paths of his broad chest and abdomen, then lower, to the V-shaped grooves that frame the dark trail of hair that disappears into his towel.

As your shock wears off, you study the space where his metal arm meets his shoulder, the movements of the plates powerful but sleek. It takes all your willpower not to reach out and touch him.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper. “Your arm I mean.”

He looks from his arm to you, considering your words.

“Thanks doll. It’s definitely an improvement from what I had before.”

You force yourself to focus. “Are you going to get dressed?”

The corner of his mouth tugs upward and he leans against the doorframe. “Why?” he asks.

“Because.”

His smile widens into a grin, and he slowly walks past you, brushing the side of your body with his hip. You watch him go into the small spare room and then run into the kitchen to get a much-needed drink.

He comes into the kitchen in a pair of sweats and a tight tee shirt, surveying you as you lean along his counter.

“Where do you keep your glasses?”

With slow steps he closes the distance between you and invades your space, pressing his body to yours as he reaches above your head for a glass. He’s so close and as he brings the glass down to the counter you’d merely have to lift your head, and his lips would be on yours.

You reach for him, daring your fingertips to slip underneath the hem of his shirt, trailing them teasingly across his warm skin. He doesn’t move.

“Bucky?” Your voice trembles and his hand comes up, his thumb brushing along the curve of your cheek to draw you to him. His lips, softer than you imagined, graze yours, restrained and filled with the promise of something deeper and more intense.

At the simple brush of his lips you moan, every desire flooding to the surface and igniting your skin. Then, he kisses you, lips parted and tongue brushing yours, his hand closing around the back of your neck, pulling you closer. Your hands slide over his torso, reveling in the power you feel under his flexing muscles.

You arch into him, savoring the weight of his hands as they travel down the curve of your waist and slide to your lower back, pressing you closer in a quiet hunger. He moans out your name and you break away, chest heaving.

“I want this,” you tell him, and he searches your face, his intense gaze softening.

“You’re sur…”

“I’m sure.”

With steady hands he tucks his fingers under the hem of your shirt and slowly pulls it from your body, his gaze hungry as his eyes wash over every inch of newly exposed skin.

Whatever restraint had softened him disappears and he traps you with his body, claiming your mouth as his hands explore your skin. You fumble with his shirt, and he pulls back, only to yank it impatiently over his head.

You palm the hard length of him straining against his pants and he hisses out a curse, swallowing your moan of want with his mouth. You strip away his pants as quickly as you can, your shorts falling to the floor in a pile at your feet.

You reach for him, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head. He holds you in place with one hand and peels your panties down with the other. Your legs spread of their own accord and his eyes are trained on you as he runs his fingers down between your breasts, and lower.

When he finds you soaked he lets out a heady moan, circling your clit with his fingertip as a rush of pleasure pulses through you. His finger slips inside, and you cry out, pushing against him, needing more.

He draws away to watch, his gaze lingering where his fingers now fill you and he holds himself in check, taking in the sight. The pressure builds and he pulls out, only to circle your most sensitive spot, nearly sending you into oblivion.

“Bucky,” you gasp. “I want more.”

He releases your wrists, only to press you into the counter with his whole body, the edge of it digging into your back. He positions his cock where his fingers were moments before and he catches your gaze, waiting  and watching as he pushes into you slowly.

Your head falls back, and you grip his shoulders. He swears against your mouth, fucking you hard and deep, sinking all the way in as his fingers dig into the softness at your hips.

“I’ll give you everything you need, everything you want,” he murmurs as he wraps his fingers around your neck and tilts your head back to press his mouth to your pulse point.

“Oh god Bucky.”

“Come for me doll.”

His hand sinks between your bodies, pressing to your clit as he groans out your name. At the overwhelming sensations, you come undone, your orgasm crashing through every part of you until you’re stifling your cries against his lips.

He finds his own release at the sight of you falling apart, slowing his thrusts with groaned curses as he draws out the last of your bliss.

You don’t move and he rests his brow to yours and inhales then he kisses you, slow and deep. Your fingers rake through his hair, and you kiss him back, savoring the taste of him, craving his every touch.

