crdgn

[crdgn]

i fear bucky might end up hurting her, obviously not on purpose, but the whole situation is tricky and can very easily turn reeeeeal messy. even with super caleb on their side 🥲 but i really hope they get to enjoy some time together before reality comes calling

they deserve happiness and love and stability 😭 they’re truly adorable together!! like, they just fell into this sweet rhythm, as if they’ve been together forever and everything just fits. ahhhhh, i love them so much

that conversation with the dad was so… idk. eye opening? it really shows the different ways people love others. birdie might’ve not felt it as such, but her dad does care (in his own strange way), and i think it’s kind of sweet how he’d go to any lengths for her

… here’s to hoping he won’t have to tho! pls stay in your lane, sir 😅 leave bucky alone hahaha

amazing chapter!! can’t wait for the next one yaaaaaay

Declassified [14] - Warmth

A.N: I'm back from my vacation, my loves! Thank you so much for your wonderful support and your patience, you are amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Lying is necessary sometimes.

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI.

Word Count: 5.4k

Series Masterlist

You weren’t used to sleeping long hours.

Maybe it was the extreme amounts of coffee and energy drinks you consumed during the day, maybe it was the stress, or maybe it was because you kept waking yourself up to write down whatever you wanted to remember in the morning about the schedule or the drafts or anything you were working on. You would usually wake up around dawn short of breath with your heart pounding in your chest with anxiety so this—

This felt new.

The bright light spilling into the room from the window and wrapping you in its warmth penetrated through the haze of sleep, making you heave a sigh. You knew you were supposed to get up, but your body was exhausted as if you had run a marathon and your muscles ached in protest the moment you attempted to move your arm, making your eyes flutter open.

…Oh.

Your heart starting to pound in your chest had nothing to do with anxiety this time. A smile lit up your face, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you lifted your head very slowly from Bucky’s chest. You were practically draped on him and he was holding you close to his body with one arm while his vibranium arm was thrown over his eyes to block the sunlight, his hair all messy. You let your eyes roam his muscular chest, going down to his abs until you saw the sheets covering his waist, biting down on your lip. You stole a look at his face but before you could decide on what you wanted to do, his lips curled into a small smile.

“Good morning to you too.”

Your stomach did a happy flip at his raspy voice.

“How did you know I was staring?”

“You can’t tell when someone is staring at you?”

“No.”

He lifted his arm to look down at you, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“That explains a lot,” he murmured, his fingertips grazing your spine. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you whispered, your smile getting bigger and you pulled yourself up to brush your lips against his. His hand went up to cradle the back of your head as soon as you pulled back to steal another kiss from you, making you giggle.

“Sorry if my staring woke you up.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be. And you didn’t, I’ve been awake for a while.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Because I dreamt about this way too many times,” he said softly, coaxing a smile out of you. “I was enjoying it.”

You hummed, resting your chin on his chest and looking up at him while his fingertips trailed your spine, wakening goosebumps on your skin. You could swear your heart was melting when you saw that soft light in his eyes and you heaved a sigh, then tapped your finger on his chest.

“Still warm?”

A lazy smile curled his lips.

“Yeah,” he rasped out and gently tapped his finger on your temple. “Still quiet?”

The voice in your head. The one that kept saying no one would fall in love with you.

You paused for a moment, then nodded your head. “Yeah.”

Bucky’s eyes raked over your face as if he was trying to read your mind. “Do you feel okay?” 

You licked your lips.

 “I feel… hazy?” You tried to find the right words for the pleasant warmth surrounding you and settling into your mind. “I feel good and sore and tired and well-rested at the same time, it’s strange.”

“I mean we were up until after midnight,” he said with a grin, making your cheeks burn. “I still cannot believe you thought we’d go to sleep after the first—”

“In my defense,” you cut him off. “I’m used to like, five minutes, okay? Not—” You paused, deep in thought. “Not however many rounds it was. I don’t even remember when I went to sleep, when did we go to sleep?”

“You were murmuring about how we should move to a small town and do this day and night, then you fell asleep mid-sentence,” Bucky said helpfully, still grinning as if he couldn’t hear your embarrassed whine. “It was adorable.”   

“Stop.”

“Funny, I seem to remember you saying the exact opposite.”

“Bucky!” you exclaimed, making him chuckle.

“Just saying.”

“Hold on,” you said when the thought hit you. “I slept very late, why do I feel well-rested? What time is it?”

Bucky checked his wristwatch. “Eleven.”

“It’s not eleven.”

“It is.”

“I slept until eleven?!” you asked, panic shooting through the haze in your mind. “I haven’t checked my phone in hours, it’s almost afternoon? Oh my God, I have to—”

“Nope.” Bucky stopped you before you could push the covers off of you and pulled you back into the bed by your arm before he settled between your legs, making you giggle.

“Bucky!”

“Don’t.”

“But I need to check—”

“The world didn’t catch fire while we weren’t looking.”

“But—”

“Just let me have you to myself a little more,” he murmured, his thumb caressing your cheekbone. “Before I have to share you with the rest of the world.”

Your eyes fluttered close when he brushed his lips against yours, coaxing a pleasant sigh out of you, then you gazed up at him, painfully aware of just how love-struck you looked. You reached up to fiddle with his dog tags so that you could distract yourself and smiled when he nudged your nose with his.

“I didn’t think…” you trailed off and laughed. “Might as well finish the sentence here.”

“You always think.”

Your eyes darted over his face. “Why wouldn’t you tell me earlier?”

“About the time?”

“About this.”

“You know why,” he murmured. “I kept telling myself that if I touched you, I’d get blood on you. I still think that, I’m just…”

He paused as if the thoughts storming in his mind were too much and you raked your nails through his hair, the simple gesture making him close his eyes in bliss before he forced himself to open them again.

“I’m too selfish to fight it anymore,” he admitted and you shook your head.

“That’s not true.”

“Birdie—”

“You’ve been pointing me in the direction of the nearest exit since last night.” Your voice was just above a whisper as you cupped his cheek so that he could look you in the eye. “I’m not going that way.”

He swallowed thickly, his blue gaze locked in yours as if he was trying to assure himself you were telling the truth.

“You should.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I won’t.”

He turned his head to press a kiss into your palm, warmth spreading in your ribcage. He heaved a sigh in deep thought, his brows pinched in a frown and you ran your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.

“Hey,” you said, your voice quiet. “Where did you go?”

He let out a breath, blinking a couple of times as if he was trying to focus.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here, trust me. I was thinking about Sarah.”

You raised your brows, grinning. “While I’m naked under you, Barnes? Wow.”

His eyes widened. “No no—”

“Talk about lovebombing—”

“That’s not what I meant!” he cut you off in a rush. “No it’s just, she said something the other day about you and me, that’s all.”

You hummed, playing with his dog tags. “What did she say?”

“She said maybe all that stuff happened in the past because I was meant to meet you here.”

Your heart skipped a happy beat. “And do you agree?”

“One hundred percent,” he said. “Do you?”

“Yeah—I mean don’t get me wrong, what happened to you was terrible, all those decades,” you added. “I wish they didn’t happen but when I think about you in the 40s and me being here, imagining not meeting you or being with you…”

Even the idea was way too heavy for your heart and you shook your head, an ache appearing at the back of your throat. He stroked your hair before he ran his knuckles over your temple, and brushed his lips against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “We both are.”

You looked up at him, your brows furrowed. “But are you happy about it?”

He tilted his head in confusion and you took a deep breath.

“Because you know, what happened with Steve Rogers and going back and like, he went back the minute he could and—”

“That’s very different,” he cut you off. “And I wouldn’t go back.”

“Even if you could?”

“Yeah. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“But your best friend did.”

Bucky thought for a moment, then licked his lips.

“I think Steve was always meant to go back because he had someone waiting for him in the past,” he said. “I was meant to go forward because I had you waiting for me in the future.”  

Despite the tears stinging your eyes, a smile lit up your face and you pulled him down for a kiss, but before his lips could touch yours the loud growl of your stomach let both of you know just how hungry you were, making him pull back with a chuckle while you scrunched up your nose in embarrassment.

“Jesus…” you muttered. “So uh, funny thing when you’re not a super soldier, after burning energy you need fuel.”

“Oh is that right?”

“Mm hm.”

“This is proving to be a very enlightening morning,” Bucky told you with an overly serious expression on his face before he smiled. “Come on, I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Or—” You stopped him before he could get off of you. “Or we have sex, then we have breakfast. Burning more energy and stuff.”

He hummed. “Or we have breakfast, and then we have sex.”

“Or we have sex and then we have more sex,” you pointed out. “That’s also an option. I mean what’s breakfast anyway?”

“The most important meal of the day for someone who, and I quote, is not a super soldier.”

“I didn’t say you could use my words against me,” you grumbled as he pecked you on the lips and got up. You couldn’t help but gawk at his chiseled body while he got dressed, then turned to shoot you a smug grin.

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m staring romantically,” you defended yourself when he came to kiss the top of your head. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it darling,” he teased you as he walked out of the room and you heaved a sigh, then pushed the covers off you.

“Breakfast it is,” you said and paused for a moment. “Actually, shower and breakfast it is.”

                                               *

Staying away from your phone for more than an hour was something you couldn’t even comprehend, and it seemed that the outside world agreed. You had so many notifications and texts, so after you took your shower, got into one of Bucky’s shirts and went to the kitchen, you decided to get it over with.

Hence Caleb yelling at you on the phone.

“We didn’t push you out of the loop—you’re literally in the loop!” you insisted while he let out a scoff of disbelief. “You’re one of the what, like three people who knows about this?”

Bucky looked over his shoulder to mouth “four” and you nodded.

“Four people,” you corrected yourself as he returned to the food on the pan so that it wouldn’t burn. “Four people, that’s the loop.”

“You told Kels and didn’t think to tell me for the whole day!”

“You were busy with the PR thing.”

“That’s such a bullshit excuse,” he insisted as you leaned back to the kitchen island. “And technically, I’m the first person who’s supposed to know about this. It’s literally my job—you guys aren’t planning on walking outside hand in hand right?”

“I haven’t lost my mind, thank you for asking,” you retorted while Bucky put the food on the plates, then extended his hand to motion at you to give him the phone. “Bucky wants to talk to you.”

You handed him the phone and jumped to sit on the kitchen island as Bucky took it to his ear.

“Caleb,” he said. “Don’t call her or me until tomorrow, talk to you later.”

He hung up, making your jaw drop.

“Bucky!”

He shot you a mischievous grin and put the plate into your lap. “The food was gonna get cold.”

You let out a laugh and grabbed your fork to dig in, your brows shooting up in surprise as you chewed.

“Holy shit, this is good. I might in fact revise my stance on breakfast.”

“You should,” he said with a smile, then took a sip of his coffee. “So I was thinking.”

You hummed.

“Tomorrow, after we’re done, we could grab dinner and—”

“Grab dinner outside?” You cut him off and he frowned as if you were asking a rhetorical question.

“Yeah?”

Ah.

This was going to be interesting.

You swallowed your bite, then pursed your lips and put your plate aside so that you could sit up straighter.

“Bucky…” you trailed off and took a deep breath. “You do realize that we are going to need to keep this a secret for the time being, right?”

Confusion pinched his brows together. “Why?”

Hazel was right, Bucky really didn’t see it.

“You’ve seen how people reacted to that pic of us at the pub.”

“But that’s because I was in a relationship,” Bucky told you while you shook your head. “People thought—”

“That’s not only because you were in a relationship.” You cut him off. “It may have been a contributing factor, but it wasn’t the real reason. I work for you, people will have a lot of opinions about that.”

“Who cares?” he asked. “If they have a problem with it, they can bring that up with me.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“It is.”

“It really isn’t,” you said. “Listen, if this gets out, none of my accomplishments will matter. Everything that I’ve done will stop being mine and turn into…like, you handed them to me because I was sleeping with you.”

“That’s not—”

“And everything that I’m doing in the congress right now? Everything that has my name on it will be because I’m sleeping around—and before you say anything,” you said when he opened his mouth to argue. “You can’t beat people up for thinking that because that’ll be the whole country, give or take.”

He gritted his teeth in annoyance, his lips pulled into an adorable pout.

“But we’re in love,” he insisted as if that had the power to change the entire world, making you smile.

“I know that,” you said and reached to take his flesh hand between yours. “But the rest of the world won’t see it that way.”

He heaved an impatient sigh, his jaw clenching and you squeezed his hand.

 “Trust me on this?” you asked and he nodded after a moment of hesitation.

“Okay,” he muttered. “What’s your solution?”

“Waiting, for the time being,” you said. “I need to talk to Caleb and come up with an actual plan, but either way, we can’t really be seen together while I’m working for you.”

His brows knit together— a telltale sign of him being in deep thought— before he nodded again.

“Yeah.”

You couldn’t help the smile twitching your lips. “You don’t like it.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “At all, but I’m not gonna do anything that might end up with you getting hurt, in any way. So okay, let’s keep it a secret.”

Warmth spread inside your chest and you pulled him down for a kiss but as soon as you did, Alpine jumped on the counter before getting on your lap, purring. A laugh escaped you and Bucky picked her up easily to drop her to the floor.

“Down,” he said and turned to kiss you again, but Alpine jumped into your lap once again, this time blinking up at Bucky as if daring him to pick her up again.

Bucky shot her an exasperated look. “Are you serious right now?”

The only answer she got from Alpine was her kneading your legs before she curled into a ball, still purring.

“She’s so cute!” you said, running your fingers through her fur and Bucky shook his head.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “Alpine, down.”

“Don’t use that voice with her, she’s a princess!” you argued. “And she missed me.”

“Makes two of us.”

“She hasn’t seen me since last night!” you insisted as Bucky picked her up to put her down to the floor again, and before she could jump up, he had already hoisted you into his arms, making you squeal.

“Bucky!”

“Don’t blame me, she’s not leaving me with many options here,” Bucky said as he carried you to the bedroom and closed the door before Alpine could get in, making you gasp.

“That’s mean!” you protested. “You’re being mean!”

 A giggle escaped you when he put you down on the bed and settled between your legs, looking down at you.

“I’m being mean?”

“Very, very mean,” you teased him and he hummed, nuzzling to the crook of your neck for a moment before he helped you get out of his shirt, then started kissing his way down your body.

“Well,” he said as your breath caught in your throat, your head hitting the soft pillows. “Better make up for it, I guess. Can’t have my girl think I’m very, very mean.”

                                                   *

Despite Bucky’s attempts to convince you, you knew you couldn’t spend the night at his place so eventually you went back home. Kelsey and Caleb had one hundred questions and you were very excited to tell them everything, so by the midnight, you were still sitting on the floor drinking wine.

“I can’t believe you guys told each other you loved each other before you had sex.”

“Well, that actually fits the era he’s from,” Kelsey told Caleb who shrugged his shoulders.

“You’d have to waterboard that information out of me before sex.”

“In my defense, I didn’t plan it,” you said, taking a huge sip of your wine. “It just slipped out.”

“Before he slipped in.”

“Caleb!”

“Bad innuendos are my way of revenge.” He tilted his wine glass in your direction. “You’ve just made my life so much harder.”

“We’re keeping it a secret,” you reminded him. “For the time being.”

“Please, one look at your face and people will be able to tell you got laid.”

“No!”

“You have that I had multiple orgasms for the first time in my life look on your face.”

“It was for the first time in my life,” you admitted. “But I don’t have that look on my face!”

“He’s got a point,” Kelsey said. “We need to be extra careful with you two because something tells me Bucky won’t be subtle.”

“We’ll be very professional.”

“Very professional my ass,” Caleb said and snapped his fingers. “Oh, we forgot to tell you! Kels also got laid last night. I’m beginning to feel left out at this point, like I’m a priest or something.”

“That journalist guy?” you asked her and she nodded.

“Yeah, I called him to the club and then…” She waved a hand in the air and you raised a brow.

“And? Was he good?”

“I’m thinking about calling him again sometime this week so yeah.”

“But he’s a journalist,” Caleb repeated. “Journalists can’t be trusted.”

“The only thing I’m sharing with him is dirty talk,” Kelsey reminded him. “I’ll be fine.”

Caleb opened his mouth to retort but all three of you turned your heads when the doorbell rang.

“Uh…” Caleb said. “Were we expecting anyone?”

“Not me. Birdie?”

“Nope.”

Caleb stood up, Kelsey and you following him suit and he made his way to the door to look through the peephole.

“What the fuck?” he muttered and turned to you. “It’s your father.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “What?”

“Do I—do I open it?” he whispered while you tried to control the panic churning your insides, taking a shaky breath and willing yourself to think clear.

There was no way your father could know what happened last night.

No fucking way.

You nodded your head and Caleb opened the door, Kelsey reaching out to squeeze your arm in an attempt to assure you as two bodyguards walked into the apartment, your father soon joining them.

“Hi Pumpkin.”

“Dad.” You tried to keep your voice calm. “What are you doing here?”

“You haven’t answered my calls or my texts the whole day.”

Shit.

“Oh—” You cleared your throat. “Yeah, my battery died.”

He hummed, his eyes darting around the living room. “You don’t have a couch?”

“Um…”

“We’re following the minimalism trend,” Kelsey came to your aid while Caleb nodded.

“Yeah, we’re against the uh—consumerism culture and everything. We watched a tiktok documentary.”

Your father raised his brows.

“Interesting,” he commented. “And do you guys happen to have a place in this…cozy apartment where we can talk in private?”

You motioned at your door and walked to your room with him following you, then closed the door after him.

“I don’t remember telling you where I lived,” you said and he gave you a reprimanding look.

“Honey.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back to the door. “Right. Stupid question.”

“This place is a shoebox—you know you and your friends can move into one of my condos, right?”

“That’s not happening.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t understand this relentless need to make yourself suffer.”

“We’ve been over this, I’m never, ever taking your money,” you told him and he shook his head, heaving a sigh.

“Very well,” he said. “I hope you’re having fun with your protest against consumerism, whatever that means.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you,” he said. “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“And I told you—”

“Your battery died, yes,” he cut you off. “Doesn’t sound like you, for some reason.”

You licked your lips and cleared your throat.

“Yeah I was just—I was working,” you stammered. “I didn’t even notice the time, and then me and Caleb and Kels were drinking so I just didn’t check it.”

He hummed. “Working on what?”

“Gray’s bill.” You didn’t even hesitate. “Clean energy.”

He nodded his head, then reached out to take Blinky into his hand and walked around in the room with slow, deliberate steps. You hated how he always managed to make every room he was in look like he owned it, like he was this unstoppable force that no one could argue with.

And to make things worse, most of the time it was the case.

“I forgot you had this,” he muttered. “What did you name it, Binky?”

“Blinky.”

He let out a huff of laughter.

“You’ve always had a thing for broken things, you know?” he asked. “Broken or damaged in any way. Always thinking your love alone could fix them.”

You were very much aware of where this conversation was going, but you weren’t going to be the one who brought up Bucky.

You had to be very careful not to raise any suspicions.

“You take after your mother on that,” he said with a small chuckle. “When we were young, I’d always think she had too much love in her heart, for anyone and everyone.”

 “It’s not for anyone and everyone,” you corrected him. “All that love she has? It’s only for you, no one else.”

“For you as well.”

You scoffed and shook your head.

“You and I both know that it’s not true,” you said. “You two love each other on a different level. There’s no room for me in that picture other than being an ornament in that whole perfect family bullshit.”

“Everything we do, we do it for you.”

You made a face. “Right. Why are you really here?”

“I thought you’d want to hear it from me that the journalist I mentioned earlier will no longer be a problem.”

Your head shot up and you blinked a couple of times.

“Dad…” you rasped out. “What—what did you do?”

“Don’t worry, he’s alive.”

“Then how did you fix that problem?”

He gave a small chuckle as if he couldn’t believe your naivety.

“Pumpkin,” he said. “You may have unshakable morals, but I’m sorry to tell you that the rest of the world don’t share that sentiment. You just need to throw enough money at them for them to remember their priorities.”

You could feel the relief filling your system and you squeezed your eyes shut before opening them again, running a hand over your forehead.