“Are you ok?” he whispers, carefully gripping your chin and bringing your eyes to his.

“Yes,” you answer.

His mouth grazes yours and he takes your bottom lip between his teeth. “Good. Because that wasn’t enough,” he groans. “Not even close.”

[lessersole]

Lance saying all the right things - at totally the wrong time!! Although even if things go badly with Chris, how can she know Lance won't freak out again? And on Chris, he needs to sort himself out to keep his chance!

Feel The Burn: Chapter 12

Lance Tucker x Reader | Destroyer!Chris x Reader

Series Masterlist

Your casual situationship with notorious flirt Lance Tucker comes to a shocking head at a party, fortunately the mysterious stranger you meet that same night is more than happy to help take your mind off it.

Wordcount: Approx 3.1k

I know, I know. It's been a while, sorry. I struggled to get the dialogue right in this chapter (and I'm still not entirely convinced). Hope you enjoy it, it's all revving up now! As always, thank you for any comments/reblogs - your engagement is so appreciated.

Your phone alarm buzzes so loudly that it feels outright hostile, cruelly yanking you from your slumber. You swipe it closed and sigh as you sit up in bed, sleepily wiping your eyes. Chris is slumped facedown next to you, the sheets falling haphazardly around his waist. You take a moment to admire his broad back, the way his biceps are emphasised by how he grips the pillow. What a sight to wake up to. Suddenly, this rude awakening doesn’t seem so awful.

He lets out a low groan from next to you without moving his head up, his hand clutching at your waist as he attempts to pull you back down with him.

“Too. Early.”

His voice is muffled by the pillow, but it sounds even more gruff and scratchy than it normally does.

“Sorry, handsome, gotta open the café,” you reply gently, your fingers brushing over the soft fuzz of his hair.

“Mmph. Nope. Sorry everyone, no coffee today…” comes the faint response through the pillow.

You grin, bending to kiss his crown. “I’m not sure my customers would be very understanding if the café stays closed because I couldn’t leave your bed…”

“They’ll survive…Caffeine is bad for you, anyways,” he jokes.

He grunts and turns over to finally look at you, his eyes are a little bit red…bloodshot. You feel a pang of guilt at waking him at this early hour, now you know that he doesn’t sleep well. The thought takes you back to last night…finding him drinking from that bottle…the strange feeling in the air…Your body tenses at the memory…you scrub it away quickly.

Instead, you focus on the early morning sunlight, the way it sneaks in through the window and frames Chris perfectly. It almost looks like a shot in a movie, so perfectly lit.

“Sorry to wake you,” you whisper as you trace his cheek with your fingers.

He smiles crookedly, hooking his hand in with yours. “I always want you to wake me. You’re my favourite thing to wake up to”.

You smile back at him, “wow, corny”.

That earns you a smile in return, the kind that lights up the room. You’ve seen it many times now, but still feel a flutter of excitement every time he shares it with you.

“It’s true…” he kisses your cheek, “you have no idea how perfect this is. Waking up with you in my bed”.

You nuzzle your face into his and the two of you share a sweet kiss, basking in the peace of the moment and trying to extend it for as long as you can. You internally curse yourself for not having the foresight to arrange for one of your employees to open up today, you could have spent the morning tied up in bedsheets and the arms of a handsome man, instead of drowning in coffee grounds and pastry crumbs. A lesson for the future, now that you have a boyfriend.

Your boyfriend! You’re almost giddy, feeling like a teenager again. You can’t wait to tell Kat and the others.

You shower while he retreats under the sheets, and when you emerge from the bathroom the steady drone of his breathing suggests he’s dropped back off to sleep. You change as quietly as you can, doing your best not to disturb him. After you’ve gotten ready, you gently peel the sheets back and find him sound asleep, feeling a rush of relief that he’s able to get a little more shut eye before he gets down to the auto shop later.

You plant a light kiss on his cheek and tuck him back in, essentially tiptoeing out of the door so that he doesn’t wake. Your smile stretches across your face as you head to the café, you must have been doing it for longer than you realised as your cheeks almost ache. You’re just so happy.

Happy.