“Oh,” you muttered. “Bribery. And that was enough?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “As I said. Everyone’s priority is always money.”

“Not everyone.”

“Very few exceptions,” he admitted. “Like my own daughter.”

You nibbled on your lip. “So he won’t write those lies?”

“Him? No.”

You knew that tone. “…But?”

“I can stop the newspapers or sites or the media,” he said. “What I can’t stop is the whispers, Pumpkin.”

“Dad—”

“Look me in the eye and tell me the truth.”

You could feel your heartbeat getting faster as your eyes whipped up to his, the childhood habit of following his every order still lingering at the back of your mind despite you convincing yourself otherwise. If it were any other time, you would’ve snapped at him but considering what happened last night, you had to play along so that he wouldn’t be able to tell you were lying.

“Nothing is going on between me and Bucky.” Your voice was clear. “I swear on grandpa’s grave.”

In your defense, your grandpa would understand.

He held your gaze in his as if he was trying to read your mind, then nodded slightly.

“Good,” he said. “My daughter will not be used and discarded by anyone, let alone Bucky goddamn Barnes.”

That right there was bait.

He was waiting for you to take it, to argue with him about how Bucky wouldn’t use or discard you, or how you could take care of yourself, but you managed to hold yourself back.

You needed him to believe you.

“I respect him, and I think you should too,” you said, your voice completely calm. “He would never do that, but it doesn’t mean I would get involved with him romantically. I know how it goes in this line of work; the girl gets branded, the guy walks away unharmed—”

“He wouldn’t walk away unharmed.”

Your stomach flipped at the stern tone of his voice and you blinked a couple of times.

“Either way,” you managed to say. “I’m too smart to fall for that trap.”

No you weren’t.

As Hazel had once put it, you were the idiot with a schoolgirl crush.

“I know you are,” he said. “But I’ve seen how he looks at you. I just want to make sure he’s not messing with your head.”

“I’m a grown woman, father,” you growled, trying to convince both him and your own insecurities. “No one is messing with my head, especially when it comes to my choices or my career.”

His brows shot up like he was impressed by your reaction.

“Understood,” he said. “Well, I’d better leave you and your friends to continue with your night. Your mother is probably wondering where I’ve been.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you said and took a step as he reached the door. “And um—thank you. I know you did it for your own name and not me, but I appreciate the help.”

That made him pause at the door before he turned around to look at you, and if you didn’t know any better you would’ve thought you had taken him by surprise.

“What?” you asked and he shook his head.

“Is that what you think?” he asked with a chuckle. “I’m doing this for my own name and not for you?”

“Well, yeah?” you said like a question. “No offense but your name and your legacy and everything, I’m beneath all that in the hierarchy pyramid or whatever. Why else would you do it?”

“Pumpkin,” he said patiently. “I’m very much aware of how you see your mother and I, but you are blinded by this…this picture you conjured in your mind, what you made yourself believe. You want to know why I’m doing this? It’s because as much as you hate it, you’re my daughter, and I love you, and my job is to protect you.”

Confusion pulled your brows together while you stared at him and he heaved a sigh, then pinched the bridge of his nose and took a step closer to you.

“You understand how this game works much better than most, despite your desperate need to make the world a better place. I’m not going to stop you.”

The reaction was almost automatic: “You couldn’t if you tried.”

“And I’m not trying,” he told you with a small smile. “But let me tell you something, as smart as you are –and you are incredibly smart—, you tend to overlook certain things.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Which are?”

 “You see, a lot of people assume people in power are the ones they can see,” he said. “But I think you and I both know it’s the people who aren’t on the stage who pull the strings.”

You gritted your teeth. “Like you.”

“Like me,” he admitted. “So here’s how it’s going to go. You did very well in Barnes’ campaign, and I admit, he did well too. And he can play the politician all he wants, but he’s not gonna last in politics.”

“Why not?” you asked tersely. “Because let me guess, you’ll make sure—”

“I’m not going to do anything,” he said. “I don’t have to do anything. It’s not in him, Pumpkin. The guy is not a politician. He’s a soldier. A superhero.” He paused for a second. “Or a vigilante. I don’t know, he likes crossing that line a lot. The point is, right now, he’s playing pretend.”

“He’s—”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he cut you off. “But sooner or later, he’s going to realize it’s not enough for him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I don’t have to know him,” he told you. “As I said, it’s fine. It’s his life and his career, he can do whatever the fuck he wants as long as his actions affect only him. But you?” He pointed at you. “When you enter the picture, things change.”

You pressed your lips together, keeping your eyes on him.

“Forget about my name, and my legacy, and whatever you made yourself believe is more important than you,” he said. “The moment Bucky Barnes makes the mistake of throwing my daughter to the wolves, I’ll pull every single string to make sure his days with HYDRA look like a nostalgic funfair to him.”

You blinked up at him, your heartbeat getting faster as you tried to pull yourself together and he gave you a calm smile, then pressed a kiss on top of your head.

“But of course, this is all hypothetical considering nothing is going on between you two,” he said. “Don’t drink too much, there’s work tomorrow. I’ll tell your mother you said hi.”

With that, he walked out of the room and you forced yourself to snap out of the stunned disbelief pinning you to your spot, then rushed out of your room to go to the living room after him.

“My apologies for the interruption, kids,” your father told Kelsey and Caleb, then motioned at the pillows on the floor. “Please do let me know if you start supporting consumerism again. You’re not mercenaries staying at a hideout, you shouldn’t look the part.”

He left your apartment with his bodyguards following him, the door closing behind them with a click and Caleb ran a hand through his hair.

“We really need to buy a couch.”

“Forget the couch,” Kelsey said and turned to you while you stared at the door, your thoughts storming in your head. “Birdie? What was that about?”

You scoffed a bitter huff of laughter, then shook your head.

“A warning,” you managed to say through frozen lips. “That was a warning.”

[crdgn]

my passion is crying because of this fic. idk what i’m gonna do with my life when this ride is over. i love it so much. this was such a beautiful update, gosh. the becca storyline scrunches up my heart so good 😭

unsolved (xvii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse.

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, ghosts, panicking, tarot, mentions of death, implied psychedelics. this is unedited. I'll edit it later

A/N: guys i swear to god ive had the Most Time ever. my manager was fucking unhinged. which is why you havn'et seen or heard from me forever. but anyway. the next part is the last part and i am determined to finish it. also i am cancer free my one year scan came back clean woohoo. anyways enjoy and lemme know what u think!!

Previous part || Series masterlist

The thing about Avengers Tower is that it’s too big for how small their lives have become.

The place still has its charm. What started as sterile and stainless steel eventually morphed into chipped counter tops and wobbly picture frames. There’s always a jacket or two strewn across chairs that had frayed from the desperate attempt to clean up some mysterious stain.  

The sun barely scrapes over the top of the adjacent skyline, casting a pale sliver of light through the oversized window in the east lounge. 

The floors are quiet, the city hums somewhere far below, and all the voices Bucky used to be able to drown out with mission chatter and workout jazz were silent without much effort. 

Bucky is already halfway through his second cup of coffee, eye staring straight at the elevator, waiting for a sign. 

To anyone who is not used to him, this would not be weird. Trained assassin, doing surveillance of a room he is currently possessing. 

But unfortunately, everyone in the Tower has painstakingly grown to know, get used to, and most times, cherish him in their own little absurd ways. 

Point is, he usually doesn’t wait around for anyone.

But today, like the last three, the hall’s quiet. The kitchen’s colder than usual. The espresso machine hums patiently, untouched.

The thing about habits, Bucky decides, is that you only ever notice them once they stop.

He doesn’t come to this realization in any poetic, life-altering moment. He’s standing barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, eyes bleary. Alpine is making herself tall by clawing at his calf.

“Cut it out,” he mutters, nudging her gently with his foot. 

She swipes at him. It barely registers.

It takes him another full minute to realize what's wrong. The chair across the kitchen table is empty.

He stares at it, hand wrapped around a mug that still hasn’t been poured. A week ago, that chair had a permanent resident every morning.  Usually with a bagel, sometimes with a half-open laptop. Always like there’s too much on your plate and not enough hands. And somehow, despite that, you still make yourself at home with a single glance acknowledging his presence before you steal whatever is in his hands. 

Bucky pours cereal into his mouth directly from the box because someone finished the milk and didn’t replace it. Again.

Alpine hops up onto the counter and gives him a look. Then she swipes the box out of his hand.

“Do you mind,” he mumbles. 

She swipes again, this time catching his wrist.

“Stop,” He shrugs her off. “You don’t even eat cereal.”

“I don’t,” Alpine replies evenly, knocking the box over. 

Bucky glares at her. Alpine licks her paw and pointedly turns away.

“You seen--” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Pretends it’s not because he doesn’t want to say your name out loud like some kind of heart-eyed loser. “You seen anyone else this morning?”

Alpine flicks an ear. “Already out of the house.”

He blinks. 

“Skipped breakfast. Left with that bag full of stuff.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face.

He’s trying to be chill. He is. He’s a grown man with a job and hobbies and everything.

It’s just-- well.

You’re usually around. You press your forehead to the fridge while deciding what you want. You wear his sweater sometimes like it’s no big deal.

Whatever. It’s not weird. You’ve got things to do. You’re a whole person. That’s good.

Still, he finds himself standing in the kitchen longer than he means to, bowl of dry cereal in hand, like maybe you’ll come walking back in with that same bag and tell him you forgot your keys or your lunch or your Bucky. 

You don’t.

Alpine’s tail flicks. “You’re being weird.”

Bucky scoffs but doesn’t respond.

He flips her off without looking. She licks her shoulder like she’s unbothered.

“You’re brooding,” Alpine says, hopping up onto the counter like she owns it.  

“Not brooding,” Bucky says.

“Uh-huh,” Alpine replies, licking a paw. “You gonna sigh while looking out the window again? You waiting for a telegram, Barnes?”

He glares at her.

 “It’s been three days of moping.”

“I don’t mope.”

“Either fight it out or move on.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You two should go on a date”

“No.”

“Die alone, then.”

It’s probably nothing. He tells himself that for the third  morning in a row.

She stares at him, then slowly and deliberately knocks the spoon off the counter.

He doesn’t move. Just sighs.

The spoon clatters on the tile floor and Alpine, appearing quite pleased, hops down to follow it, her claws clicking on the steel.

“You done?” he mutters.

“Not even a little bit,” she stares. “You’re gonna spiral.”

"I’m not spiraling."

"You’ve got your miserable eyes on again." She glances sideways. “You’re in love.”

Bucky closes his eyes. “Alpine.”

“Like, embarrassingly.”

“Alpine.”

“This is sad. It could have been cute if you did something about it, but you won’t so it’s mostly sad.”

He says nothing.

Bucky stalks out of the kitchen, leaving behind a cat very pleased at inventing mental distress for her reluctant owner. 

By Thursday, he’s taken to searching you out.  

Not in a weird way. Just… happening to pass your floor. Just checking if the studio lights are on. Or the espresso machine is still warm. Or if that playlist you always blast when you're in bed is drifting out from under the door.

Nothing.

The void becomes noticeable.

It’s disorienting.

It makes him feel like he’s missing something. Like music that cut out mid-song.

He just leans on the opposite wall like he’s starring in fucking Grease. Perhaps if he waits long enough, you’ll open the door and say something ridiculous and act like you didn’t miss a full week of doing absolutely nothing together.

Instead, it’s the stupid cat who strolls out, halting when she sees him. 

Bucky leaves before the comments start. 

The first time you're technically still there, but not really, it’s a Friday morning.

You're in the kitchen, nursing something hot from a chipped mug. His mouth immediately turns up into a smile, which he immediately gets rid of. 

On paper, everything looks normal. But something’s off.

You don’t say anything when he walks in.

Not even a throwaway line about how long he took to get out of bed. No snide remark about his slippers. Just a vague, distant nod in his direction, your gaze locked somewhere on the floor tiles like you’re trying to solve a problem he can’t see.

Bucky stands by the fridge for a second longer than he needs to. Watching.

He pours himself coffee, leans against the counter. Clears his throat.

"You sleep?"

A beat passes.

"Did I sleep?" You blink like you’re coming back into the room. "Sort of. You?”

"Why, what’s going on?"

"Hm?" Your brow furrows. Then you smile late, like a cue you forgot to hit on time. "Oh, nothing. Been watching a lot of Smallville. These teenagers are driving me nuts.”

“Do you want to–”

Your phone alarm rining cuts him off, and you glance at it before cursing softly.

“Sorry.” You give him an apologetic smile. “Raincheck?”

He nods, and you hop off the stool, clamouring off. 

Something nags at him. It's not that you're rushing. You've always rushed. It's the fact that you didn't try to rope him into whatever you're rushing for.

He stands there holding his coffee, stomach turning over with something he can’t name.

It happens again two days later.

You always do. You're a menace like that.

"Maybe you’re going to be assassinated soon," Alpine suggests, from atop the arm of the couch.

Bucky glances over.

"People are just busy sometimes," he mutters.

"Uh-huh." Alpine licks a paw, unimpressed. "People are just in denial sometimes."

He ignores that.

By Sunday, you do show up to movie night, late, disheveled, an apology tumbling from your mouth before you’re even through the door.

Bucky watches as you curl up into the corner of the couch, next to him like usual. A small thing. Maybe nothing.

You steal his popcorn only twice. Don’t quote the movie out loud, even though you’ve forced him to watch this with you thrice already. You just sit there, distracted, eyes glazed a little like you’re somewhere else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, your phone buzzes. You glance at it. Type something. Smile faintly.

Then you remember you’re in a room with someone else and look over.

“Sorry,” you murmur, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “Do you need me to rewind?”

He shakes his head. “You haven’t looked at the screen in forty minutes.”

You open your mouth, then close it. “Shit. Sorry. I’ve just– my brain’s kinda…” You do a circling gesture near your temple.

He doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything more either.

Eventually, the credits roll. You’re on your feet before the cast names fade.

“I gotta run,” you say. “I left something exporting.”

"You’re leaving now?" Usually you force him into a discussion of the themes and the narratives and how some character is literally him, half because you think they’re pretty.  

"Yeah. Just need to check on a few things."

He watches you go.

There’s an imprint in the cushion beside him, still warm.

Alpine jumps up into the empty spot seconds later. “Is this the part where you start crying quietly?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

The next morning, he finds a paper coffee cup on his doorstep.

No note. But the lid’s labeled with his name, written in your usual scribble. He stands there holding it for too long, thumb pressed against the warm cardboard.

For a moment, he forgets what he’d been brooding about.

Then he remembers.

Finally, when he does corner you, because that’s what it feels like at this point, you’re in the hallway outside the production suite with a file tucked under your arm and a cup of coffee he’s 85% sure is yours.

A smile brightens up your face when you see him and you open your mouth to say something but he speaks before he can stop himself.

“Are you avoiding me?”

You freeze, smile fading. “…What?”

“Just a question.”

There’s a pause. “I thought you’d be glad I was leaving you alone.”

“So you are,” he says.

“No. I’m not.”

“Then what the hell’s going on?” Bucky crosses his arms. “You’ve been MIA since–”

Since the conversation in the car where he told you he was being haunted. 

His eyebrows lift, just slightly. “You think I’m insane.”

“No,” comes the reply, steadier this time. “I do not.”

There’s a pause.

“I promise you, I do not think you’re insane,” you say again. “I’ll be back to normal soon. I’ve just been busy.”

He nods curtly, eyes avoiding looking at you. 

“So,” you add, “you are mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

He just doesn’t like disruptions to a working pattern. That’s all.

You eye him, one eyebrow raised. 

“It’s just weird.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m used to you talking my ear off with whatever bullshit is running through your head, and now you’ve disappeared.”

“I get it.” You shift the file in your hand from one arm to the other. “I didn’t want to say anything until I had something concrete.”

“About what?”

You look at him. “I’ve been trying to figure something out. I don’t want to talk about it in case it’s nothing. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a second, studying your face. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose and nods.

You reach past him and flick his nose gently. “Thought you were waiting for me to leave you alone all this while. Just say you’re in love with me and go.”

He huffs. “Go where? You’d track me down to tell me about season 7 of Love Island.”

“And I have so much to tell you on that front.” You grin, before your phone rings. 

You glance at the caller ID before flashing him a small smile. 

“Go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Catch you soon,” you say, pressing a kiss to your fingertips before tapping his cheek. 

You bump your shoulder into his as you walk away, and the part of him that’s been aching lately, that raw sore space where you usually live, quiets down a little.

The next morning, he wakes up later than usual and immediately glances at his phone.

Nothing.

He walks into the kitchen. Still no you. Still just Alpine, licking the top of a yogurt someone left out.

He mutters something about bacteria.

She flicks her tail at him.

That afternoon, he does see you in passing, arms full of books, phone held between ear and shoulder, talking rapidly about something he can’t hear.

You don’t notice him.

Either way, he leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“Wow,” Alpine drawls. “Snubbed.”

“We already talked.”

“You’re being avoided.”

“People have lives.”

“You used to be part of it.”

He watches you disappear around the corner and mutters, “Jesus, you’re an asshole.”

Alpine licks her paw. “Takes one to know one.”

It’s late enough that most of the lights in the tower have dimmed on their own. 

It’s past midnight, maybe closer to one. The TV is playing some rerun of a wildlife documentary, the sound down low. Alpine's tail flicks with irritation as Bucky scrolls aimlessly through an ancient recipe blog on his phone, looking for something he doesn’t plan to cook.

The door creaks open before he can even answer.

You step in, arms full with a laptop under one, a beat-up manila folder under the other, and something precariously balanced on top of both.

He’s on his bed, leaning against the headboard, reading something old and dog-eared. Alpine lifts her head from the windowsill, ears twitching.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” he blinks, getting off the bed to meet you midway. “You’re supposed to knock.”

“You’re supposed to lock your door,” you reply, already halfway inside.  “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in.”

“Yeah, but like-- can I come in come in?”

You’ve got a paper bag in one hand, a closed laptop under the other arm, and something tucked awkwardly under your chin that might be… a folder? It slips, and you catch it just before it hits the floor.

“Jesus,” Bucky says flatly. “You’re going to trip on your own feet.”

You kick the door shut with your heel.

“Won’t,” you say, confidently. Immediately stumble two steps in.

He catches you by the elbow, just a flicker of a touch, steadying.

“You’re fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You flash him a big smile, before dropping everything onto his bed, ungracefully claiming your space on it. He pretends not to notice the way his shoulders relax. 

Alpine lifts her head slightly, annoyed at first before climbing onto your lap.

“Okay,” you announce. “First things first. Cake.”

“Cake?”

You pull out a slice in a sad little plastic container. “I am nothing if not a master of apology.”

“You’re apologizing?”

“I am apologizing that you missed my face for seven straight days.”

He raises a brow.

“Sorry for making you cry.”

“No one cried.”

“Took to your bed. Covered the mirrors.”

“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?”

You fork into the cake, take a bite, and offer him the container without looking. 

“A peace offering,” you say. “Because I ghosted you like a little rat.”

He stares at it.

You stare at him. “This is where you accept my emotional olive branch.”

“That cake’s not emotional enough,” he mutters.

“I stole it from Steve’s fridge.”

“You know Steve’ fridge is my fridge, right?” But he takes it anyway.

You smile at him like you’ve won.

A few bites pass. You lean your head against the headrest, watching the TV like you were always here.

Bucky watches you as you settle in. You bump your knee into his lightly. 

He notices the details he’s trying not to. There’s a tiny streak of pen on your cheekbone. You look like you haven’t sat down in days.

You look fidgety. That big chaotic energy you always carry is muted, focused. There’s a nervous twitch in your fingers, a hesitance in the way you look at him.

“Sorry I’ve been gone.”

“You weren’t gone.”

You shift slightly, knee knocking into his. Neither of you moves away.

“I didn’t mean to avoid you,” you continue. “I just--” You gesture vaguely.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Still,” you say.

He watches you for a second. There’s something in his eyes that softens barely. Just a flicker at the corner.

He nudges the cake toward you. “Eat first. Explain after.”

For a few seconds, there’s only the quiet sound of forks against plastic. 

Then, without looking up, you speak, “I missed hanging out.”