🏍️

You’re lucky enough to find a white blouse that you’d stashed in the office at Filter and Foam. The large collar hides Chris’ possessive display from the night before far better than the top you’d packed for that morning. You look at yourself in the small mirror affixed to the office wall as you button it from the bottom-up, turning your head to see the marks peek up from the base of your neck and decolletage. You can’t help but giggle to yourself as you relive the memory, tracing them with your fingertip one by one before they disappear under the fabric.

“When you’re at work tomorrow…the customers having no idea that I’m all under your clothes like this…” his words echo in your ears as you bite your lip, the excitement of your shared secret giving you a small buzz.

You snap a quick picture of yourself before the blouse hides (most of) the damage. It’s a risqué shot, not something you’d normally send due to your anxieties about revenge porn and photos falling into the wrong hands – but you’re caught in the moment, and you trust Chris. You like that you’re bolder with him, feeling electrified by the excitement.

You shoot it over to Chris’ number before you can talk yourself out of it, a giggle escaping as you set your phone down on the desk and get ready to open the café. It buzzes almost immediately, and you grin as you pick it up, seeing Hot Chris light up your phone screen. It feels somehow wrong to change his name in your contacts now, even if it is a little silly that your boyfriend is listed as such.

Don’t tempt me, I’ll be straight down there to finish the job…

You feel your face flush, your fingers trembling slightly as you reply. You squeeze your thighs together.

I don’t think there’s any space left…

Your phone buzzes again.

Trust me, I’ll find some. Have a good day, princess, and if any customers give my girl any shit – send them my way…

You grin at the screen, the ‘my girl’ etching itself into your brain and getting comfortable there. You could get used to this.

You send him good wishes for his own day and resume opening duties, a spring in your step as you get ready to start the day.

🏍️

Later at home, you sink into the couch and exhale as your head hits the cushion.

What a day. Today was relentless.

There are always the breakfast and lunch rushes, but can you really call something a ‘rush’ if it doesn’t stop?

Normally you get a flurry of customers first thing in the morning - getting their coffee and breakfast sandwiches, a muffin or a smoothie…but usually it settles down by mid-morning, and you get a chance to clean up and prepare for lunch. But today? Just non-stop. A steady thrum of people in and out all day long.

You know you shouldn’t complain, the store took an unprecedented amount of money today – and hopefully it’s a good sign that you’re winning more business against the competing coffee shops in the area.

But you also hadn’t anticipated this – so hadn’t put as many staff on the schedule as you needed, which meant everyone was flat-out. The lack of down time meant you didn’t get to clean as you went as thoroughly as you usually do, so the café was a mess by closing. As the boss - you knew it was your job to fix it, so you sent your exhausted team home. You stayed behind late to fix everything up yourself, fantasising about the team of animals Cinderella had to help with her chores.

So of course, you were dead on your feet by the time you arrived back, significantly later than usual. You had no energy to cook so had ordered food to be delivered, pouring a glass of wine to help unwind. You feel slightly guilty as you’re trying to cook more and not use the ‘I’m tired’ excuse to order takeout, but frankly, today was an exceptional case.

You snap a picture of your glass of wine and send it to Chris, moaning about the day from hell. He replies with all the right sentiments, as he always does, and you felt a little better. At least Marina is opening tomorrow so you can sleep in and catch up on some much-needed rest.

You close your eyes as you rot on the couch and waited for your food to arrive. You almost drift off to sleep when the doorbell pulls you back to reality a few minutes later.

“Coming,” you call out as you get up and head to the door. You hadn’t realised how hungry you were until the imminent prospect of food leaves you salivating.

You swing the door open, and your eyes bulge out of your head as you reveal the delivery driver.

…Except it’s not the delivery driver standing outside your front door. It’s a bright blue jacket that you’d know anywhere. Equally bright blue eyes stare back at you, their intent unreadable as your mouth falls open.

“Lance?” you sputter in disbelief as your brain struggles to take in the scene. You have a brief, wild second where you wonder if he’s taken on food delivery as a side hustle. Because why else-

“I need to talk to you,” he says sternly, pulling you from your thoughts.

He smoothly moves past you, walking purposefully inside as he leaves you slack-jawed and standing uselessly at the open door.

“Come right in…” you mutter sarcastically as you close the front door and follow the sudden intruder into your living room.

“Look Lance, I don’t have time for whatever this is. I have food coming and-”

“We need to talk,” he interrupts humourlessly as he turns to face you. You scoff incredulously at his arrogance, as if for him barging into your home is just business as usual.

You look at him then, really look at him properly since the surprise of finding him on your doorstep. It wasn’t immediately obvious, but suddenly you spot the signs that all isn’t well. His normally perfectly coiffed hair looks like its dropping from its usual hold, a few strands breaking free of the expensive product you know he uses. The t-shirt under his jacket is wrinkled and creased, but you know he doesn’t even leave the house without all his clothing carefully starched and pressed. Most damning of all, there are bags under his eyes – not a usual accessory for the man who will happily cancel plans to ensure he gets at least 8-10 hours of sleep every night.

“Are you okay?” you ask, a little concerned now. “Is it your mother, did she stop taking her pills?”

Lance may be an asshole, but something is definitely wrong for him to show up like this out of the blue…and looking like that. They may be small details that aren’t a big deal to many, but you once witnessed this man fixing his hair before answering the door to an Amazon driver. Annoyingly, you know him too well.

He sighs heavily and you gesture to the couch. He plops down onto it, and you join him, your brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’m sorry to just show up like this,” he mumbles quietly. “I just…I need to get this out. And my phone is still blocked so…”

You grit your teeth; you’d actually intended to unblock him after the strange truce that led to the two of you being ‘friends’. But you had been so busy with Chris and work…and his words to you the last time you saw him echo in your head…

“…he should be doing nothing less than fuckin’ worshipping you, anything else is bullshit and you know it!”

Maybe part of you didn’t want to unblock his number. Keep that door closed, as it were.

Lance doesn’t seem discouraged, looking at you almost forensically. It’s disarming to see him looking so serious, you’re so used to his mirth and apparent inability to tackle anything sincerely that this is jarring. You feel itchy, uncomfortable to be the subject of such a look.

“Lance, what is this…” you ask as you shift in your seat.

“I’m sorry,” he spits out.

“Sorry…?” you echo.

“For all of it. I wanna explain…”

You blink, bewildered.

He continues, his eyes fixed on the floor. Like he can’t face you. “That night at the party…I owe you an explanation.”

You look down at your hands, your discomfort evident. You’d done so well to move on and banish that evening from the forefront of your memory. Here he is dredging it all up again, as if picking at an old wound. Your shame burns your cheeks.

“Tuck, you don’t have to…”

“No, Cupcake,” he says firmly. “I do”.

He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Alright. Look. I need to say this. And I know you’re with Chris or whatever, but I need to get it out”.

You blink at him gormlessly, your fatigue simply not allowing you to take in all that is happening. What on earth is he talking about?

“I picked a fight with you at the party on purpose,” he admits softly. Shamefully.

Your eyes widen, surprised to actually hear him say the words out loud and confirm your suspicions. You weren’t going crazy – he really did blow up on you over nothing.

“Why?” you whisper, your voice slightly wobbly. “And why did you sneak out like that, and ignore me all week? What did I do wrong?”

He finally looks at you then, his eyes big and searching, like he can’t bear for you to think that. He clutches your hand almost instinctively, then drops it quickly, like it burns him. “You didn’t do anything, Cupcake, I’m sorry. It was all me…”

You gesture in anger, frustrated by his vagueness, the lack of clarity – it’s creating more questions than answers. This is a lot to take in when you’re already so exhausted.

“What are you talking about?!” you snap.

He sighs heavily and his eyes leave yours once more. “I had a…an epiphany, I guess. That morning I left…I woke before you did. You were sleeping so peacefully, nestled under my arm. It just felt so….”

He trails off…circling a hand in the air as if the words are there for him to find.

“…so right,” he continues. “So right. So…meant to be. I…I freaked out. I panicked…”

You glare at him, mouth pulled into an incredulous sneer as you try to absorb what he’s telling you.