His mouth twitches again with that near-smile, the one that always seems half-surprised by its own arrival.

You bump your knee against his. “Say it back or I’ll key your motorcycle.”

He mumbles something under his breath, all garbled.

“Louder.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

You smile, just slightly, before passing him the rest of the cake. “Here. Eat your feelings.”

He takes it. “You ate most of it.”

“That’s because I have more feelings.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You reach over, brush a crumb off his hoodie, and linger there a little longer than you need to.

Alpine has fully annexed your thigh, and Bucky, loser that he is, scratches her between the ears like he didn’t threaten to launch her into the sun last week.

You both watch the TV flicker for a second. Something explodes onscreen. Neither of you reacts.

Bucky watches the way you pick at the edge of the container. Your eyes are glazed over, the same way it has been this whole week. You’re not here with him, not really. 

“You’re thinking again,” he says, voice soft.

“No I’m not.” You huff. 

“You’ve been thinking since you walked in,” his gaze flicks between the TV, to your fork. Mostly, they seem to linger on your eyes.

You chew on your lip like you’re deciding on whether or not you want to let him in on a secret.

“Fine,” you say, “Can I say something, and you promise not to flip out?”

“No,” he says, knowing fully well that he was lying. 

You smile. “Fair.”

You pull the folder into your lap, the edge of it a little bent, a couple of post-it notes barely hanging on. He thinks it looks the way your brain probably does.

He holds up a hand to go on.

You fidget with the folder a second longer, then sigh and open it, rifling through a handful of pages before finding what you’re looking for.

“Like I said, I didn’t want to say anything until I had something real. So even this is just-- I don’t know.”

Bucky doesn’t look away. “What’s in the file?”

“Research.”

“Something for the show?”

“Something for us,” you say, and it slips out too fast. You blink, looking down. “I mean– like not us. Just you. Something for you.”

“Okay,” he says. “What is it?”

“Right,” you hesitate. “I thought about everything you said. About Becca. And I thought– I don’t know, that one day, if you’d ever want to know more, that you should be able to.”

It’s quiet again, but not the same quiet as before. This one is loaded with quiet anticipation. 

“I’m not pushing anything,” you say, turning your torso slightly toward him. “This is not a thing you have to deal with right now. Or ever. But you’ve been walking around like you’ve got a lead weight strapped to your ribs, and I didn’t know how to help.”

You gesture to the sheets basically spelling out of the binding.

“There’s a bunch of stuff in there, whatever I could find. Timelines, pictures, conversations with people who’ve met ghosts, mediums, tarot readers. My Instagram is basically only crystal ads now.”

You nudge the folder a little closer to him.

“You don’t have to look. You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do a single thing.” You smile softly. “But if you ever want to, it’s there.”

Bucky hasn’t moved, but his jaw’s tight, and you can see the thoughts behind his eyes, too fast to track. 

He doesn’t open the folder. Just nods once, sets it aside on the nightstand like it's a phone charger or a pair of keys. 

Something to deal with later. 

Maybe.

Eventually, the cake’s half gone. The air in the room is warm, soft, like a blanket that hasn’t slipped off your shoulders yet.

You're already halfway through a yawn when you ask, “What day is it?”

He checks his watch like it’ll give a better answer than his brain. “Tuesday. No. Wednesday.”

“Right.” You rub at your eyes with the back of your hand. “We’ve still got one episode left. We’re short one climax, Barnes.”

He exhales through his nose. “We got nothing?”

“I didn’t say nothing,” you reply, thumbing open your notes app. “I said we don’t have a plan.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You scroll. “Okay. Here’s the shortlist. Stuff we never shot, leads that went nowhere that I still think have potential.”

Bucky leans back against the headboard, arms folded. “Which ones do you like?”

“I don’t know yet. I want to see them. We’ll pick the dumbest ones.”

You hand him the phone.

“We’ll need B-roll,” you add, already planning. “If we hit three in five days, we’ll have raw footage by Sunday. I can cut a teaser next week.”

“You’re assuming they’re all worth shooting.”

“I’m assuming one is. The other two can be weird little day trips.”

He nods once, crisp. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Let’s go on your weird little field trips.”

You grin. “God, you’re soft. I wore you down in one season.”

He grumbles something that sounds like denial. You poke him in the side.

“Tomorrow,” you announce, “we start with the one that smells like cat piss.”

He groans.

You stretch out on the bed, arms flung overhead. “Okay, pick something else to watch. I can’t watch another bear kill a fish. It’s depressing me.”

“Remote’s somewhere.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Sucks to be you.”

His eyes flick toward the unopened folder on the nightstand, doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either, except when he looks back at you, you’ve got a stupid, lazy smile on your face.

It takes him a second to notice the both of you are levitating few inches off the bed.

“Found it,” you say, as the remote floats up between you.

He rolls his eyes.

You grin at him.

The first artifact is a heavy, leather-bound journal sealed behind glass.

A brass plaque reads: DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU’RE READY TO KNOW EVERYTHING.

So you open it in five seconds. No self-preservation whatsoever.

The pages are blank until Bucky reaches over, brushes the corner, and a line of red ink unfurls across the paper.

He reads aloud, flatly, “Once faked an injury to skip running laps and cried when a crabapple hit your knee.”

You don’t move.

He glances at you. “So it’s personal.”

The page turns itself.

Another line appears.

“Had a dream last week where you kissed in an elevator. It fell. You were mostly annoyed the kissing got cut short.”

You take the journal from his hands, silent. Snap it shut.

“I don’t have dreams,” he says, amused. “That one’s not about me.”

You place the book on the far end of the table. Like it might try again.

It does.

More ink creeps across the fucking cover. Bucky lunges for it, reading it before you can stop him.

“You like his face. Especially when he’s--"

You’re already standing. Already crossing the room with the damn thing in your hand.

You open a window that doesn’t need opening.

And then, smiling brightly, you fling the book out.

When you turn back, he’s still in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching you with the same expression he always wears during briefings; a little curious, vaguely entertained.

“Anything else?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t know who it was writing about. Wasn’t me.”

“Right,” he says, half-snort. “You just trashed our one viable video idea.”

“It was nonsense.”

That night, while brushing, you glance down to find the blasted thing near your toothbrush like Satan himself returned it to you. 

A green bookmark is wedged halfway through.

There’s a note on it in someone’s handwriting: For your reading pleasure. From, Not Bucky

You stare at it for a while.

Then you open to page one.

It’s not a haunted object, according to the label. It’s “psycho-reactive porcelain, late 19th century” which means nothing to either of you.

You hold it up to the light. It’s chipped. There’s a faint blue pattern around the rim.  

“It’s meant to do something if you drink from it,” you say.

Bucky stares at you over his jasmine citrus tea. “Define ‘something.’”

“Memory recall. Light clairvoyance.”

“Right.”

You tilt it toward him. “Want to go first?”

“No.”

You shrug. Fill the teacup from the sink. Take a careful sip.

Nothing.

You wait.

Still nothing.

Bucky glances at you. “How do you feel?”

“Like I drank tap water out of a very pretentious bowl.”

You hand it to him. He hesitates for a second, then downs the rest in one go like antibiotics.

Again, nothing.

You wait five minutes in silence.

When Bucky opens his mouth, you wait for the next snarky remark.

Instead, he asks with full sincerity, “Why is the light doing that.”

You frown. “What light.”

He gestures at the overheads. “They’re pulsing.”

You look up. They’re not.

You glance at him. He’s frowning slightly. His coffee mug is now three inches to the left of where it was.

Neither of you moved it.

You sit down. Slowly.

“It’s a delayed reaction,” you say.

“That or I’m having a stroke,” he murmurs. 

Alpine hops onto the counter. She looks taller than usual.

Not bigger. Just more vertical. As if someone stretched her slightly in post.

You both stare at her. She tilts her head. Her pupils are too wide.

Bucky leans toward you. “Is it possible to hallucinate in widescreen?”

You don’t answer. You’re watching the fridge breathe.

It’s subtle, in and out, like a sleeping animal.

“Okay,” you say calmly. “Might be time to lie down.”

He doesn’t argue. Just gets up and walks very carefully down the hall like gravity’s got new rules no one told him about.

You follow, passing Alpine, who now has three ears. You choose not to engage.

__________

You’ve both made it to bed, but you’re not sure whose bed it is. Or whether it is a bed. You’re lying very still.

There’s a low hum in the air, like a charger left plugged into a wall that hasn’t existed for years.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually Bucky says, “If I die…”

And then he doesn’t continue. It takes a good while to even register that he spoke. 

You’re staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is fine. The ceiling is a forest now. A very polite forest.

“Too late,” you mutter.

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

You turn yours. “Nothing.”

He closes his eyes. “I can hear colours.”

You stare at him.

“I’m hearing green.”

“What does green sound like?”

He’s silent for a long time.

“Wet,” he says.

You nod like that makes sense.

There’s a moment of peace. Then you start laughing. Not loudly. Just the kind of slow, broken laugh that happens when your brain lets go of structure.

 He lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “Are we going to talk about the part where you’re lying on my arm.”

You look down.

You are, in fact, using his arm as a pillow.

You consider moving.

The light seems dimmer now. Or maybe the shadows are heavier. Either way, you can feel your pulse in your mouth.

“Should I move?” you ask, finally.

"Don’t." His voice is quiet. "Feels nice.”

You don’t move for another twenty minutes.

When you do finally sit up, the hallucinations are gone.

Alpine is asleep on the windowsill, back to her standard issue two ears.

The fridge has stopped breathing.

Bucky’s still on the bed, one hand covering his eyes.

You look at him.

He says nothing.

You leave the room with the teacup in your hand.

You drop it in the bin.

You miss.

Someone is supposed to drop off a haunted chair.

That’s what you thought, when you opened the door to Vincent. Vincent is wearing a waistcoat and fingerless gloves.

“You’ve got the look,” he says, stepping inside.

You blink. “The look? Am I gonna be a model?”

He brings his own clipboard.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this,” he says.

You stay standing. Bucky leans against the fridge, arms crossed.

Vincent glances between you. “You both died. Probably three, four days ago.”

You blink. “Right.”

Bucky says flatly, “Okay.”

“We’re breathing.”

“Depends on the cause of death. Sudden impact ghosts usually don’t. You two read as slow-burners.”

“What’s a slow-burner?” Bucky dares to ask.

“Emotional bleed-out. Takes years. You don’t even notice until you stop casting shadows.” He frowns. “There’s something very cold about this room.”

“That’s the air conditioner.”

“Ever feel like your body’s not yours anymore?”

“Capitalism.”

Vincent points his clipboard at you. “Denial is step one.”

You glance at Bucky. “He’s trying to gaslight us into being ghosts.”

“I clocked that.”

“You passed over quietly. Very dignified.”

You consider. “Okay. But if we’re dead, why are we still here?”

“Ah,” he says, tapping his nose. “Unfinished business. Usually regret. Or unspoken feelings. Or--”

“Sexual tension,” you offer.

He blinks.

You nudge Bucky’s boot. “Hey. Think we died in the middle of something?”

He doesn’t look up. “Probably.”

Vincent clears his throat. “You’re joking because you’re resisting transcendence.”

You nod, serious. “That’s right. I died before I got to see Bucky shirtless in daylight.”

“Exactly,” Vincent says, with a touch too much sincerity.

You turn to Bucky. “Do I look dead to you?”

He shrugs. “Define dead.”

Vincent closes his notebook. “Okay. You’re clearly not ready.”

You press on. “Hypothetically, are we separate ghosts, or do we haunt as a pair?”

His eyes light up. “Oh, tandem hauntings are extremely rare–”

“I’m going to stop you there,” Bucky says, already walking to the sink. “This is a waste of time.”

You trail after. “Let him finish. This might be the closest I get to a legally binding commitment from you.”

Vincent’s still going: “It would explain the EMF levels. The flickering lights. Your cat refusing eye contact–”

“She doesn’t respect anyone,” Bucky adds. “She hissed at the mirror this morning. I think it was at herself.”

Vincent reaches into his bag, pulls out two laminated cards.

“These are temporary death certificates. Just until you make peace with the transition. If anyone official asks, show them this.”

Vincent clasps his clipboard. “So. Are we ready to move on?”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not. Tell him to make out with me and I’ll transcend in three seconds.”

Vincent sighs. Pulls out a pen. “I’ll be back in a week. If you're still resisting, we escalate.”

“To what?” you ask.

“Spirit mediation,” he says grimly. Then brightens: “You’re probably not going to heaven, by the way. But you might have great lighting down there!”

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

You say, “If we’re dead, we’re doing it badly.”

He hums. “Speak for yourself. I was a professional ghost for 50 years.”

The bedroom was quiet. 

You’d left a while ago, citing the fifteen hours you’d stayed up to catch the haunted chair say something to you. 

Bucky stayed awke to make good on his promise to check whether any footage was actually usable.

He’s spent a good three hours going through tapes, watching every single interaction and joke between the both of you. Rewinded quite a few times to catch the way you said something particularly. It makes the whole process a lot longer than it had to be.

At nearly 12, he comes to the disheartening conclusion that none of what was filmed is worth a final video. 

He's not sure why. It just felt like it wasn’t worthy enough, not if that was the last video you were going to film together. 

He stares at the shared Google doc. It still said “no climax” in capital letters, underlined. 

Bucky lets out a breath through his nose, sits back in the chair, and opens the laptop.

There’s nothing urgent in his inbox. One polite reminder from the Maya, phrased like a threat. He clicked it open, skimmed, and clicked away again.

He tabs over to the edit queue and opens a Reddit tab while it loads. A habit he’d formed after relying on it as his main search engine for the last few years.  

If the internet was good for anything, it was telling him what his own face looked like under harsh lighting.

The subreddit was louder than usual, more posts, more upvotes, more speculation than he remembered. 

It’s mostly fluff: timestamps with vague noises, blurry screenshots of orbs that were probably dust, someone insisting that a static hiss in episode 23 was Morse code for “JACK WAS HERE.”

He scrolss, mildly bored, while the next set of videos transfer to the cloud.

Until he pauses on a specific title.

He clicks on it.

It was the clip in the woods where you’d gone searching for the Mothman, the one where the wind had knocked over the directional mic.

Bucky dismisses most of the footage. It was too thin, too chaotic. Too much wind, not enough ghosts.

Until he clicks on the link to the screenshot.

There, just at the edge of the frame, nearly obscured by shadow: a figure.

He frowns, returning to the video to play the clip.

Nothing obvious. Just wind and breath and him muttering something snide about the stupid forest.

He scrubs back to the frame, pauses it, zooming in.

The figure was there.

He leans closer.

He stares at it. At the shape. At the faint outline of something like a dress, like the one–

He opens another tab. Types fast.

His throat went dry.

There were screen grabs now. Threads inside threads. Cross-referencing. Timestamps. One video from episode seventeen, filmed in the abandoned greenhouse. A shape in the background, just behind the condensation. The same hair. The same profile.

He clicks faster. Traced it.

Episode 3: 12:47, near the tree Episode 4: 1:22, corner of the house Episode 6: 4:35, doorframe, briefly, mid-argument Episode 7: 9:10, window Episode 9: 11:12, blurred, reflected in the china 

He sits back, chest screwed tight.

The username of the original poster was something mundane: spectraldramaqueen23. But their eye for detail was nauseatingly good. They’d overlaid screenshots. Zoomed in. Used filters. 

His palms felt cold.

The room felt heavier than it had a moment ago, as if it, too, had read something it shouldn’t have.

He reaches out, slowly, and opens the laptop again.

Back to the footage.

There she was, in every clip from the last 25 videos you’d released, at exactly the timestamps the internet had told him. 

He sits back again, heart ticking slightly louder than he liked.

Another post blinked in on the sidebar. A new one.

"Ghost Girl identity: here are my theories"

Bucky slams the laptop shut, standing up too fast.

The chair rolls back to hit the wall.

The file wasn’t where he thought it would be.

Which made sense. He hadn’t exactly placed it down. More like hurled it into the back of the closet three weeks ago. Now he was on his knees in the dark, shoulder wedged behind a space heater, muttering curses at a collapsed tripod and an unopened pack of candles.

He finds it by accident.

The edge of the manila folder was bent in, crushed beneath an ancient hoodie and something that might’ve once been a gimbal. 

He stares at it before clawing it open it with both hands,

He doesn’t even sit, just starts flipping fast, skimming and not reading so much as consuming, eyes grazing past dates, screenshots, scans, your handwriting scrawled in the margins, circling things he’d looked at a dozen times and never seen.

He slammed the file shut before scrambling out his door.  

You open your door to find Bucky, panting slightly, face flushed like he’d run the entire flight of stairs.

You opened the door mid-knock, because he hadn’t really knocked. More just landed against it.

He looked– well. Not great.

He holds the file out you’d given him nearly two weeks ago and never spoke about since, like it was on fire. “She’s been in every single fucking episode.”

You exhale, like you knew this was coming, before stepping aside. “Come in.”

He’s breathing like he’d run from something. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, eyes wide and almost glassy.

“She’s been in every episode,” he says.

His voice cracked halfway through it. Like his chest hadn’t caught up to the rest of him.

“She’s been here the whole time. The whole goddamn time.”

You close the door gently. “Sit with me.”

He looks at you like he’d just remembered you were real.

“What have you found,” he said, “about her.”

You gesture, calmly. “I’m gonna make you some tea, and you can tell me what happened.”

He paces a tight, messy loop of your room. Hands on his hips, then arms folded, then rubbing his jaw like he’s trying to erase it.

You watch him with some alarm. This is not a man well-acquainted with emotions. Watching him come undone is a bit like watching a sink catch fire.

“I didn’t see it,” he says. “I didn’t notice. But she’s in the footage. And everyone else has been seeing it but me.”

You nod, slow, walking past him toward the kettle. It buys you time. He’s vibrating with something between panic and fury, and you need the anchor of making tea just to stay upright.

You call out as you fill the kettle. “You checked Reddit?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s in my shots. She’s following me.”

The kettle clicks on. You return. He’s standing where you left him, blinking like you hit him with a brick.

“Right,” you say.”

“Because she hates me.”

You blink. “That’s your takeaway?”

“She’s haunting me,” he snaps. “Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she? I left her alone to go turn into something she’d fucking hate.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” you say, calm again. “That’s not what this is.”

He’s already shaking his head. “I missed her entire life. I missed her funeral.”

“You didn’t choose to do that,” you tell him, eyebrows knit together. “Sit with me. Please.”

Finally, he agrees. You give him a warm cup with a teabag floating in it. It’s more recreational than anything else. 

He doesn’t drink the tea, just holds it, only because you gave it to him. 

You sit across from him, watching the way he stares into the middle distance. Like the footage is still playing somewhere behind his eyes.

“I don’t think she hates you,” you break the silence. “Once you told me, I started compiling everything. Not just the clips she shows up in, but the places. It wasn’t random. You remember the ones you told me you saw her?”

He doesn’t look at you.

You go on anyway.

“The mansion that Jason said was haunted by his uncle. That piece of paper that hit you in the neck that had ‘PBJ’ scribbled on it.”

His thumb twitches against the mug.

“The cornfield,” you continue. “Where you said you heard her laugh and chased it down.”

“I know,” he mutters.

He nods. Doesn’t speak.

“The haunted ship, in the mirror fogged up and you heard her say ‘Leave.’.”

“You’re not making a great case for her not hating me,” he mutters.

“No,” you say softly. “But I think it makes her consistent.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, consistent in making sure I know I fucked up.”

You lean forward. “Bucky–”

“She’s told me to leave.” His voice rises, sharp and bitter. “She’s spelled out my name on a board.”

“Buck–”

He cuts you off, fast and loud. “I even talked to a fucking tarot reader about those cards in that potions episode. I explained the positions. And she told me I was screwed.”

You stare at him for a beat. “Bucky, what’d you tell her about the cards?”

“What.”

“Did you even look at the footage before you talked to her?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Of course you didn’t,” you mumble.

“I remembered which ones came out.” He shrugs, defensive. “Besides, I don’t like watching myself.”

“Liar,” you say, not unkindly, but some way to relieve the tension in him. “You love watching our videos. I’ve seen you watch them several times.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “I’m not looking at me in them.”

You ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat. “I figured you didn’t look at the footage before talking to her. But they were upright. All of them.”

You flip to the relevant page. Three photos: the cards exactly as they appeared on the table. You’ve annotated them, of course.  

“And if I’m not wrong,” you say, drawing the folder toward you, “she told you the meanings in reverse.”

You open the file. Pull out a thin, crumpled email printout, and slide it across the table to him.

He doesn’t touch it.

“I found Lillia. Took me two weeks, but I sent her the card photos. I asked her to read them again. She wrote me back. It’s all in there.”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath. He’s still holding the email in both hands,  the paper crumpling under the force.

You speak, finally, voice quiet, “Let’s walk through it.”

He doesn’t look up.

“The house,” you say. “Paper hitting you, with a nickname for both of you as kids. Furniture was moving without any of us having to do anything with it, bottles too.”

“Yeah.”

“She gave you a heads-up. Something small. Something harmless. Something that’d let you know she was there.”

He doesn’t respond.

You go on. “Then the cornfield. You were lost for like, half an hour. You said you heard a laugh, so you followed it.”

He nods, just barely.

“And it led you straight back to me,” you say. “To someone, so that you weren’t alone anymore.”

His throat works like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“The haunted ship,” you say. “The mirror where you saw her. Where she told you to leave.”

His voice is flat. “Yeah. That one wasn’t subtle.”

You look at him. “No. But the ship levitated that night. You were on the verge of passing out from the sway.”

“She knew I got sea sick,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Exactly.”

You pause.

“It doesn’t sound like she was trying to scare you, Buck,” you say, gently. “It sounds like she was trying to let you know she was there.”

He’s staring at the wall.

“She left you notes so you knew it was her,” you say. “Led you when you needed a way out. Told you to leave when it was dangerous. She showed up when no one else could see what was coming.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t sound like she’s haunting you. It sounds like she’s looking out for you.”

His jaw tightens. You can see him trying not to let it in.

“So,” you say. “When you say you feel like you’ve failed her… I have a feeling that maybe you're not the only one who thinks that.”

He turns his head, slow, like doing anything physically hurts. 

You look at him, steady. “Maybe she feels like she should’ve protected you.”

His eyes sting, glassy now. He looks down at his hands like they’re foreign, like they’ve done things he can’t bear to remember.

His voice comes rough, sanded down to the nerve: “Yeah.”

He doesn’t lower the email, clutching it like it’s burning through his fingers.

The room is so quiet you can hear the tea cooling in its cup. His shoulders fall, just slightly. Like something’s finally been set down.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, he looks like he doesn’t know how to carry it anymore. Not the guilt, not the love, not the sudden awful realisation that maybe she just wanted to make sure he got home. 

You stay where you are, knees folded on the couch, tea cold beside you. 

You watch him, gently, without speaking. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the printed email still loose in his fingers.

He turns it over, once. Just for something to do.

“Wanna pull a card?”

His eyes lift to yours.

You don’t smile, but your face is kind. 

He looks at the bed where you’ve placed an old tarot deck sits. He looks back at you.

“Yeah,” he says. Quietly. “Okay.”

You set the deck down in front of him and nod at it. “You shuffle.”

He hesitates, then picks it up. His hands are steady now. Not relaxed, but sure.

It’s clumsy but deliberate. When he’s done, you tap the top of the deck with one finger.

“Pull.”

He does.

One card.

He flips it over.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The card rests between you like a breath finally released.

Then, almost inaudibly, he says, “Huh.”

You lean forward, elbows on the table, and tilt your head at it.

“You know what it means?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“From what I’ve learnt in the last few weeks,” you begin, “It’s a beginning. An offering.”

He frowns slightly. “Doesn’t feel like a beginning.”

“It’s not that kind of beginning,” you say. “I've seen people compare it to the first breath after crying. What lets you know the worst is over.”

He watches you. 

“It means healing. Gently. Slowly, what you don’t notice until one day it doesn’t hurt to say her name out loud.”

You watch the muscle in his jaw flex.  

He looks at the card. Doesn’t touch it.  

You soften your voice.

“I think she’s here because she loved you too much to leave,” you say. “Even if you said you didn’t deserve it.”

He presses a hand to his face. Exhales through his palm.

“She’s not stuck,” you say. “You’re not, either.”

He nods, just once.

You watch him for a second longer. “How about we let her know that you’re taken care of, yeah?”

His head lifts. He meets your eyes.

You smile, small. Steady.

“And I think you should realise,” you add, “that she was taken care of too.”

He doesn't speak, eyes shining. 

But he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

fun fact: the lil montage in there are all ideas i had that i never ended up including in chapters. haunted chairs, manuscripts, psychedelics, someone who convinces them that they're dead.

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[crdgn]

respectfully, my brain stopped working at the thought of playing with bucky's dog tags. being naked in bed is the cherry on top.

Declassified 14 - Sneak Peek

A.N: Hi my loves, I'm back from my vacation! 🥰 I hope you all had a wonderful July, here's the sneak peek! 🥰

Series Masterlist

He let out a breath, blinking a couple of times as if he was trying to focus.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here, trust me. I was thinking about Sarah.”

You raised your brows with a grin. “While I’m naked in your bed, Barnes? Wow.”

His eyes widened. “No no—”

“Talk about lovebombing—”

“That’s not what I meant!” he cut you off in a rush. “No it’s just, she said something the other day about you and me, that’s all.”

You hummed, playing with his dog tags. “What did she say?”

“She said maybe all that stuff happened in the past because I was meant to meet you here.”

Your heart skipped a happy beat. “And do you agree?”

“One hundred percent,” he said. “Do you?”

“Yeah-I mean don’t get me wrong, what happened to you was terrible, all those decades,” you added. “I wish they didn’t happen but when I think about you in the 40s and me being here, imagining not meeting you or being with you…”

Even the idea was way too heavy for your heart and you shook your head, an ache appearing at the back of your throat. He stroked your hair before he ran his knuckles over your temple, and brushed his lips against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “We both are.”

You looked up at him, your brows furrowed. “But are you happy about it?”

He tilted his head in confusion and you took a deep breath.

“Because you know, what happened with Steve Rogers and going back and like, he went back the minute he could and—”

“That’s very different,” he cut you off. “And I wouldn’t go back.”

“Even if you could?”

“Yeah. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“But your best friend did.”

Bucky thought for a moment, then licked his lips.

“I think Steve was always meant to go back because he had someone waiting for him in the past,” he said. “I was meant to go forward because I had you waiting for me in the future.”  

[crdgn]

well

this was a punch in the face 🥲 i feel so bad for her, wow. poor reader, she's lost all her agency and isn't even aware of it 😭😭 i'm so happy he's remembered and seems to continue doing so, and that he's reached out for help. i really hope they get whoever scar dude is, and make him pay :///

is there a tag list for this fic? i 100000% forget. if there is, can i be on it? thank u <3

Trustfall, Chapter 5

Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. This chapter is Explicit for sexual contact, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. There is somewhat dub!conny touching & talking in this chapter. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.

Chapter Summary:

The Soldier remembers. But you forget. (The author reminds you that she thrives on capslock comments.)

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

You don’t know where you’re going. Who might be following. Who might be watching.

Twice, you’ve reached out for help; twice, Hydra attacked.

The Soldier hot-wires the first car he finds, one of half a dozen in a campsite parking strip, drives down the highway without any regard to destination. He doesn’t even bother to fill the tank; when it’s low, you switch from to another car, and use that as far as it will take you before he has to do it again.

It’s probably as safe a plan as any.

Until you see the sign as you skirt around Chicago.

“Go west,” you say. The Soldier glances at you.

“You have a plan?”

“Yes. It’s safe. I promise.”

He drives west, and five hours (not to mention several turns and another stolen vehicle) later, you speak again.

“Don’t hurt them.”

The Soldier frowns, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “Who?”

“They won’t hurt us, I promise. They’re going to help. They’re not Hydra, and they’re not Avengers either. I know you don’t follow my orders, but—”

“You’re not my handler.”

“No. But I trust them. They won’t hurt us.”

He glances at you again. “Who?”

It’s a terrible idea. You don’t have any others.

You let out a breath as you point to the gravel path on the far side of the beaten metal mailbox. There’s a gate a few yards down.

It’s deceptively banal, unprotected, open.

Except for the Soldier, whose eyes widen with recognition at the security measures he’s been trained to see. The ones you knew you’d find.

Barton, says the mailbox.

“They’re friends,” you tell him, and this time, it’s you who gets out of the truck to enter the codes that will let you in.

*

The farmhouse is empty.

It doesn’t look abandoned; the front door’s locked, though the key’s under the mat. There’s milk and eggs in the fridge, bread on the counter, electricity and hot water.

But it’s clear that Laura and the kids aren’t there. Toothbrushes missing, everything just a little too neat, like she’d had them pick up their toys and books and such before leaving for a trip.

It’s a relief, honestly. The Soldier scowls at everything he sees, the deep lines in his brow going deeper as he walks from one room to the next. There’s a question forming in his head; you don’t want to even try answering it yet.

“I’m taking a shower,” you tell him, and head up the stairs.

He follows you.

“Look, this place is about as safe as it can get,” you tell him. “It’s off the grid, there’s not a single government agency that knows about it. You saw the actual security inside the perimeter fence, no one’s getting within a mile of this house without us knowing about it.”

The Soldier isn’t looking at you, though; he’s looking at the pictures on the wall, the bedrooms on either side of the hall. One in pink and lace, the other with blue stripes and a towering gaming computer.

You watch as he unerringly opens the door to the shared bathroom, goes inside, and turns on the water.

“Fine,” you say, too tired to care anymore. You follow him in, strip off your clothes, and step under the spray.

It’s blissfully hot. You hiss when it hits your skin, but you don’t move; you just let it warm you up, until you start to feel guilty for wasting the water.

There’s apple shampoo, and coconut conditioner, and pomegranate body wash. A fruit salad is preferable to what you think you smell like, though, so you use all three as liberally as you can.

It’s while you’re running the conditioner through your hair with your fingers that you realize the Soldier is still in the bathroom. Watching you.

You swallow, and slow your fingers in your hair. You dart your gaze away. There’s something about the way he’s watching, hungry and focused, that sends your nerves on fire, sparks dancing under your skin. You try to keep your breathing steady, like it’s not a big deal that he watches, but your heart speeds up a little.

You can’t turn away, either.

His eyes track your movements, lingering nowhere and seeing everything. Heat runs under your skin, every nerve on fire, electrified. You run the soap over your skin, your curves, taking care to touch every part of you, fingertips delicate, brushing over the most sensitive places.

There’s no particular expression on his face, exactly; but you’re heated and flushed. From the water, from exhaustion, from his unblinking gaze.

The moment you step from the shower, he wraps you in a towel. You can’t take your eyes from his face; his eyes are narrowed in thought, like he’s struggling to work through a problem, but his hands are gentle on you, and he leads you unerringly to a bedroom.

Not Laura’s. Not the kids’ either. This room, you remember.

You just hadn’t expected he would.

Your breath catches; you open your mouth, trying to decide how to ask the question burning in your throat, but he yanks back the blankets and settles you on the bed, covering you securely, tucking you in, before sitting at the foot, his hand on your ankle.

“Sleep,” he says.

You do.

*

“I know this place,” he says when you wake.

You sit up, holding the blankets over your naked skin. He’s… softer, somehow, in the morning light. He’s still by the foot of your bed, hand on your ankle, but there’s a slump to his shoulders that makes you think he slept, too.

“We’ve been here before,” he continues. “There were children.”

You nod, slow. “Yeah. I told you, they’re friends.”

He glances at you. “Where are they now?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I think they left because… well, because we’re here.”

His face darkens. “You said they’re friends.”

“They are. That’s why they left.”

“But you brought me here.”

“Because I don’t know where to else go!” you exclaim. “And the you I know—he wouldn’t hurt them. And I don’t think who you are now would either.”

This quiets him for a moment.

“They were playing in the barn. There’s a cat with newborn kittens. And a rope swing. I reinforced the beam so it would take their weight.”

You sit up a bit, hopeful. “You remember?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember anything else?” You pause. “Anyone else?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at you, either; he stares into the middle distance, a frown on his face. Concentrating.

“I remember you. Laughing. Sunlight in your hair. There’s an old truck in the garage, I tried to make the engine turn over. Wouldn’t go and I cursed up a blue streak.”

You nod, remembering. “Yeah. That happened.”

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “That happened too.”

He refocuses on you. “I gave you the last trigger words. Didn’t I?”

You press your lips together and nod.

He leans against the footboard. “It’s easier to remember, when I’m with you. You’re my best girl, aren’t you? And I’m your guy. I know you. You sing when you’re happy, dance when there’s a song you like playin’ on the elevator and no one around to watch. I know the way your hands feel on the back of my neck when I’m kissing you. Making love with you. I wanted to make love with you here, but you said no.”

“The kids sleep down the hall. And we’re guests.”

“That’s it, though. Wouldn’t make love with me with the kids down the hall, but you trusted me enough not to hurt them if we found ‘em here.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“You don’t know that. You’re not my handler.”

“I trust you.”

“Yeah. I know you do. Why d’you think I gave you the words?”

“I—”

He’s moving, hand sliding up the side of your leg, leaning over you like a lion over its prey. “You’re my girl, aren’t you? You giggle when I use all the old slang I grew up with. You cry at any movie with an animal in it. You always, always take the last piece of garlic bread, and you’ll deny it ‘til the day you die.”

You’re trapped between his arms, and it’s so familiar. The warmth of him, the way his eyes bore into you, looking at you like he knows you.

Like he might even remember you, might remember being with you like this, on his elbows and knees above you.

You could lose yourself in this; you could forget, like he had. You could…

“You want to know if I know me? I know me with you. I use the slang because your laugh sounds like music. I bring the tissues with the popcorn when it’s movie night at the Tower, and you always get the last garlic bread ‘cause I won’t let anyone else have it first.

“I know I gave you the words because I trust you. So no, doll, outside of you, I don’t know who I am. But I know who I am when I’m with you. I know what I want, and it’s you and nothin’ else. And if I’m the kind of guy who you know won’t hurt a couple of kids you care about, then I think I’m doin’ all right.”

Up on your elbows, and you kiss him.

He kisses like he always does, fully and with no hesitation. He wraps his arms around you, holds your head in his hand, pushes one thigh in between your legs, pressing the thick muscle against your clit.

You fall into it, far too easily. Maybe you shouldn’t.

It’s still different, though you can’t quite put your finger on why. He rips the blankets from your body, yanks the clothes from his, sucking in a breath when his naked skin touches yours. Whatever drove him before is now concentrated, honed to a singular focus. Every touch is more intense, every movement is carefully planned and executed.

Maybe you don’t care, because even if he doesn’t remember everything, he remembers this. You. Him. And when you run your fingers down his side and hear him gasp, when you close your hand around his cock, guiding him to you, it’s exactly as you remember it.

You can pretend. You can hope… maybe this will be enough.

When he slides into you, the groan is guttural, and it takes a moment for you to realize the words have slid into Russian.

“Красивая, чувственная…”

It’s pretty, whispered on his lips, kissed into your skin, and the unrecognizable phrase sends electricity through your muscles, shots of adrenaline to your heart.

You writhe under him, pressing up into his skin, gasping as he increases his pace, letting out a shocked sigh when he takes you by the wrists and pulls your hands above your head.

He pounds into you, your legs curling around him. There’s no quarter, there’s no breath, there’s only the relentless taking, having, desperation as he easily keeps both your wrists in his left hand, while his right cradles the back of your neck. Your nipples brush rough against his chest, tightening so hard they almost hurt, and the pain makes you clench your body around him.

“Xочу тебя…”

For a moment, you’re afraid, because there’s something in his eyes that is more possessive than you remember seeing in him. Lonelier, desperate, aching.

You want to cradle his cheek in your hand, to reassure him, to tell him it’s all right, that you’re there, that he’s safe, that you’re both safe. But when you try to pull out of his grip, he tightens his fingers and lowers to catch your lips in a bruising kiss.

“Tы мне нужен,” he mumbles. 

“I don’t understand.” Gasped, broken, sounding so much more afraid than you really are.

You aren’t afraid, you aren’t. Maybe a little: he’s so intense, he’s Bucky but not, he’s the Soldier but not, and your heart spirals up and out of control, you barely grasp onto consciousness with all the sensations he’s wringing out of you.

Maybe you’re afraid that you’re a little bit in love with the Soldier, and the danger he represents, and not Bucky himself.

“I don’t understand,” you repeat, because the words continue, and you’re still spiraling, everything slipping away: control, emotion, consciousness.

“You don’t have to,” whispers the Soldier. “Tы мой.”

You ride the orgasm over the ridge, and everything you are slides away into oblivion.

*

“Tы мой.”

You’re mine.

He comes as he says the words, and all is still and silent. She’s quiet beneath him, breathing hard but still, and when he lifts up to look at her, the blank expression on her face chills him to the bone.

“Doll?” he says, hesitatingly.

“Gotov soobshit’,” she replies. Toneless, flat, like his sweat doesn’t glisten on her skin, like his cock isn’t still deep inside her.

“No,” he whispers, and then again, louder. “No. No. No.”

“Ready to report,” she repeats in Russian he knows she doesn’t speak.

He wants to hyperventilate; he can’t. He wants to pull away, to fling himself to the other side of the room. To run and run and run and…

But she stares at the ceiling, waiting. Unmoving. Empty.

He wants to gather her up and shake her until she’s back into herself. Because if she is like this, then he…

He breathes. “Report.”

“We are currently hiding out in Clint Barton’s farmhouse outside Waverly, Iowa, while on the run from both Hydra and the Avengers.”

“I know that—”

“Also we just had sex.”

He wants to laugh. Or cry. He’s not sure, everything is upside-down and backwards. He rests his forehead on her shoulder, breathes in the scent of her skin.

“How long have you worked for Hydra?” he asks, afraid of the answer.

“I do not work for Hydra. I am employed as a nurse at Stark Industries, assigned to the medical unit at Avengers Tower under Dr. Bruce Banner. My duties include assisting with various genome sequencing and research, as well as medical care to the Avengers as required.”

“Something I said triggered you, doll. Who do you report to?”

“I do not know his name. We met the night I got the job with Stark Industries. He had a scar running down the side of his face. He congratulated me on the new job. I thought I saw him later, walking home, but I was wrong. I do not remember seeing him. I went home and went to sleep. I did not remember him in the morning. I never remember him in the morning.”

The Soldier holds his head in his heads. “Oh, sweetheart… I’m so sorry. What did they do to you?”

“I was programmed to tell the absolute truth.”

He looks up, startled. “I say your triggers, and you… tell me the truth? About whatever I ask?”

“Until I fall asleep, yes.”

“Even against your will? What if I order you to do anything else?”

“I will not remember this conversation or any orders you give me upon waking up.”

He breaths out. “You’re not Hydra.”

“And neither are you.”

He stares at her. “Who am I?”

“You are James Buchanan Barnes, nickname Bucky, codename the Winter Soldier, codename the Asset, codename the Fist of Hydra. Born March 10, 1917, Brooklyn, New York, drafted into the U.S. Army 1942, member of the Howling Commandos until your reported death in January 1945. You were found by Soviet troops who were affiliated with Hydra, were rehabilitated and reactivated as the Winter Soldier from 1951 to 2014, when you were compromised on a mission in Washington D.C. by Steven Grant Rogers, code Captain America, born July 4, 1918, Brooklyn, New York. You disappeared and resurfaced in 2015 in Romania. You became active with the Avengers in 2016 and though the public has been reassured that the code words are no longer active, this has not been confirmed.”

The Soldier—or maybe Bucky, who the hell knows the line between them anymore, he sure as hell doesn’t—wants to laugh. “I think your intel’s out of date, doll.”

“We have been dating for the last five months, and sexually active for the last four. I am in lo—”

He covers her mouth with his hand, and she instantly silences, staring at him with wide eyes. “No,” he says gently. “Don’t finish that sentence, doll. Not like this.”