“It was only ever meant to be casual. We both agreed that…” he sighs. “And yeah, it was…at first. But I started thinking about you more and more. You’d creep into my head at the weirdest times, sneak up on me. And then eventually…I didn’t want to see anyone else. Be with anyone else. Stopped going on dates with other girls. I’d only think of you when I was with them, anyway. Being with you…it was the only time things felt…quiet…right. Like the noise finally stopped”.

You feel nauseous, your head spinning. It feels like a bomb has gone off in your brain. The things he’s saying are painfully familiar…that’s how you used to feel about him. The fact that he was having those same thoughts? At the same time? You don’t regret that this series of events brought you to Chris, but still couldn’t deny the pang of regret you felt that neither you nor Lance had spoken up back then. What might have happened? What may have been different?

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

“I’m not proud of it,” he sniffs as he looks down. “But it…it, uh, scared me. It was…overwhelming”.

You stiffen at his confession. You’ve never seen him like this. He seems…lost. Smaller, somehow. All of that bravado stripped away. Seeing him vulnerable is so jarring, so against everything you know as ‘normal’, it’s like the world has tipped off its axis. Cocky, asshole Lance is what you know, it’s familiar and recognisable. Exposed Lance? It’s unnerving. Unchartered territory.

“I didn’t know how to deal with those feelings,” he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, his voice is soft, quiet. “Didn’t want to pull that thread. So…I ran. I thought putting space between us would be easier. If I pushed you away…if you hated me, it would be easier to move on, squash those feelings…”

You swallow, a little hurt by his admission but that type of protective response isn’t entirely alien to you. Looks like you and Lance have avoidance in common…

“But…I fucked up. I knew it immediately. And when I tried to fix it…you’d blocked my phone number. Which was fair…And Kat told me to fuck off, correctly, when I asked her about you. And so, I decided the only way to fix it was to go to the coffee shop to see you. I knew your shift pattern, so I came down…I didn’t even know what I wanted to say. I just knew I needed to see you, and that you being mad at me was the worst thing in the world. No, actually, you being hurt by me was the worst thing in the world. Mad I can handle”.

You keep your eyes trained on a spot of lint on the carpet, doing your best to ignore the fire at the edges of your waterline.

“…but you were there with Chris. And I knew it was too late…”

You’re so still, frozen on the spot as you try to disentangle his words. The sound of your blood pumps deafeningly in your ears.

He pauses, anxiously rubbing his hands on his thighs. “I’m not trying to mess things up for you, or for Chris, alright Cupcake? I want you to be happy. Whatever that might look like. Can…can you just look at me, please?”

Your head feels like a deadweight, but you reluctantly manage to lift your face up to meet his eyes. They’re blazing, devastating, all-encompassing. You fight the instinct to look away.

He pauses, studying your own eyes like he’s committing them to memory, before he speaks again.

“I just…I needed to tell you this. I did those things because…it’s you. It’s always been you. I know now that I made the biggest mistake of my life. I shouldn’t have been a pussy and buried my head in the sand. But I couldn’t go another day without telling you the truth. At the very least, at least I can go to my grave knowing I was finally honest about how I feel, even if all it gets me is a kick in the balls and a wad of spit in my face,” he smiles sadly, “so…now you know…”

He looks at you expectantly, but you’re too dumbstruck to think coherently.

“Say something. Anything, Cupcake”.

Your throat is suddenly bone-dry, but you open your mouth to speak.

🥇

[lessersole]

Super sweet! 🥰

You've been spoiling me 🤭🫶🏻

Bookworm

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x gn!reader (established)

Tags/warnings: Suggestive Content, but fluff! Not beta'd either

Summary: Saturday morning cuddles got a whole lot better.

Word count: 242

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"Bucky."

You only get a grumble in response.

"Bucky."

Silence.

"James."

Your boyfriend lifts his head from your knees and frowns at you. His arms have wrapped themselves around your legs, cementing them to the one position whilst your try to read your book. And now you had pins and needles.

"Shift. My legs are hurting."

Bucky pouts and doesn't move, instead resting a cheek on top of your knee.

"I was comfy."

"You can't have been." You guffaw. "Your half lying on my upright legs."