She nods, quietly, without speaking, her lips soft against his fingers.

But already his mind is working, thinking, twenty steps ahead. “Can I trust you?”

“You already do,” she whispers.

*

She watches, silent, as he pulls them both into the shower, rinses the scent of sex and sweat from their bodies, dresses them both in the clothes he finds in the guest room closet.

She drinks the orange juice Bucky hands her without a word, and if she notices the chalky taste from the melatonin, she doesn’t remark on it. She falls asleep ten minutes later, and doesn’t wake even when Bucky transfers her to the truck parked in Barton’s barn, or when he switches to a van ten miles out.

She’s still sleeping when Bucky pulls the van off the side of the road, somewhere forty miles west of Waverly.

If he’s lucky, she’ll sleep through the whole thing. If he’s not… well. He’ll figure that out if it happens. In the meantime, he pulls past the only other car parked at the flimsy excuse of a rest stop, so that when he gets out, there’s no way she’d be able to see without getting out of the van, which she can’t do as he’s strapped her in again.

But he does tuck the blanket around her a little more securely, resists the urge to brush the hair from her eyes.

And then he leaves the van, boots crunching on the gravel, to where the blond man leans against the car, waiting.

Steve Rogers. Battered, bruised, but alive.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But neither does Rogers.

“Thanks for coming,” says the Soldier shortly.

Rogers smiles, laughs a bit to himself. “Like I’d do anything else when you call?”

“Wasn’t sure you were still alive,” says the Soldier.

“Looks like,” agrees Rogers. Careful. “Buck—”

“Not Buck,” he says shortly. “Not yet anyhow.”

Rogers nods, like he doesn’t mind. “How is she?”

“Asleep. Wound’s healing up.” Somehow, knowing that Rogers asks after her second… it makes the next part easier. “She trusts you. How do I know I can?”

“Because you trusted her this far,” says Rogers quietly. “You sure you want to do it this way, Buck? We can do it without her, get you both somewhere safe.”

He shakes his head. “And we’ll both be looking over our shoulders the rest of our lives. No. We gotta do it right, or we’re just as trapped as we’ve always been.”

“She agree to this?”

“No,” he says flatly. “And I’m not gonna ask, because she’ll hate me for suggesting it. But she trusts me. So I gotta try.”

“Okay,” says Rogers, and hands over the intel. “Bruce says she’ll know this place. Lead ‘em there. And I’ll meet you on the other side.”

to be continued...

[crdgn]

as a broke college student, thank you for being the only modern brandon sklenar gif pack i don't have to pay for. they're great and very much appreciated.

no worries, bb! i’m happy to help, even though mine aren’t the best 😬💖 hopefully life slows down enough soon for me to attempt another pack 🫂

[crdgn]

love a boss woman who delivers!!

i'm obsessed with this dynamic. can't wait for reader to keep making moves and asserting herself, and for bucky to realize what a good kind of menace she is hehehehe. could i be added to the tag list pls?

It's Not Just A Crush - 2

Summary : He’s cold, older, and always in control. You’re the intern who just outplayed him in front of a billion-dollar client. Now you work late nights under his watch, daring him to look. He keeps his distance. You want to ruin his composure.

The tension isn’t the only thing growing between you.

Character : boss!Bucky x intern!FemaleReader

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , -

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

The office was still half-dark when you arrived. Only the faint hum of the building’s systems filled the air. Your heels echoed too loudly on the marble floor, betraying how early it really was. You dropped your bag on your desk and powered up your laptop, pretending this was normal for you. It wasn’t.

You knew he’d be here soon. He always came early—too early for a man who claimed to have a life outside of work.

Five minutes later, you heard it: the soft, steady click of polished shoes approaching. You didn’t look up right away. That would make it obvious. Instead, you kept your eyes on the glowing screen, posture sharp, fingers poised like you were already drowning in data.

Bucky passed by. You could feel it more than see it—the quiet weight of him, the faint scent of expensive cologne, the controlled rhythm of his steps.

He glanced in your direction. Just once.

Then kept walking.

No nod. No “good morning.” Not even the tiniest flicker of acknowledgment.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing your expression neutral.

Of course he wouldn’t say anything. Compliments from James Buchanan Barnes weren’t given; they had to be stolen. And apparently, even showing up before sunrise wasn’t enough to earn one.

You stared at the screen, not seeing the words.

What does it take to make you notice me, my handsome boss?

He was probably already in his office, tying perfection into a Windsor knot for the second time today, completely unaware that you’d rearranged your entire morning just to exist in the same silent hour as him.

Dense. That’s what he was. Brilliant, impossible, infuriatingly dense.

You started typing anyway. If you couldn’t get his attention with small things, you’d make him notice in ways he couldn’t ignore.

After lunch, your phone buzzed: “Barnes. Office.”

You walked in to find him already standing by the window, arms folded. The city stretched behind him, but his focus was on the folder in his hand.

“I reviewed your proposal,” he said, voice clipped. “It’s not bad. But Doyle will want projections broken down by quarter, supplier negotiations drafted, and contingency plans for every region. I also want mock-up visuals for the social push.”

You blinked. “All of that?”

“Yes.” He finally turned to face you. “And I need it ready in an hour. We’re meeting Doyle before close of business.”

It wasn’t just a revision. It was a full rebuild. For anyone else, that would be a warning shot—do the math, see the clock, panic, fail.

But instead, something in you sparked.

“One hour?” you asked, almost smiling. “Fine.”

His brows knit. “You understand what I just asked for, right?”

“Perfectly.” You grabbed the folder from his hand. “Quarterly projections, supplier drafts, regional contingencies, and mock-ups. Got it.”

You didn’t wait for him to dismiss you. You turned on your heel, already planning the order of attack.

Behind you, he said, “You’ll need help.”

You didn’t slow down. “I don’t.”

Back at your desk, you tore into the work like it was a challenge meant for you. Numbers first, then graphs, then visuals. Fingers flying, coffee untouched. You didn’t even notice people stopping to watch as you pulled data and charts at a speed that should’ve been impossible.

By the time you printed the last page, your pulse was fast but steady. You checked the clock: fifty-two minutes.

You walked back to his office, papers in hand.

He looked up, clearly not expecting you this soon. “You’re done?”

“Of course.” You set the folder on his desk. “You said one hour.”

He flipped through it, eyes scanning. Silence. No criticism. No quick corrections. Just that faint tension in his jaw again.

You leaned against the chair. “You thought I’d give up.”

He didn’t answer. Which was an answer.

Instead, he closed the folder, slid it aside, and said, “Get your coat. We’re meeting Doyle.”

In the split second before he looked away, you caught it—barely there, quick as a pulse. A smile. Controlled, almost hidden.

It vanished as fast as it appeared, but it was enough.

Enough to make the impossible hour worth it.

Enough to remind you why you were playing this game in the first place.

*****

Doyle’s office looked nothing like the high-rise firms you were used to. The walls were glass, but covered in scribbles from dry-erase markers. Shelves were cluttered with tech prototypes, sneakers, and energy drinks instead of awards. Someone zipped past on a scooter. It felt fast, restless, alive.

Doyle leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers as Bucky finished outlining the last section of the proposal. “This,” Doyle said, tapping the folder, “is exactly what I wanted. Clean numbers, but with teeth. Quick turnaround too. Not bad, Barnes.”

“Glad it works for you,” Bucky replied, measured as always. “Contracts will be ready by end of the week.”

Doyle’s attention shifted to you. “Let me guess. You’re the one who put this together?”

You kept your tone even. “I refined the strategy, yes.”

He smiled. “Impressive. Maybe I should steal you. You’d survive here better than half my staff.”

Bucky glanced your way, ready to cut in, but you got there first. “Thank you,” you said smoothly, “but I’m loyal to my company.”

It wasn’t rehearsed. It just came out that way—steady, unapologetic, almost sharp.

Doyle blinked, then laughed. “Relax, I’m joking. Barnes, your intern’s quicker on the defense than most execs I meet.”

Bucky didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a second longer than necessary before refocusing on Doyle.

“Let’s move forward,” Doyle said. “Send me the final breakdown tomorrow. I think we’re good.”

“Understood,” Bucky said.

The meeting ended on firm handshakes and a clear schedule. Doyle’s team dispersed, already buzzing about next steps.

In the elevator down, the city stretched wide beneath you. You stood side by side, the silence heavy but not empty. Bucky’s reflection in the glass wasn’t as unreadable as usual—there was something else there. Not approval exactly. Something quieter. Sharper. Like he was rethinking something about you.

You didn’t look at him directly, but you smiled to yourself.

*****

The restaurant was quiet, all low lights and dark wood. The kind of place where deals were signed over rare wine and whispered secrets. You didn’t care about any of that. What mattered was that James Buchanan Barnes was sitting across from you, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jacket on the back of his chair, looking almost relaxed.

Almost.

The waiter left after pouring the wine. Bucky picked up his glass but didn’t drink. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable.

“The project’s a success,” he said finally. “Because of you. It was… unexpected. But in the end, we got it.”

You smiled. “Thank you. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

He didn’t smile back, but his voice softened a fraction. “It was.”

Your chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the wine. You tried not to look too pleased and failed completely.

You’d dreamed of this—sitting across from him, not as some invisible intern but as someone who mattered. Someone who earned this seat.

He set his glass down. “I have a question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why did you choose to come in as an intern? You graduated cum laude. You could’ve walked into a full-time position anywhere.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Because I wanted to work here.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

You leaned forward, elbows brushing the edge of the table. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

He blinked. “I don’t.” Blunt. No apology.

You leaned back this time, crossing your arms, studying him like you were deciding how much to reveal. “You were the guest speaker at Columbia a few years ago. I was in the audience.”

His jaw shifted. “There were a lot of people there.”

“Exactly,” you said with a small smile. “A lot of people wanted to meet James Barnes. The youngest executive in this firm’s history. The one who closed his first major deal before thirty. The guy every business magazine couldn’t stop writing about.”

His eyes stayed on you, but something in them changed—just barely.

“And I wanted to be like you,” you added, voice low, deliberate. “That’s why I studied harder than anyone. That’s why I’m here.”

The table went quiet. You could feel the hum of the room, the low murmur of other conversations, but between you, there was only that stillness.

Finally, you smiled again, lighter this time. “Also, the only position open in the company was an internship.”

That almost drew a reaction from him—something like a laugh caught in his throat. Almost.

He picked up his glass again, more to give his hands something to do than anything else. Inside, though, the calm he wore like armor felt… less certain. People admired his work all the time, but this was different. It wasn’t flattery; it was fact wrapped in something sharper.

You watched him, chin resting on your hand. Then, because you never believed in subtlety, you added, “You know, Barnes, I didn’t come here just to sit behind a desk.”

His eyes flicked up. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you said, slow and shameless, “I didn’t spend years chasing excellence just to fetch coffee. I came here for the top. For the challenge. For the man everyone says is impossible to impress.”

The words landed like a spark. You saw it in the way his hand stilled on the stem of his glass.

You set your fork down and leaned back, wineglass in hand. “You know, boss,” you said casually, “I’m starting to think you don’t enjoy compliments.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly. “They’re not useful.”

“They’re motivating,” you countered.

“They’re distracting.”

“Maybe you just don’t know what to do when someone admires you.”

His gaze flicked to you, sharp for a beat before he looked away. “I know how to focus on work.”

You smiled. “Work is easy. People are harder.”

“You seem pretty good at both.”

“That almost sounds like praise,” you said lightly.

He didn’t take the bait. “You’re ambitious. I respect that.”

You rested your chin on your hand. “Ambition’s boring without something—or someone—worth chasing.”

That made him pause. He picked up his glass, buying time before answering. “Careful. You’re in a competitive field. Chase the wrong thing, and it’ll burn you.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe I like the fire.”

For a moment, the air between you shifted—tightened. He looked at you then, fully, like he was reassessing what kind of person sat across from him.

You didn’t blink. You held his stare, your voice calm but steady. “You’re really not used to people pushing back, are you, boss?”

He smirked—quick, restrained, but there. “Not from interns.”

“Then I guess I’m not like your other interns.”

Silence again. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Bucky set his glass down, his tone clipped but softer than before. “Finish your food. We have an early start tomorrow.”

You smiled to yourself. He hadn’t told you to stop. He hadn’t told you no.

And that was enough—for now.

*****

You were sorting through reports when two assistants passed by your corner.

“They say the new intern’s the CEO’s niece,” one whispered.

“Seriously? That explains why she got placed in Barnes’ department,” the other replied. “She asked if she could work directly under him.”

Your pen paused mid-note.

Placed in his department. Wants to work close to him.

You didn’t look up. Didn’t let your face show anything. But inside, a sharp heat twisted. Your own desk was practically in exile, the farthest corner of the floor. It had taken weeks of flawless work just to get Bucky to even know your name.

And now some girl could just walk in and sit near his office because of her last name?

By the afternoon, you’d seen her—Emily. Perfect hair, perfect confidence, smiling at everyone like she already belonged. She dropped “my uncle” into casual conversation twice in the first hour. People were buzzing, curious.

You didn’t approach her. You waited.

The next few days were… entertaining. You had work piled high—quarterly data, supplier breakdowns, contingency projections—and you didn’t flinch. You thrived on this pace. Emily, on the other hand, wasn’t built for it. By day three, she looked like she hadn’t slept. Papers stacked on her desk like barricades, calls going unanswered, her smile long gone.

You noticed her watching you more than once. Watching how fast you moved through your tasks, how you didn’t just finish but perfected them. How you didn’t complain.

Finally, late in the day, she walked over to your desk. Her tone was polite, but there was something desperate under it.

“You’re… really good at this,” she said.

“Thanks,” you replied without looking up.

“I mean it. I’ve been drowning for days and you…” she gestured at your cleared workspace, “…you make it look easy.”

“Practice,” you said, typing another line. “And discipline.”

She hesitated, then leaned in closer. Lowered her voice like she was sharing a secret.

“Maybe you could help me out,” she said. “Take some of my tasks. Just for now. I can make it worth your while.”

You stopped typing and finally looked at her. “Worth my while?”

She smiled—like it was obvious. “I can guarantee you a permanent job here. My uncle runs this company. If I tell him you’re the reason I’m doing so well…” She let the sentence hang, expecting you to bite.

Instead, you smiled back—slow, sharp, nothing friendly about it.

“No thanks.”

Her expression faltered. “Do you even understand what you’re turning down?”

“I understand perfectly,” you said, voice calm and precise. “And I don’t need it.”

You turned back to your laptop, dismissing her without a second glance. She stood there, flustered, then walked away.

That evening, while picking up prints, you let the right words slip to the right ears:

By morning, the whispers spread.

“She asked me to do her work.”

“She said her uncle would get me hired if I helped her cheat.”

“Imagine thinking that works here.”

Emily felt it. The way people avoided sitting near her. The sudden cold silence in conversations. The smiles that weren’t real anymore.

“She’s only here because of her uncle.”

“She actually tried to pass off her work.”

“Typical nepotism.”

You stayed professional, polite, untouchable.

By the end of the week, HR sent an email: Emily—internship terminated by mutual agreement.

When someone mentioned it to Bucky, he didn’t even look up from his contract. “There was another intern?”

At your desk, you didn’t pause your typing. But inside, your thoughts curled like smoke: Good. He’s mine.

Join the taglist? Anyone welcome to join 💖💖💖

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle.

Check it out!

Link for Arrogant Ex-Husband

Amazon.com

Link for Dad I Can't Let You Go

Amazon.com: Dad, I Can't Let You Go eBook : Bing, Alina C.: Kindle Store

[crdgn]

amazing prose, amazing premise. this is the gothic story my heart’s been craving!! can’t wait for chapter 4

Beneath the Bones of the Land - Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky x Reader (Farmer Au)

Series Summary: Inheriting the old farmhouse of your grandmother, you move to a town that watches you from the fields and makes the pines lean too close, and it isn’t long before you begin to fear you’ll lose your mind the way she did.

Word Count: 27.5k (more to come)

Warnings: Slow-burn; dark folklore; occult themes; blood drinking and blood loss (graphic descriptions); violence (graphic, physical harm, mentions of family murder, killings); intergenerational trauma; gentle possessiveness; hurt/comfort; cults; ritualistic abuse; redemption themes; death of minor characters; supernatural horror elements (vampires, blood rituals); town lore; human sacrifice; non-consensual mind influence/compulsion; descriptions of grief and past trauma (reader and Bucky); mentions of manipulation and implied non-consensual blood rituals; implied and referenced death; feelings of isolation, depression; shape shifting; stalking; vampirism; distorted religious or spiritual elements; emotional manipulation under supernatural influence; gore; blood and injury descriptions; abduction; imprisonment and restraint; mentions of war; implied generational abuse of power; psychological horror, dread, fear, and body horror elements; mildly suggestive intimacy in blood-sharing context

Author’s Note: Here we are, people!! I was honestly so nervous to post this first part because this whole thing is unlike anything I’ve written before. I’ve been wanting to try a new direction, a new texture of storytelling, something a little darker, a little stranger, a little unhinged. This piece is still inspired by the prompts vampire and farmer au I received from @artficlly during her lovely spin the trope event so I just wanted to send out some much needed love to her, because I regained some of my energy while writing and this truly would not exist otherwise!! Honestly, there is so much of my other work that has received more attention, and I definitely should be working on other things right now, but this idea simply would not let me go. I just needed to give it a longer span. And a few of you left me such sweet, encouraging comments that truly mean the world, so thank you, you made me brave enough to lean in and share this as dramatic as it sounds lmao. Also, I have never had this many warnings on a fic before, so that should say something. Please read them properly before diving in. And if something here might trigger you, please proceed with caution. You come first, always!! Enough with my rambles now, hope you enjoy!! ♡

Masterlist

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘

♱ Chapter one

♱ Chapter two

♱ Chapter three

♱ Chapter four

“It is a fearful thing to love what death can touch.”

- Yehuda HaLevi

[crdgn]

yes, what a cheeky, adorable maaaaaaaaaaan

LET ME AT HIM 😫😫😫😫😮‍💨

Celebration ficlet request #2

Bucky Barnes

Tattoo Artist AU

Opposites Attract

🥰

Also I have one more if you don’t mind. If you’re too busy, I understand

Inked

Susie! Tattoo Artist!Bucky is so cute! I took a little twist with this one!

Tattoo Artist!Bucky x blood drive nurse Reader

Read on AO3

Warnings: talk off needles

Word Count: 571

1000 Followers Ficlet Challenge Masterlist

Masterlist

He walked into the community blood drive and immediately stuck out. Six foot, tattoos up his arms and dark glasses hiding his eyes.

And - as was your job - you noticed it the second he got close.

The subtle twitch in his jaw, the hesitation in his step when he saw the row of chairs. His eyes scanning the rows of needles, bags, tubes.

He was nervous.

“Hi,” you said, slipping on a fresh pair of gloves and glancing at your call sheet. “Bucky, right?”

He glanced at your name badge. “Yeah. You’re the one doing the stabbing?”

You grinned. “I’m very gentle, I promise.”

He didn’t look convinced. But he took off his sunglasses and dropped into the chair with an overly casual shrug.

You’d barely tied the tourniquet when he swallowed hard and muttered, “This is so fucking stupid.”

You arched a brow. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” he grimaced, then relented a little. “No. Not this whole, thing. It’s that -” he nodded at the needle you were unwrapping.

“Are you seriously telling me that the beefy tattoo guy doesn’t like needles?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, surprised. “Beefy tattoo guy? I like you.”

“Don’t pass out and I’ll consider liking you back.”

His arm was warm under your hand. Taut muscles covered in ink that crept up past his elbow. A wolf on his forearm, words in delicate script woven throughout.

“You’ve had more needles on your skin than we keep in stock,” you murmured. “You’re telling me this is the one that gets you?”

“It’s different when I’m doing it,” he muttered gruffly.

You paused with the alcohol swab and tilted your head. “You really are scared.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His jaw flexed. “...Just don’t tell anyone.”

You smirked. “My lips are sealed.”

You guided the needle in quickly and smoothly, and to his credit, he didn’t move. But his other hand curled tight around the armrest. He looked off to the side, taking carefully counted breaths.

You moved around him, checking the position of his arm and the feed into the bag. “You ok? You look a little pale -”

“Peachy,” he muttered. “Don’t worry, I won’t faint on you.”

“That’s unfortunate, I’m stronger than I look.”

He smirked. “So this is what karma feels like, huh?”

You sniggered. “Karma for what?”

“I dunno. Ribbing people when they come into the shop scared outta their mind?”

And then it clicked. Winter Ink.

Of course it was him.

You turned back to him and smiled softly.

“Guess it’s lucky I don’t believe in karma.”

He glanced up at you. “No?”

“No,” you said, carefully. “I think some people just need the right person holding the needle.”

And the way he looked at you just then made your stomach flutter.

He reached up with his free hand and took the pen from the top pocket of your scrubs, “sit,” he instructed.

You sat. He took your hand and turned it in his, fingertips lightly grazing the sensitive inside of your wrist, then with the pen he drew a small, intricate design.

“You gonna sit that still when I tattoo this on you?”

“Depends how gentle you are with the needle,” you breathed.

He smirked without looking up.

“Darlin’, I’m gentle when I want to be. But something tells me you’ll beg for a little sting.”

You were definitely keeping his number from the intake form.

tagging: @knowledgeableknitter , @ficmeiguess , @ozwriterchick , @thenameswinter99 , @themareverine , @boomyoulookingforthis , @florie1 , @crdgn , @winchestert101 , @stevetonycupcakes , @lolobeey , @bts43a , @gumballofshame , @tessastarfire , @buckytakethewheel , @multifandomneeerd , @furiousprincesskingdom , @s-sh-ne , @buckyslefttooth , @imslimshadey , @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

[crdgn]

aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

i always wondered if there were, like, words to snap him out of it. now it's starting to sink in that maybe not? god, that is such a painful thought. all those memories they made, just gone... or, at least, very much inaccessible to him for who knows how long. god, how angsty 😭 and sad. i feel so bad for them

really rooting for them to make it back to the avengers!! 🫂

Trustfall, Chapter 3

Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. Explicit for sexual contact in later chapters, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. There is a somewhat dub!conny kiss in this chapter. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.

Chapter Summary:

The Soldier takes you to a Safehouse... but are you really safe there?

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

The safehouse is tucked in the mountains; the sweet-looking rustic cottage would be a picturesque and quaint image in the fast-approaching twilight, if you weren’t exhausted and hungry and scared. The wound in your side aches, but when you wince, the Soldier slows down until you’re nearly at a crawl over the bumpy road.

It’s been at least twenty minutes since you left the highway; the gravel grinds as he pulls up alongside the house. It’s pitch black inside; the sky is that iridescent blue which appears right before dark. The Soldier turns off the engine and then turns to hand you a pistol.

“Stay here,” he grunts. “Shoot anything that isn’t me.”

He leaves the van.

You swallow and close your eyes, taking deep breaths to keep from freaking out. By the time you open them again, he’s gone. Probably to do a perimeter check, or turn on the lights, or something equally spy-tastic.

It’s forever before he returns. Or maybe fifteen minutes.

“It’s safe,” he says, and takes you inside.

To your surprise, the house is just as adorable inside as it was outside. Dusty and clearly forgotten for quite a while, but not terrible. There’s a fireplace, and a braided rug, and a soft and squishy couch. There’s a little table and a kitchenette, and some soft lights that glow yellow and make everything look cozy and sweet. There’s an ancient fridge humming as if the Soldier just set it to cool, and there’s a door that leads to a bedroom with a big bed and a set of sheets and blankets and pillows waiting to be arranged.

It's sweet, comfortable, cozy. Or would be, if it weren’t for the rather ornate HYDRA symbol mounted on the far wall.

Anywhere else, anytime else, Bucky would take you to the bed, first. He’d joke about a shower, be helpful in making the bed, then determined to mess the bed up again before making a second shower absolutely necessary. You’d laugh and giggle and it’d be a cherished memory by evening.

The Soldier leads you to the fire instead, where he sits you down on the couch and reaches for the hem of your sweatshirt.

“Wh-wh-what?”

“Your injury requires attention.”

You don’t realize his hands are moving on you until you feel his fingers on the edge of your bandage. You suck in a breath, but he doesn’t pause, frowning.

“Does it hurt?”

“N-n-no.”

There’s a bit of blood on the gauze covering your wound, and he pulls it away with gentle and careful fingers. The wound itself looks like it stopped seeping long before. It still looks awful, but there’s no pus, no discharge, and the skin isn’t discolored or bloated, so you think it’s probably not infected.

His fingers rest soft on your skin, so gentle and delicate that you can barely feel the touch.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, a little shaky. “Let me see your shoulder.”

He frowns, but pulls his hand away and turns his back to you.

The bullet wound is already scabbed over, though you can see the skin pucker around the scab. It’s warm to the touch, but again: no discharge, no pus.

“Already healing,” you say softly. “Wish I had what you’ve got. Does it even hurt?”

“No.” He sounds rough.

“Lucky.”

“No.”

He doesn’t move, though; you run your fingers lightly over the skin around the injury, and he gives one deep shudder, before standing swiftly and starts to assemble the logs for a fire.

“You should sleep,” he says, but you’re already lying down on the couch, your eyes already sliding closed.

You’re asleep before he lights the logs.

*

You wake when he moves you from the couch to the bed. The rustle of fabric, the crack of the logs in the fireplace. The scent of lavender and dust. A heavy blanket, or several of them, settled over you, and you doze again.

It’s some time later when the mattress dips.

He’s joining you.

He’s warm, blissfully so; you’re shivering hard, but every inch of your skin pressed to his slowly settles against him, and his arms tighten around you.

You breathe in his scent. Bucky’s scent, sandalwood and musk and sweat, and you close your eyes because the urge to tilt your head up and kiss him, half naked in front of a roaring fire in a secluded cabin in the woods…

But it’s not Bucky holding you. Not exactly. His heart pounds in his chest under your ear, you nuzzle your cold nose into his skin, and gradually, you grow warmer. The shivers slow and your breathing eases.

“Soldier?”

He hums in response; a short, quick little noise that is muffled by the blankets and his mouth pressed to your hair.

“You… you stitched me up. Back at the motel.”

“Yes.”

You nod against his chest, your breath shaky. “Thank you.”

He swallows. His skin is so warm, and his hands are so gentle on your back as he pulls you into him.

His breath whispers across your hair. “Sleep.”

*

You wake, nearly naked, relaxed and safe in his arms, blankets thick and heavy over you. The air is chilly, fresh-smelling of woodsmoke and dust and pine.

The world is silent, except for breath. Your head is pillowed on the soft skin of Bucky’s arm, the muscle relaxed under your cheek. Even breaths, his chest rising and falling steadily, and a little bit lower, you can feel his erection pressing against his underwear, and into your hip.

It’s morning; there’s birds singing somewhere; sunlight on the other side of your still-closed eyelids. He’s awake, you think; he’ll kiss you in a moment, move his hands in possessive directions, pull you into him and onto him and slide himself into you, and just the thought of it makes you want to stretch and wrap yourself tighter around him.

You hum softly, content, rolling away a little, before his arms tighten possessively around you, drawing you back to his chest, and you open your eyes, ready to tease at what will surely be a playful possessive growl in his throat.

Instead, you wake and see cold blue eyes staring at you, dark circles under them, as if he’s been awake all night, watching you sleep, keeping you close, keeping you safe.

It’s the Soldier, and the soft image of morning is shattered. Everything that’s happened in the last day comes crashing back.

The Soldier’s mouth is taut, frown permanently set in the stone of his jaw. His arms are solid around you, unyielding and immovable, but you don’t feel trapped. They’re soft, around your shoulders and your waist; his fingers rest on the soft cotton of your panties, on the dip of your spine just below the strap of your bra. They don’t ask for more than your body already offers.

He’s still in his underwear, too, his cock pressing against the cotton. Morning thick, soft and heavy. In another world, you’d kiss him awake and wanting.

“We need to go back today,” you whisper, and he frowns.

“No.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t answer; he lifts his left hand from your hip to brush the hair back from your face. “I know you.”

Your heart hammers in your chest. “Yes.”

“You were my handler before.”

“No. Never.”

His hand draws down the side of your face, your jaw, your neck, feather-light and warmed from your skin. “I want to kiss you.”

His eyes are still cold, but there’s something else there, something naked and desperate, something you almost recognize.

Or maybe you just want to recognize it. Because the Winter Soldier was emotionless, an empty vessel waiting to be filled with orders.

If he wants…

“You… you want to kiss me?”

“Yes,” he whispers, naked and raw and so familiar, so much like the man you remember that you lean up and press your lips to his.

And oh, how warm his lips are, how they move against yours in the most perfect ways. How his hand threads through your hair, cradling your head and your neck as he rolls you to your back, covers you with his warm body. He kisses like a hungry man, like he’s been aching for this touch all night, waiting for you to wake up.

Like everything that has happened since you both left the Tower has been a dream, and this is reality. This. You and him, him and you.

He rests in between your legs, you throw your head back as he draws a wet line down your neck with his tongue.

“Bucky,” you whisper, and he goes still. His breath warm on the wet skin he’s left behind, his fingers suddenly tight, painful.

You close your eyes tight and press your lips together, the ache in your heart compounding on itself.

“You… you don’t remember,” you choke out.

He lifts his head to look at you, and your heart breaks further.

He’s confused, lost, cold. You lift your hand and cup his cheek, only to have him turn and kiss your wrist, your arm, right down to your elbow.

You want to let him.

But…

“Stop,” you whisper.

He does, eyes focused on you, a frown on his lips.

You try to smile at him. “Not until you remember.”

The frown deepens. “Remember what?”

“Not what. Who.”

He stares at you for a long moment, before he closes his mouth in a thin line, gives you a sharp nod.

And then, with infinite care, he slides over you, out from under the blankets, careful to keep you covered and warm.

His fingers are warm when they brush against your shoulder. He doesn’t try for any other touch.

You watch as he dresses again, frowning when he looks at the soft jeans, the even softer shirts, the clothes you see Bucky wear so often, they’re like a second skin. But to the Soldier, they’re clearly unfamiliar, undoubtedly tactically unsound, unsafe. He slides the weapons he’s acquired into pockets and waistbands, double-checks the locks on the lone window, and then shuts the curtains with a yank.

“Stay here,” he tells you, gruff, and you hear his footsteps loud on the wooden floor, and then the slam of the front door as he leaves the cabin.

You count to ten, heart pounding in your chest, and then you rise from your perch, your side aching, but your resolve solid. Every Avenger safehouse is equipped with certain things, and you can’t imagine HYDRA would be any different.

Who knows how long it will take to find what you need; who knows how long the Soldier will be, doing his rounds. There is not a moment to lose.

The outer room is bright with sunlight pouring in from the curtainless windows; dust motes float in the weak beams, offering little warmth.

You find the battery in the fourth drawer of the little kitchenette, the handset in the sixth. You put them together with shaking hands, mumbling please please please, until the block phone powers up with a single bar for signal, and a single bar for power.

Not enough for a call. But enough for a text.

Send to *JARVIS

help

The response is immediate.

Please enter authorization code.

You want to curse or throw the phone or scream. Instead, you type your employee code with shaking fingers, followed by:

We’re safe, we’re okay. I don’t know where we are it’s a cabin somewhere in the mountains I think it’s a hydra safehouse. We were in a motel somewhere, we were attacked by hydra. Soldier kept me safe. He thinks I’m his handler. I’m trying to get him to bring me back but he doesn’t want to listen. I don’t know what to do.

Incorrect authorization code. Please enter authorization code.

Just tell Tony! Or Sam or Pepper or Steve. Is Steve alive? Please say Steve is alive, Jarvis, please.

Incorrect authorization code. Please enter…

The phone is yanked out of your fingers before you can even finish reading the response, crushed in metal fingers so quickly that sparks land on your exposed skin. The Winter Soldier drops the wreckage on the floor and grabs you by the wrist, anger etched onto his brow.

“Where did you get this?” he hisses. “They will be tracking!”

“I’m trying to get help,” you snap at him, pulling at your wrist, but his fingers are immobile, solid, tight. You can feel the bruise rising already as he refuses to give way.

“They aren’t looking to help,” he snaps at you. “They’re going to want us dead.”

“No, the Avengers are our friends, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” you insist. “We have to go back, they can keep us safe…”

“Not the Avengers,” he snaps, dragging you into the bedroom and shoving you to sit on the bed. “They’ll kill us if they find us, they’ll know that phone, they’ll track us here, they aren’t safe.”

You barely catch the clothes he throws at you. “I’m telling you, Bucky, the Avengers—”

“Get dressed. We have to go before they get here.”

You start to pull on the clothes, but it’s hard going, with how cold your fingers are, with the pain in your side.

With the way the Soldier is moving, jerky and nervous.

You swallow, thickly. “Who’s coming, Soldier?”

“Hydra,” he snaps. “They’re tracking, they’ll be—”

It’s strange, watching anger shift to confusion. “But…”

He swallows, his mouth working. “I am…”

You stare at him, waiting.

He rubs at his face.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “If you’re Hydra, why would we be running, huh? Think it through. Think.”

“I am… I’m Hy—” He chokes on the word, unable to continue; the confusion and loss in his eyes is the worst thing you’ve ever seen.

“Come on,” you urge him. “You aren’t Hydra anymore, Bucky.”

WHOP-WHOP-WHOP.

You barely have time to register the sound of the helicopter rotors, before the Soldier grabs you by the shoulders and throws you both under the desk as the cabin explodes into flames.

to be continued...

[crdgn]

i cried over a john walker tiktok. i'm afraid it's too late for me. 😔

[crdgn]

woooow

this is so tense!! i love how he’s on the defense yet still gentle with her 😭 hoping she orders him to get back to the avengers and that it isn’t the one order he decides to ignore hahaha

gosh, i really love this premise; i’ve said it before. cant wait to see what else awaits these two 🤭

Trustfall, Chapter 2

Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. Explicit for sexual contact in later chapters, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.

Summary:

Hydra attacks the Tower, fully intending to regain control of their Asset. But Bucky Barnes has a plan. Bucky Barnes has you.

A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post by @calzone-d, but then it took a life of its own. The working title for this was “Hostage to the Winter Soldier!” (complete with exclamation point, because it’s funnier that way, and if you don’t imagine that title in one of those 1950s B-movie fonts, you’re doing it wrong), but by the time I finished writing, I had Pink’s song stuck in my head, and it’s probably a better fit.

Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.

Prologue ~ Chapters 1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6 ~ 7 ~ 8 ~ 9 ~ Epilogue

MCU Masterlist

Everything is pain, from the wound in your side to the sound of your heart beating in your ears, to the screams and the crash of things falling. Your throat aches, you can’t catch a solid breath, and each cough is more painful than the last.

The Soldier holds you close, careful, securely against him. He runs, stops, changes direction, runs again. Every jolt makes you catch your breath and cry out, and every time you do, he muffles your mouth against his shoulder.

You know when you’ve stepped outside, though you’re not sure how or why, only that the weight of the air around you changes, the sound of the sirens in the distance growing louder.

“Where?” you croak, but the chill in the air makes speech even more difficult.

“Away,” says the Soldier, curt and disinterested in elaboration. He looks around, then shifts you as he grabs a jacket someone’s left behind, using it to wrap around you, tie you to him, undoubtedly for better security.

“Buck!” shouts someone—you squint and turn your head, trying to find the source.

The Soldier doesn’t respond.

“Bucky, what’s wrong, is she—?”

It happens fast. One moment, the Soldier is tying you to him; the next, your feet are on the ground, the length of your body pressed to his, which is when you realize you’re on the outside dining patio, up against the wall that overlooks 45th Street.

And standing in the middle of the patio is Steve Rogers, eyes confused. The bulk of the Tower rises behind him, broken glass and smoke pouring from windows.

Steve reaches to you both, but the Soldier aims his gun directly at Steve’s head.

Steve freezes, hands raised. “Buck. It’s me. You know me.”

The Soldier doesn’t answer, except to pull you a little closer to him.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” you try to say, but between the state of your throat and the cough and the wind and the sirens, you can’t even hear yourself.

“Okay,” says Steve—but it’s not Steve anymore, it’s Cap. You’re not sure how you recognize the shift, but he’s calm, soothing, as if he’s trying to convince you both that he’s in control. And then he looks at you. “Do you remember what happened? Did they say something to him?”

You nod, but you’re in too much pain to say anything else. Apparently, it’s all Cap needed anyway; he leans his head to the side, pressing his shoulder against his ear, and speaks low. “Sam, Tony, we’ve got a problem here. I need backup.”

“Right behind you,” says a metallic-sounding voice, and when you look behind you, it’s both Iron Man and Falcon in the air , guns and repulsors aimed straight at the Soldier.

“No,” you try to say, struggling to work your way in between them.

It doesn’t work.

Mostly because he pulls you in, taking one step onto the wall and then leaping from it, up and over Cap’s head to the balcony two levels above.

He makes it.

You almost don’t, your feet scrabbling on the brick wall, but somehow he falls forward in such a way as to pull you with him, and then he’s at a fast sprint for the doors, only to skid to a stop when Falcon lands in between you and the Soldier’s intended escape.

“Okay, Barnes, I know you’re a bit confused right now,” Falcon begins, hands out in a placating manner.

“Not confused,” growls the Soldier. “And not Barnes.”

“Okay,” says Falcon. “Just put her down, man, she’s hurt, and we can help.”

The Soldier’s breath is fast and shallow. “Sam Wilson, codename Falcon, US Airforce 2000 through 2010. Member of the Avengers since 2014.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” agrees Falcon, calm and tight. “So you know you can trust me, right?”

“Wrong,” snaps the Soldier.

“Bucky,” repeats Cap from behind you, and the Soldier turns to glare at him, his grip snug around your waist. “Please. Put her down. She needs a doctor.”

The Soldier slowly lets you slide down until he’s put you down on the ground. He’s surprisingly gentle, but you can’t take your eyes off of him, because he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Cap.

There’s a tension in his jaw, his neck, even his fingers. Every inch of him is poised and ready for attack, and if you had a moment where you thought it might turn out okay—that he’d step away and let Steve take the lead… it’s gone the moment his eyes narrow.

He twists, pulls something from a pocket you didn’t even realize he had. Before you see the knife flash, it’s flying, straight behind you and driving hard through Falcon’s wing, pinning him to the door.

“Uh, Cap?” says Falcon.

“Buck, we don’t want to hurt you,” says Cap from the far side of the roof, his fingers spread wide, his hands out to show he’s unarmed. You can’t quite see his expression from where you’re crouched, but his voice has that calm tension in it, the sort of voice he uses on the guys who are really at risk of going ballistic and causing world-ending explosions. “But she needs a doctor.”

“You won’t touch her.”

“Bucky—” starts Cap.

“I’m. Not. Bucky,” growls the Soldier.

Iron Man grumbles something—knowing Tony, you suspect it’s along the lines of We don’t have time for this—and steps forward, gauntlets raised and glowing blue.

That’s all it takes for the Soldier to lose whatever tenuous grasp he has on civility. The firefight is fast and furious and you flatten yourself against the edge of the rooftop, covering your face until you hear Sam scream Steve’s name.

You look up in time to see Cap falling, not to the lower balcony, but straight down, seven flights to the pavement below.

The Soldier picks you up and moves, leaping from the top of the building straight across the alley to the next, landing with such a jolt that your teeth knock together painfully.

“No,” you moan, because seriously, it hurts, your teeth and your jaw and your head, and the wound on your side.

It’s still not as bad as the stricken look on Sam’s face as Steve fell. As knowing that the Soldier probably pushed him over, that even if Tony manages to catch Steve in time, they’ll never catch the pair of you, because the Soldier’s still running, still holding tight to you.

Bucky, you trusted.

But the Winter Soldier?

“Go back, please go back,” you whimper, clinging to him, because you’ll fall otherwise.

“Shhh,” says the Soldier, surprisingly gentle.

If he says anything else, you don’t hear it; the next jolt, and you faint.