"So?" He argues back. "Was comfy. Having a na-"

He yawns mid-sentence and you laugh.

"I'll let you snuggle between them." You offer and the frown when an unmistakable twinkle appears in his blue eyes. "No. Not like that. I want to finish my chapter."

Bucky huffs but concedes, letting you wiggle your legs wider to allow him to slot himself the middle head resting on the small pudge of your stomach like a pillow. His arms are now wrapped around your right thigh, clinging to you like a koala bear. You balance your book in one hand, using the other to draw lazy circles into Bucky's scalp helping him get back to sleep.

Maybe if you were lucky you'd get through more than one chapter now that you were both comfy. And if you were really lucky, you might convince Bucky to order in breakfast and re-enact some scenes from the book before it arrives.

🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛🐛

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Taglist

Everything Tags: @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @brianochka @looking1016 @almostglitterybear @blackhawkfanatic @waywardwifey @peaches1958 @michaeladmorris

Bucky Tags: @late-to-the-party-81 @steviebbboi @irishhappiness @awkwardgiraffe726 @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @dugiioh @cieraboobear @kei943 @norseloki26 @sebastians-love @valenzie @xamapolax @lonelyghosts-stuff @winchestert101 @read-just-cant-stop @queen-honeybee-stories @matchat3a @purplefluffycows @dontbescaredtosingalong @leeemabean @ryubyy @maydayfigment @bottldcries @ledatheswann @thechrysalisdiaries

[lessersole]

Bucky study from Civil War I've been on a bit of a Marvel high since Thunderbolts (which I absolutely loved) so I've been rewatching some of my favourite MCU movies.

(Sidenote: Sebastian Stan's likeness is really hard to get right for some reason wtf)

[lessersole]

Ooh, this mystery sexy biker is already more caring about her than her ex was - ten years ended with a note!? Sounds like he cared more about insuring the classic rental car than looking after their relationship. So excited for her to get over him properly... 😏

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞: 𝐎𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐚𝐝

𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐍𝐞𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭?

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏𝟒𝟎𝟒

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐍𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐬. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔!

𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝/𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 <𝟑

A vacation by yourself, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Your relationship, such as it was, had ended suddenly, your ex moving out overnight with only a note as an explanation;

Sorry, honey, I just don’t want this anymore. You’ll be fine without me.

Part of you had been devastated, your relationship had lasted for over ten years, you’d thought you were solid. Sure, the sexual spark had long gone, but what did that matter when he was always there when you got home at night? When you had a warm body to sleep next to? Excitement and desire only went so far, and you’d been… content, if not deliriously happy.

Another part had just been pissed off because what were you supposed to do about the deposits on the air bnb and rental car you’d hired?

 So you’d slept on it, after ordering an immense amount of comfort Chinese takeout food of course, and the following morning you’d decided.

Fuck him. If he didn’t want you anymore, you’d move on, happily and without regrets.

You could admit to yourself that maybe you hadn’t been the best girlfriend during your relationship, you’d gotten complacent, accepted what your lives had become too easily. But you could also see that he’d given up too, he hadn’t fought for you. This vacation could’ve been the jump start you’d both needed, but instead he’d bailed, so you would take the opportunity to go yourself.

A week later, and your bags were packed, and you were sitting pretty in your rented convertible, your playlist blaring as you head towards the coastline and the air bnb you’d rented. Getting out of the city was as stressful as you’d imagined - there was a reason why you preferred public transport - but once you got onto the highway, it was almost like magic. The stress you’d felt up until this point, even the stress that you hadn’t acknowledged, it all fell away as the concrete jungle gave way to suburbia, and then to unadorned nature.

It felt so good to be free again. To be yourself.

You didn’t even know who you were on your own anymore. You could be anyone, completely start over in a new life. Move away and learn something new. Become a farmer, or a librarian, or a school teacher. You could start a tiktok, or an Only fans.

You laugh to yourself and turn your music up. Selling nude pictures probably wasn’t on the cards for you, you were likely too old for most paying subscribers to be interested in… still, who could stop you if that’s what you wanted to do?

Life is a Highway starts playing, and fully leaning into your silly daydreams and thoughts, you turn it up to deafening, and head further away from your old life, and into your new one.