*

It’s dark when you wake up. Dark and quiet, but you lie on a soft bed, covered in blankets, and your jaw and your head don’t hurt anymore, though your mouth is impossibly dry.

It’s clear, just from the bed and the darkness, that some time has passed; you wish you knew how much. Your throat still hurts, but it’s easier to breathe now, without smoke in your lungs.

The wound on your side aches, sharp when you breathe, but it’s not the burning pain that you’d felt earlier. You take a deep breath, and feel the tug of medical tape on your bare skin, the pinpricks that feel like stitches.

You turn your head, squinting in the dark, and see him. Sitting in a chair between the bed and the window, where the curtains are drawn over most of the glass. There’s only the barest crack, enough for him to see out, and that’s what the Soldier is doing; he’s looking out, keeping watch.

You watch for a moment, trying to focus on him. Maybe you make a sound, turning your head on the pillow; maybe the pattern of your breathing changes enough to alert him. He glances at you quickly.

“Water,” you choke out.

He rises, a slow, sinuous thing, graceful and smooth as he picks up the bottle next to the bed and offers it to you. There’s even a straw for you to use, as if he knew it would make it easier to drink.

Three sips, and you’re exhausted, your head falling back on the pillow, your eyes closing.

“Sleep,” he says, a terse grunt.

You sleep.

*

There’s sunlight thin around the curtains when you wake, and the Soldier is nowhere to be seen.

You sit up, blearily, your head swimming. The stitches on your stomach ache and pull; your arms shake with the effort.

It’s a motel room; ramshackle, brown and orange, threadbare and probably unchanged since the 1970s.

There’s noise from the bathroom in the back; there’s a phone on the desk across from the bed.

You take a breath, bracing yourself for the pain you know is coming. You swing your legs out and try to stand. It’s not easy; you have to lean on the bed because you’re exhausted and weak, and then it’s a lunge to actually reach the desk where the phone sits.

You take a breath and catch your reflection in the mirror.

You look terrible. Your hair’s a mess, there’s dark circles under your eyes—though that might be the lack of light. You’re not dressed, either, apart from your bra and underwear; maybe your clothes were too blood-stained to leave on you. Probably.

The Soldier would have stripped them off. It sends a shiver down your spine, even as warmth pools unexpectedly between your legs, thinking about it.

“Gorgeous,” Bucky whispered in your ear, sliding the clothes from your body…

No. It wouldn’t have been like that. The Soldier isn’t Bucky. He wouldn’t have looked at your skin, your curves; he would have only had eyes on the wound he tended. Perfunctory, clinical, cold.

You still can’t stop thinking about it. What he might have seen when he tore them from you. If his gaze had lingered at all, if he’d wanted to touch…

You let out a breath and reach for the phone, lifting the receiver to your ear.

The dial tone rings out, loud and clear, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

Fingers shaking, you press the buttons Bucky had you memorize months ago.

#

5

2

7…

Crack.

You suck in a breath and almost fall as the Soldier crushes the phone’s base in his left hand, yanking the cord out of the wall for good measure. Your breath comes fast and sharp and shallow, but his fingers are gentle when they take the receiver from your grip.

“No,” he says shortly, firmly.

“I just want to tell them I’m okay,” you protest.

He wraps his arm around your waist and leads you back to the bed. “No.”

“They won’t hurt me. Or you.”

“No,” he repeats.

There’s no argument in it, either. No heat, no fury. Just cool and staid and certain. No.

You want to cry.

He’s gentle as he puts you back in the bed, and he pushes you toward the center, closer to where the bed is shoved up against the wall.

He crawls in after you, the warmth of his body solid against your back, his left arm solid over your chest, holding you in, holding you close.

“Bucky—”

He grunts, displeased.

“Soldier?” you try, hesitating over the codename.

He’s quiet.

“Sleep,” he says gruffly, his arm tightening around your chest, his breath tickling your hair.

He’s warm; he smells so familiar, his body against your back, the weight of him, the feel of his lips so close to your head. You could close your eyes, ignore the pain in your side, and pretend it’s Bucky who holds you, his skin pressed to yours, his hand warm on your skin.

You have no idea where you are, how far he’s taken you, how long it’s been. If Steve is alive, if they’re looking for you, what will happen when they find you.

He’s not Bucky. He’s the Winter Soldier. You should be scared out of your mind.

Instead, you feel safe and comforted, and you close your eyes to sleep again.

*

You wake with a start, the Soldier’s right hand over your mouth, his eyes hard and focused.

One metal finger over his lips. An unspoken order to be silent.

You stare at him, eyes wide and frightened, but you don’t make a sound.

And then you hear it; movement, from outside the door. The soft swick of a rappelling line. A light passing bright before it disappears.

The Soldier mouths to you, Move.

You nod, your heart pounding.

You don’t know where he found the clothes, but he helps you put them on; a sweatshirt, loose pants, canvas shoes without socks. You’re still exhausted, your side still aches from the stitches, and you hope you don’t have to run because you won’t stand a chance.

You don’t get a chance.

The Soldier waits by the door, you tucked between him and the wall, and the moment it opens, he presses your face into his chest.

The world erupts into hellfire. You feel the flame of it, hear the whoosh, the screams, the pops of their guns going off as the heat overwhelms the bullets.

You hear the Soldier grunt, shiver against you.

And then it settles into sparks and pops, and he pushes away from you for a moment, and you see the room in flames and ash.

He’d rigged the door to explode, the moment it opened. Four bodies on the ground, dressed in tactical gear and clearly dead.

You cover your mouth, almost sick, even when you see the familiar HYDRA symbol on one of their sleeves.

There’s a shout, and the Soldier rips the machine gun from the fingers of the agent who steps into the room, killing him without hesitation, and then killing three more on the balcony.

There’s blood on the back of his shoulder, oozing from a bullet wound, and you remember him grunting before.

The world goes quiet again.

“Move,” says the Soldier, taking you by the hand.

“You’re hurt—”

“Move.”

You follow him, out of the room and down the steps. You don’t recognize anything, but you think you’re in the mountains somewhere; the hills rise green around you, and there’s a particular smell to being in the middle of nowhere that’s fresh and clean, even with the low-level fire you’re leaving behind.

There’s a van in the parking lot; the Soldier yanks at the door and opens it for you; you crawl inside, while he goes around to the driver’s side.

You do your seatbelt with shaking fingers while he hot-wires the van, and then you’re gone, speeding away without a backward glance.

*

The Soldier has been driving for half an hour when you finally swallow your fear and turn to him.

“Are they following us?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes darting between the road and the mirrors, assessing.

“No.”

“Good.” You take a breath. “Pull over. You’re hurt.”

“No.”

You hate this, but…

“That’s an order, Soldier.”

He scowls, but he does what you ask, pulling to the side of the road, angling the van so that he can pull straight back out as quickly as possible.

“Turn around,” you say, trying to stay as calm and collected as you can. “Back to me, please.”

There’s blood on the back of the seat, in addition to what soaks the back of the shirts he’s wearing. The wound looks awful, right up on the high, meaty part of his shoulder. Had it hit his other side, it would have deflected off the metal, but maybe HYDRA knows where to disable him best.

It’s not through-and-through, either—but over the last half hour, the healing powers have been doing their damnedest to push the bullet out, and you see it now, shining dully under the blood.

You swallow, hard. “I need something to dig this out, so it can heal the rest of the way.”

“Glove box,” grunts the Soldier.

There’s not much in there; a few stray pens, some cleansing wipes, which are probably the closest you’ll get to sanitizing anything you actually use.

Then you spy it out of the corner of your eye; a multi-tool, under the owner’s manual. When you open it, one of the tools is a set of pliers.

It’s better than nothing.

You wipe it down with one of the wipes, then clean around the Soldier’s wound as best as you can. You’d remove the shirts entirely, except you doubt there’s anything else, and the last thing you need is him getting hypothermia and going into shock.

He might anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper when he winces as you clean the area.

“Why?” he grunts.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“Do it.”

You swallow, and take a breath, and do it.

He doesn’t scream. But you hear it anyway. The bullet is slippery, and your hands shake too much to get a good hold at first, but then it pops right out and falls to the floor of the van, rolling away.

It’s a long, long moment before he turns, rolling his shoulders slowly, then reaches for the pliers that are so tight in your hand, he has to move each finger one by one until you’ve let go. They drop to the floor with a clatter.

“Done?” he says.

You nod.

“Good.” He touches your cheek, cradling it, rubbing his thumb on the tears that leak from your eyes. The skin between his eyes crinkles, like he’s never seen anyone crying before.

And then he turns back to the wheel, and continues to drive.

It’s a few minutes before you are calm enough to speak.

“Where are we going?”

“Safehouse.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and close your eyes to sleep.

to be continued...

[crdgn]

oh i loved this so much 😭😭😭😭 the yearning, the wondering, until they finally got the opportunity 😮‍💨 another fave added to the list!!

congrats on 1k! could i please request bucky with a roommate au and friends with benefits to lovers

Mutual Agreement

Hey Anon! Thank you so much for this request, I hope you don't mind that I linked it to Alternate Shifts as a part 1 😊

Roommate AU Bucky Barnes x f!Reader FWB to lovers

Warnings: brief p in v, some suggestive post-it notes, vaguely smutty.

Word Count: 791 (yeah, yeah, I know.)

1000 Followers Ficlet Challenge Masterlist

Masterlist

His date clocked you immediately.

“Oh! You didn’t say your roommate was -” she started.

Bucky turned, his expression shifting as soon as he saw you. “Hey. You’re… home early.”

“Yeah.” You dumped your bag a little too hard. “Half day.”

The silence seeped into every corner of the room.

His date gave a tight smile. “I should… probably go?”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky said - but his eyes hadn’t left yours.

She looked between you two, sighed, and grabbed her coat. “It’s cool. Call me if… well. Maybe don't, actually.”

She was out the door before either of you noticed.

He didn’t speak. The only sound was the hum of the fridge.

You finally found your voice, but it felt too casual. “So. Do we have rules about sharing the bed with… guests?”

His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have brought her in if I knew you’d be home.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He leaned on the counter, hands clenched. “It’s our bed. Technically.”

“Sure. And I'm not planning on a life of celibacy, but I would not -”

“I didn’t sleep with her,” he said quietly.

You paused. “Oh.”

He stepped closer. “Not that I haven’t thought about how that conversation would go. With you, I mean.”

You swallowed. “Oh.”

He was in front of you now. Inches away.

“You ever think about it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You and me? Since we’re… already sharing everything else?”

You looked up sharply.

“I… no,” you breathed. “Yes. I don't - how is it I feel like I barely know you, but at the same time -”

“I know you better than I know myself,” he finished, his eyes dropping to your lips.

“Yeah” You whispered.

And then it just happened.

No hesitation. No question. Like you'd already shared everything except a kiss.

You gasped into it, your back hitting the counter, his hands already under your shirt. You weren’t sure who pushed who - only that you were both tugging, grabbing, chasing the contact like it had been a long time coming.

“Bucky -” you broke off as he lifted you up. His mouth on your neck, your jaw, the shell of your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, hoarse. “Tell me -”

You shook your head and pulled him back in.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail to the bed.

Your bed. His bed. Yours.

The shared mattress that had always been an uncrossed line was suddenly not a line at all.

“Thought about you, alone in this bed,” he murmured against your collarbone, a hand holding your thigh tightly with each delicious snap of his hips, “touching yourself.”

You moaned as his thumb came to circle your clit. “I thought about you,” you admitted, “fuck - wanted you to come home and find me -”

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and fast and tangled - a little frantic, like you were both terrified it might end - but when it did, neither of you moved for a long time.

Just quiet breaths and the rise and fall of his chest under your hand.

When you woke, you were alone again.

You sleep like a starfish. Have a good day. – Bx

The notes started again. A little differently.

Woke up thinking about you. xo

Careful. I wake up hard enough without help. – Bx

Left you a banana. Not a euphemism. (Unless you want it to be.) xo

Bed is too cold. P.S. Dreamed about you. Bx

If we’re gonna keep sharing this bed, I vote we start making better use of it… xo

You'd put the note in its usual place and headed out - hearing his motorbike round the corner as the bus pulled up.

When you returned home, he was still there.

Waiting.

The post-it was in his hand. He didn’t say anything.

You dropped your keys.

He kissed you like he’d been thinking about it all day.

And maybe he had, because when he pulled you into his arms, it was fast and filthy and completely inevitable.

It happened again.

And again.

And in between, the notes.

You weren't dating.

You barely saw each other.

And when you did see each other, there was only ever one outcome.

But then you woke up warm, tangled in him, your fingers absently tracing the freckles on his shoulder.

“You’re still here,” you whispered.

His eyes cracked open, soft with sleep. “Didn't want to leave this time.”

So that became the pattern. Friday nights turned into Saturdays. Then Sundays. Then Thursdays, too.

Until one morning, he caught your wrist as you were leaving for work.

“Can we…” he began, his voice low. “Can we stop pretending this is casual?”

You smiled, heart hammering.

“Finally,” you said. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”

Tagging: @knowledgeableknitter , @ficmeiguess , @ozwriterchick , @thenameswinter99 , @themareverine , @boomyoulookingforthis , @florie1 , @crdgn , @winchestert101 , @stevetonycupcakes , @lolobeey , @bts43a , @gumballofshame , @tessastarfire , @buckytakethewheel , @multifandomneeerd , @furiousprincesskingdom , @s-sh-ne

[crdgn]

like, imagine walking in and seeing BUCKY BARNES, and coming to terms that this is the man you’re sharing a bed with (indirectly as it may be, ahem). like. i’d die dead 😂

id like to please request roommates with mutual pining for bucky barnes please🥰

Alternate Shifts

Anon, I was starting to get stuck here. I was really worried when I couldn't think of anything 😨 and then! I remembered a book I read and LOVED a couple of years ago and bingo! Here we are!

Roommate AU Bucky Barnes x F!Reader with some mutual pining. There's also only one bed.

Warnings: a pinch of angst at the end... but don't panic, we have a Part 2 coming!

Word Count: 714 (hush, none of these are coming in at 500, ok?! 😅)

1000 Followers Ficlet Challenge Masterlist

Masterlist

Hey, sorry I missed your call. Thanks for asking about the apartment. I'll text you the address and you can see if it works for you? ~BB

Sounds great, thanks. I can only get there after 7pm though? bad work week.

Np. My buddy Sam can show you around if that works?

Great, tysm. You've no idea how much I need a place to live.

Well, I'm happy if you're happy. Had like 2 applicants. Both awful. At least on your voicemail you sound sane.

Huh. You smiled at your phone. The advertisement had been intriguing enough for you to call straight away. You had to get out of your ex's apartment ASAP, and weirdly, this was the least strange option.

WANTED - Roommate. Room/bed is to share with 35yo working nights & away most weekends. Only in the apt 9am to 6pm Mon-Fri. All yours the rest of the time! Perfect for someone with 9-5 job. Contact B. Barnes – details below.

Yes, the setup was a little unorthodox. You'd technically be sharing a bed with this person - though not at the same time - you have to draw the line somewhere.

You'd left a message, the greeting on his voicemail sounded a little gruff, but desperation had made you open-minded.

The apartment was small, but clean and tidy. The friend, Sam, was warm and welcoming.

“And he won't be here at the weekends either?” you asked, peeking into the bedroom.

Sam shook his head. “Nope. He’s usually upstate. Comes back Monday morning, sleeps a few hours, then he’s out for his night shift.”

“That’s… kind of perfect,” you admitted.

“Honestly? It is. He’s quiet. Obsessively clean. Doesn’t eat other people’s food. Only weird thing is the bed.”

“Yeah.” You glanced at the queen-size mattress, neatly made with hospital corners and two pillows. “No couch, huh?”

“Not unless you want to sleep on a futon with a busted leg. Barnes swears it’s not weird. Just logistical. Says it’s a ‘time-share situation for the modern housing crisis.’”

You snorted. “He's not wrong.”

“Right?” Sam grinned. “So? You in?”

You hesitated, and then thought about the boxes still sitting in your ex’s living room, how miserable you were.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m in.”

The notes started simply.

Thanks for fixing the sink. I owe you a beer.

You don’t. But I’ll take one anyway. -B

Then came the practical ones.

Brought more of the coffee you seem to like… B

Busted. Thank you. Apology beer in the fridge. xo

And eventually, after weeks, months… the softer ones.

Nice dress hanging up on the closet door. Hope you're wearing it somewhere fun. Bx

A cupcake with a candle.

Happy 6mo of this weirdly amazing set-up. Lease extension? xo

Yes. Definitely yes. Bx

The notes became a ritual. Morning coffee, brush teeth, check fridge for Post-it. You started saving them in a drawer. Just in case.

You’d never admit how much effort you put into the ones you left. How long you stared at the tiny square, chewing your pen lid, trying to be funny. Or charming. Or something.

You started to notice little things - how your side of the bed was always freshly made, how his cologne lingered on the pillow. How he always refilled the water jug in the fridge. How he left the lamp on dim for you.

You’d only seen him three or four times in person since you moved in. Always a blur - one of you running late - you in the morning, or him in the evening. The occasional brush of hands in the kitchen, that one time your fingers grazed while reaching for the same coffee mug and neither of you moved.

It wasn’t nothing.

You missed him when he wasn’t there - which, technically, was most of the time. Which made it worse. It made it lonely. Like you were longing for someone who was so close to being yours in every way except the one that counted.

And then, one Friday night, everything changed.

You came home early.

And for the first time in weeks, Bucky Barnes was standing in the kitchen, very much awake - and not alone.

His date was laughing at something he’d said.

And your heart sank so hard you had to grip the counter just to stay upright...

Tagging: @knowledgeableknitter , @ficmeiguess , @ozwriterchick , @thenameswinter99 , @themareverine , @boomyoulookingforthis , @florie1 , @crdgn , @winchestert101 , @stevetonycupcakes , @lolobeey , @bts43a , @gumballofshame , @tessastarfire , @buckytakethewheel , @multifandomneeerd , @furiousprincesskingdom , @s-sh-ne

[crdgn]

HIS WHAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTT

me @ the date

i love this fic already. saw a show (and read the book it was based on) similar to this one and it was such a fun lil interesting dynamic 😅 i reeeeeally wanna read their very first time meeting hahahah 😫🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

id like to please request roommates with mutual pining for bucky barnes please🥰

Alternate Shifts

Anon, I was starting to get stuck here. I was really worried when I couldn't think of anything 😨 and then! I remembered a book I read and LOVED a couple of years ago and bingo! Here we are!

Roommate AU Bucky Barnes x F!Reader with some mutual pining. There's also only one bed.

Warnings: a pinch of angst at the end... but don't panic, we have a Part 2 coming!

Word Count: 714 (hush, none of these are coming in at 500, ok?! 😅)

1000 Followers Ficlet Challenge Masterlist

Masterlist

Hey, sorry I missed your call. Thanks for asking about the apartment. I'll text you the address and you can see if it works for you? ~BB

Sounds great, thanks. I can only get there after 7pm though? bad work week.

Np. My buddy Sam can show you around if that works?

Great, tysm. You've no idea how much I need a place to live.

Well, I'm happy if you're happy. Had like 2 applicants. Both awful. At least on your voicemail you sound sane.

Huh. You smiled at your phone. The advertisement had been intriguing enough for you to call straight away. You had to get out of your ex's apartment ASAP, and weirdly, this was the least strange option.

WANTED - Roommate. Room/bed is to share with 35yo working nights & away most weekends. Only in the apt 9am to 6pm Mon-Fri. All yours the rest of the time! Perfect for someone with 9-5 job. Contact B. Barnes – details below.

Yes, the setup was a little unorthodox. You'd technically be sharing a bed with this person - though not at the same time - you have to draw the line somewhere.

You'd left a message, the greeting on his voicemail sounded a little gruff, but desperation had made you open-minded.

The apartment was small, but clean and tidy. The friend, Sam, was warm and welcoming.

“And he won't be here at the weekends either?” you asked, peeking into the bedroom.

Sam shook his head. “Nope. He’s usually upstate. Comes back Monday morning, sleeps a few hours, then he’s out for his night shift.”

“That’s… kind of perfect,” you admitted.