You weren’t a car person, living in the city meant that a) you never used anything other than public transport or Ubers, and b) if you had had anything to do with cars, you just paid a professional to deal with any issues. So now you were about fifty miles from your first stop on the roadtrip, in the middle of what looked like the world's most tiny and insular town, of course that would be when your rental started sputtering before coming to a dead stop. You stare at the dash, almost hoping that the engine would magically start up again, before trying the key. Nothing. You mutter under your breath, cursing the old and classic vehicle that your ex had been adamant about getting. No modern car for him, he wanted the full authentic road trip experience.

“At least this place has cell service, I guess,” your relief is palpable when you see there’s more than enough service, and you have plenty of battery on your phone. At least you’re not walking into one of those kinds of nightmares. You also silently - and begrudgingly - thank your ex for spending extra on the rental insurance, it meant that when you called them, they agreed to pay for you to go to the local mechanics to get it fixed, 

“Looking at the details online, ma’am, it looks like they won’t be open until the morning though, so you’ll have to stay overnight,”

You argue back and forth for a minute, this was going to ruin your trip, and you’d lose the deposit on the motel you’d already booked, but thankfully the local motel had rooms and the insurance agreed to cover that as well. You look around the street you’re on warily, everything seems so quiet, not as busy as you would assume for an early evening during the summer. Your phone said the motel was only a fifteen minute walk away, and after pointlessly trying the key again, you huffed and grabbed your bags.

The lady at the desk was nice enough, and pointed out a good diner that was across the street, featuring a small parking lot with everything you’d expect from a small town - including huge trucks and several large motorbikes. Probably Harleys or something. The woman smiles when you ask why it’s so quiet, 

“There’s a carnival happening in the town over, it’s a big deal. Both towns like to do a bunch of fun competitions, the kids go crazy, the guys maybe have a little skirmish, it’s all fun.” She gives you a receipt on a smile, “It goes on for a few days, if you get your car fixed, you should check it out tomorrow,”

You had no intention of staying for that long, but your stomach growls, so you excuse yourself and head to your room. It was surprisingly nice, a good sized bed, bathroom was clean and just this side of fancy, and at least the TV had a WiFi connection. A quick shower later and you head over to the diner, daydreaming about a large cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake the size of your head. You felt you deserved it, and a slice of whatever pie they were offering as well. You were too busy deciding on what milkshake you would prefer, chocolate or vanilla, that you walked right into the large man coming out of the diner, 

“Oh, damnit, I’m sorry!”

“No need to apologise, are you okay?”

You meet the eyes of the man, and your throat closes up briefly before you’re able to answer. You hadn’t seen a man this attractive in… well, you have to admit to yourself that you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man this attractive in your entire life. Your face burns when you realise you’re just staring, his eyes sparkling as you sees your embarrassment, 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” you notice his hands, large and warm, are on your upper arms steadying you. He spots you looking and quickly lets go, 

“Didn’t mean any offence, you just almost took a dive,”

“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry again,” You inch around him, trying not to take an obvious deep breath of this stranger's scent. He smelled like citrus, mint, and a little of motor oil with a hint of cinnamon. It shouldn’t work together, but somehow it did, and your mouth watered in response. Because you were hungry… or at least that’s what you told yourself.

His voice, deep and smooth, caught you just as you were about to turn your back on him, “You in town for the carnival?” Your eyes narrow, and you slowly shake your head, 

“No, I’m just passing through,” your awe at how hot this stranger was was fading, and now you just wanted to get inside and eat. It’s not like you were going to do anything with this guy, he probably had a wife and a million kids to take care of, a small business in town, all that normal stuff. You smile as politely as you can, “Sorry. Again.”

“A woman like you shouldn’t be apologising so much. Have a good night, stranger.” He winked at you, and sauntered into the evening, denim clad legs eating up the distance to one of the motorcycles easily. Of course he was a biker. You literally shake yourself, and go into the diner, ordering your feast (chocolate milkshake wins your internal debate), before heading back to your room and passing out to some Sex in the City reruns. 

𝐒𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬? 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 >:)