“Honestly? It is. He’s quiet. Obsessively clean. Doesn’t eat other people’s food. Only weird thing is the bed.”

“Yeah.” You glanced at the queen-size mattress, neatly made with hospital corners and two pillows. “No couch, huh?”

“Not unless you want to sleep on a futon with a busted leg. Barnes swears it’s not weird. Just logistical. Says it’s a ‘time-share situation for the modern housing crisis.’”

You snorted. “He's not wrong.”

“Right?” Sam grinned. “So? You in?”

You hesitated, and then thought about the boxes still sitting in your ex’s living room, how miserable you were.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m in.”

The notes started simply.

Thanks for fixing the sink. I owe you a beer.

You don’t. But I’ll take one anyway. -B

Then came the practical ones.

Brought more of the coffee you seem to like… B

Busted. Thank you. Apology beer in the fridge. xo

And eventually, after weeks, months… the softer ones.

Nice dress hanging up on the closet door. Hope you're wearing it somewhere fun. Bx

A cupcake with a candle.

Happy 6mo of this weirdly amazing set-up. Lease extension? xo

Yes. Definitely yes. Bx

The notes became a ritual. Morning coffee, brush teeth, check fridge for Post-it. You started saving them in a drawer. Just in case.

You’d never admit how much effort you put into the ones you left. How long you stared at the tiny square, chewing your pen lid, trying to be funny. Or charming. Or something.

You started to notice little things - how your side of the bed was always freshly made, how his cologne lingered on the pillow. How he always refilled the water jug in the fridge. How he left the lamp on dim for you.

You’d only seen him three or four times in person since you moved in. Always a blur - one of you running late - you in the morning, or him in the evening. The occasional brush of hands in the kitchen, that one time your fingers grazed while reaching for the same coffee mug and neither of you moved.

It wasn’t nothing.

You missed him when he wasn’t there - which, technically, was most of the time. Which made it worse. It made it lonely. Like you were longing for someone who was so close to being yours in every way except the one that counted.

And then, one Friday night, everything changed.

You came home early.

And for the first time in weeks, Bucky Barnes was standing in the kitchen, very much awake - and not alone.

His date was laughing at something he’d said.

And your heart sank so hard you had to grip the counter just to stay upright...

Tagging: @knowledgeableknitter , @ficmeiguess , @ozwriterchick , @thenameswinter99 , @themareverine , @boomyoulookingforthis , @florie1 , @crdgn , @winchestert101 , @stevetonycupcakes , @lolobeey , @bts43a , @gumballofshame , @tessastarfire , @buckytakethewheel , @multifandomneeerd , @furiousprincesskingdom , @s-sh-ne

[crdgn]

i haven't seen the movie yet, but this is making me want to lol. i loved this, it was so soft and fluffy. the notes, the way they both saw each other when it could've been so easy to be distracted by everything else. gosh, what an adorable, beautiful fic. <3

to whom it may concern  

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent  word count: 18k Summary:  You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.  notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.

Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.

A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.

And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.

Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.

You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”

He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”

Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.

You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.

You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.

He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.

“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.

He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.

“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”

You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.

Except… it’s not.

Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”

You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”

He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.

And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.

You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.

You flinch. “You good?”

“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”

Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.

You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.

You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.

You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.

It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.

He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.

You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.

Just in case.

-

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.

By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.

But this time, the note reads:

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”

You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand. 

You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.

And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.

You stare for a second too long.

He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.

Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.

You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all.  So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it? 

You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.

You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.

You don’t say anything.

-

Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.

“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”

You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.

“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”

The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”

Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”

Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.

You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.

Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.

Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.

You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.

-

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

-

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

-

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

-

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

-

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

-

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

-

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.” 

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

-

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

-

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

-

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

-

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

-

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

-

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

-

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

-

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

-

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

-

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 

Then you go.

-

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

-

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait. 

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

-

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

-

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

-

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

-

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

-

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

-

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

-

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

-

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

-

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

-

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

-

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

-

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

-

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

-

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

-

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

-

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

-

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

-

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

-

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know. 

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

-

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

-

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

tags:  @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

[crdgn]

Michael & Maria + OTP Tropes [insp]

[crdgn]

must admit i'm now a little itty bit obsessed with john walker, thank you aaaahhhhhhhhhhh

congratulations on 1k! I'm obsessed with everything you write it's absolutely incredible! 💕 Can I request a john walker enemies to lovers + fake marriage but all he does is yearn and just overall obsess over her

I can’t get enough of enemies to lovers John 🤭

-

You knew the mission would suck.

You’d said it the moment Val slid the briefing packet across the table, snorting as you saw his name at the top of the personnel list. John fucking Walker.

“You’re kidding,” you’d said flatly.

“No,” Val had answered, smirking. “You’re married.”

That word still made you wince.

You’d handled undercover ops before. You’d worn the dresses, played the part. But being assigned to a fake marriage with him? That was cruel and unusual punishment. Even for a woman in your line of work.

You’d clashed with John since the day you joined the new Avengers unit. Oil and water. Fire and gasoline. You’d disagreed on everything—tactics, strategy, how to clear a room. He liked precision. Subtlety. Clean exits. You occasionally (read: frequently) liked busting through doors and making noise. Except for when he thought it was a good idea.

So to say you didn’t get along was putting it mildly.

“Why do you always talk like you know everything?” he’d snapped once during a mission in Tangiers.

“Because I do,” you’d replied sweetly. “And you should try listening instead of bulldozing your way through life like a human battering ram.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he’d said with a dark grin, “the battering ram usually gets results.”

Now you’re in Prague. Married to the asshole.

The penthouse suite you share for the mission is all gold accents and marble, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a California king bed you’ve vowed never to touch.

Not that John hasn’t offered.

He’s annoyingly good at pretending to be your husband—hand on your lower back in public, lips brushing your temple in the presence of cartel lieutenants. But in private, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches.

Like he’s starving for something he refuses to admit.

You toe off your heels by the bed, unbuckle the strap holding your thigh holster in place, and strip out of your combat jacket. The white silk slip you wore to tonight’s gala clings to your curves—dangerously short, slit high at the thigh.

You don’t wear it for him, you insist. Even if you did, you’d rather die than admit it.

But you feel his eyes anyway.

John’s sitting on the edge of the couch, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar undone. His jacket’s slung over the armrest, and he’s still wearing the stupid gold wedding band that makes this farce feel realer than it should.

“You ever gonna stop starin’ at me like that, Walker?” you mutter without looking up. You toss the holster onto the mattress and brush your hair out of your face, muscles sore from the op.

“Like what?” he says, voice low, lazy.

You glance back at him over your shoulder. “Like you’re starving and I’m a five-course meal.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “Maybe you are,” he says simply, voice like gravel and bourbon.

You huff a laugh. “Jesus. That the line you use on every woman you have to share a hotel room with?”

“Nope.” He leans forward, arms resting on his knees. “Just the ones who make a habit of pissing me off while lookin’ like that.”

“Careful, Walker. Your repressed libido’s showing.”

He smirks. “Oh sweetheart, it’s not repressed. It’s weaponized.”

You snort. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re not?” His eyes narrow. “You walk around like you’re better than everyone else in the room—including me.”

“I am better than you.”

“You wish.”

“I know. You’re reckless. Sloppy. Always five seconds away from punching your way out of a diplomatic situation.”

He shrugs. “And you’re wound so tight you squeak when you move.”

You whip around at that, and the sudden shift nearly sends your slip sliding up your thighs.

His eyes drop. Traitorously. Lingering.

“Eyes up, Captain America,” you snap.

He lifts his gaze—slow and deliberate. Blue eyes sharp.

“You know, for someone who claims to hate me,” he murmurs, “you sure don’t mind lettin’ me look.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Goddamn him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter.

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he replies, standing. “You do a real good job of it every time you bend over in front of me.”

You grab a pillow from the bed and chuck it at his head. He dodges, laughing, and you flip him off with a muttered asshole under your breath.

But your cheeks are hot.

And the way he’s looking at you now—head tilted, breathing just a little heavier than before—tells you this is a dangerous game you’re playing.

Because the thing is—you do hate him.

You hate the way he smirks at you. The way he walks into a room like it belongs to him. The way he chews gum like he’s got something better to do than follow protocol.

But mostly, you hate that a small, traitorous part of you wonders what it would feel like if he finally acted on the tension hanging between you.

If he finally lost control.

If you did.

And John—infuriating, golden, morally grey John Walker—looks like he’s just about ready to break.

-

You wake to the faint creak of floorboards and the muted rustle of fabric. Prague’s pale morning light streams through the suite’s gauzy curtains, catching on the gold band still snug around your finger.

Fake marriage.

Fake, fake, fake.

You keep reminding yourself that.

Even as you roll over in the king-sized bed and see that John’s not on the couch where it was his turn to sleep.

He always leaves before you wake. Probably to run drills or punch something. That man has the emotional processing skills of a half-trained pitbull on a good day.

But he hadn’t said a word to you last night, after the way he’d stared. After that line—“You do a real good job of it every time you bend over in front of me.”

You’d matched him glare for glare, shoved your way into the bathroom, and slammed the door. He hadn’t followed. You hadn’t slept.

And now it’s another mission day.

You’re scheduled to tail the client’s wife—your “bestie” from last night’s gala—while John keeps tabs on the buyer. An arms deal goes down tonight in a private villa off the river. You need access. Which means the cover story continues.

Still married. Still playing house.

Still pretending you’re not one breath away from clawing at each other’s throats or lips or both.

-

The surveillance van smells like dust, burnt coffee, and sweat. It’s cramped and hot, the kind of tight quarters that force bodies to overlap whether they want to or not.

You’re in the back, flat on your stomach, bent at an angle so you can track thermal imaging on a short-range display panel. It’s a quick window—three minutes to grab the intel while the buyer’s guards step out for a smoke.

But there’s only one way to keep your body out of sight from the outer-facing monitor: sprawl across John’s lap.

“Really?” you grumble, already shifting as you slide into position. “We couldn’t have found a better setup?”

“You wanna climb under the floorboards instead, sweetheart?” John drawls, shifting slightly to make room for your legs. His hands brush your waist—steadying you like you might fall. Like you’re not already burning.

You glare at him over your shoulder. “Don’t call me that.”

“Right. ‘Wife’ would be more appropriate.”

“Bite me.”

He doesn’t answer because your bare thigh brushes his. And his hand—large, warm, careful—settles on your lower back as you adjust the tablet on the crate beneath you. The silk robe you’re wearing (a necessity for the cover—lounging housewife in luxury) slides open just a little more with every movement. Your skin exposed to the warm air and him.

You stiffen.

And he notices.

He’s enhanced due to the super soldier serum so you know you can’t hide much from him, especially this close. You feel him tense beneath you—not in surprise, but awareness. Like a wolf catching the shift in wind, the scent of something new.

His palm is still resting on you. But his thumb… shifts slightly. Barely. Just enough to graze the sensitive dip of your spine.

You bite down a breath.

“Gotta stay still,” he murmurs, low and gentle—like it’s for your benefit. Like he’s not the problem. “They’ll notice if the system glitches.”

“I know,” you hiss.

But your body has other ideas.

You try to stay still, you do. But the heat of his hand, the quiet press of his fingertips, the sheer size of him under you—it’s making your heart pick up pace. Your thighs are tightening. Your breathing is shallower.

And he feels everything.

You realize it with a spike of panic the second his body goes rigid beneath you.

Then comes the worst part: his voice.

Quiet. Measured. Soft.

“Hey,” he whispers beside your ear, his hand inching a little higher on your thigh like he’s trying to soothe you. “It’s okay.”

You don’t respond. You’re frozen.

“It’s just a physical reaction,” he continues, his lips dangerously close to your jaw. “Happens. Adrenaline. Proximity. Nothin’ to be embarrassed about.”

You suck in a sharp breath.

His hand is definitely too high now. Almost at the curve of your hip. But he doesn’t move it. Just holds you like that—gentle, tense. Like you’re something he could break.

“I’m not—” you start, voice cracking.

“Don’t worry,” he interrupts softly, thumb tracing slow circles into your skin. “Really. It’s normal.”

God.

You feel it the instant it happens—the moment your body betrays you fully, utterly, with no possibility of denial. A slow, molten ache unfurling deep in your gut, swelling with every beat of your heart until you feel the shift between your thighs. The wet heat pooling there like shame, like need, like something ancient and helpless and hungry.

You bite your lip hard—too hard—but it’s too late.

Because John feels it.

He smells it.

You don’t even have to look. You feel the change in him behind you.

His breath hitches—sharp, tight, pained.

And then his chest stutters. Just once. A sharp jerk like he’s been hit in the solar plexus. His hand on your back—steady just a second ago—twitches like it’s taking everything he has not to squeeze.

His voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, completely involuntary.

“Shit.”

You stay frozen.

The heat pouring off him now is unbearable—stifling. His thighs tense under yours. His abdomen shifts behind you, tight with restraint, like his entire body is waging war against itself.

You can feel his pulse through the fabric of his shirt where it brushes your bare spine.

Can feel the rise and fall of his breathing—shallow, fast, wrecked.

And then—as if pulled by instinct—his other hand slides across your hip, slow and careful. Not possessive. Not forceful. Just anchoring you there. Like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll move. And he’ll lose it.

Or worse—you won’t.

That’s when you feel it.

The blunt, solid press of something thick and hot against the inside of your thigh. He’s hard. So hard. And he’s trying—so goddamn hard—not to let it touch you.

But you’re draped across him, nearly naked, and his cock is caught high beneath his belt, straining against the pressure. Pressed right against your skin.

He’s trembling now. You can feel it in his hands. In the way his thumb brushes your hipbone like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

He leans in. His mouth is so close to your ear you can feel the shape of his words before you hear them.

“Still normal,” he says softly, the words shredded by his breath. “Completely… normal.”

He’s lying.

You know he’s lying. You can hear it in the way his voice cracks halfway through the word completely, like his throat’s closing in on itself. You can feel it in the way his fingers curl ever so slightly into the meat of your thigh. You can taste it in the air—something electric and wrong and charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

He’s unraveling. Quietly. Desperately.

And yet—he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t grind. Doesn’t let his hand wander even though you both know exactly how wet you are, how close his fingers are to slipping between your thighs and finding out just how bad it’s gotten.

Instead, he just breathes.

Hard. Rough. Through his nose like a man in pain.

You don’t speak because your own body is betraying you just as viciously. Your thighs keep shifting—helpless, searching for friction you swear you don’t want. Your nipples ache against the silk robe, and your breath is caught somewhere high in your ribs like a scream trying to surface.

Your face is burning.

And still—still—John keeps it together. Barely. His mouth hovers again beside your ear, voice barely audible, like it costs him everything to keep it gentle.

“Just ignore it, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

That word—baby—lands like a match in a dry field.

You don’t flinch. Don’t answer.

But inside, your stomach flips.

You’ve been enemies for months. Teammates at best. Rivals at worst. He’s the man you’ve bickered with through twelve countries, insulted through mission briefings, despised across the war room table with a fury you thought was righteous.

But this doesn’t feel like hate.

It feels like burning.

It feels like belonging.

And still—his hand doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

You’re locked in place, strung tight as a tripwire, every inch of your body flushed and aching and alive. The intel feed blinks quietly on the screen beside you, numbers flashing in code, a countdown you can’t seem to care about.

Because all you can feel is him. The way he breathes you in like he’s starving. The way he holds you like you’re made of glass. The way his cock throbs behind his zipper like it’s been waiting for this moment forever.

And worst of all—the way he doesn’t take what you haven’t offered.

Even though you both know how badly you want him to.

-

It’s late.

Too late.

The intel’s been uploaded, the targets are in position, and the op is officially marked ready.

You should be sleeping. Or prepping. Or doing anything but standing in front of the marble sink in the en suite bathroom, scrubbing red lipstick off your mouth like it’s a crime scene.

The silk robe from earlier is gone. You’re in a loose tank and cotton shorts now—the closest thing to pajamas you brought. Your reflection is flushed, eyes dark with something you don’t want to name. You tell yourself it’s adrenaline. Residual stress.

But you know better.

You don’t hear the door open behind you. You don’t see the flick of the lock. But you feel him. The way the air shifts. The sudden warmth at your back, like a fire smoldering too close to touch.

“That shade,” John says behind you, voice low and thick with heat, “drives me crazy.”

You blink up into the mirror. He’s right there—close enough to reach. Collar open, sleeves pushed up, chest rising and falling like he just ran up three flights of stairs.

You stare at him, then back at your reflection and say, coolly, “Didn’t put it on for you.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Didn’t say you did.”

Your jaw tightens. You should roll your eyes. Should tell him to get the hell out, like always. Instead—you go still.

Because something’s different this time.

He steps closer. Just enough that his chest is nearly grazing your back, and you feel the heat pouring off him in waves. His reflection towers behind you, broad and tense and feral in the way he watches your every movement.

His voice drops. “You don’t get it, do you?”

You lift your eyes to meet his.

He doesn’t blink.

“How hard it is,” he says, voice rough now, voice breaking, “to pretend I’m not fucking obsessed with you.”

You stop wiping. The cloth goes still in your hand. “What—”

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he barrels on, leaning in, palms braced on either side of the counter so you’re caged between his arms. “The way you smell when you’re pissed. The way your heart rate spikes when you lie to me. I know every fuckin’ twitch in your body. Every breath.”

You’re breathing faster now. You hate that he’s right.

He lowers his head slightly, eyes dark, fixated on your mouth. “I have to watch you,” he growls. “Flirt with marks. Smile at the enemy. Laugh like it doesn’t kill me.”

His jaw clenches. “I sleep on the goddamn couch just so I don’t do something stupid—”

You cut him off. “I’m the one on the couch tonight.”

He doesn’t back down. His voice is tighter now. Harsher.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you are. ’Cause if you weren’t—if you were in that bed, with me—” His hands fist against the counter. “—I’d already be inside you.”

The silence is immediate.

And deafening.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Because your thighs have pressed together. Because your breath hitched and he noticed. Of course he did.

He always does.

He leans in again—but not like he’s trying to dominate you. Like he’s begging.

His voice shakes.

“Tell me to stop,” he says softly. “Tell me to go.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

Your whole body is frozen, electric, burning from the inside out. Because no one’s ever wanted you like this. Not even your past lovers. No one’s ever looked at you like they’d die if they couldn’t touch you.

And now he’s right here—breathing like he’s been underwater for months and you’re the only air left on Earth.

Slowly, you turn to face him. His arms drop away, barely, just enough to let you move. Your chin tilts up. You meet his eyes and find desperation there—something raw, starving, reverent.

You whisper it. Daring him. “Do it, then.” His breath catches. “Ruin the mission.”

That’s all it takes.

He snaps.

One hand flies to your waist, dragging you flush against his chest. His mouth crashes to yours—no finesse, no patience, just heat and want. His other hand cups the back of your neck as he pins you to the sink, mouth moving against yours like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

He kisses like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s been dreaming about this. Like you’ve haunted him.

His mouth opens against yours, tongue sliding deep, and you moan into him before you can stop it. He swallows the sound like it’s a prize.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he rasps against your lips, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in pain. “Fuck, baby—months. I’ve wanted this for months.”

You grip his shirt tight in your fists, anchoring yourself, because everything’s spinning. “I hated you,” you whisper.

He grins—feral, breathless. “No, you didn’t.” His hand slides lower, palm flattening over the curve of your ass.

“And I never hated you,” he breathes. “I tried. God, I tried.”

His lips are on your jaw now, your throat, biting softly. “But I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop watching you. Wanting you. Dreaming about how you’d sound moaning my name.”

Your body arches into him—unthinking, frantic. You’re on fire. Your thighs are soaked. And the bulge in his jeans is heavy, hard, throbbing against your belly.

He grinds into you once—a little desperate—and pulls back just enough to look in your eyes. “Tell me to stop,” he says again, voice hoarse.

You don’t. You reach up, fist your hand in the back of his hair, and pull him back in.

And this time—you kiss him like you’ve wanted it all along.

Because maybe you have.

-

John doesn’t fuck you. He claims you. It happens in a blur of breath and skin and too many weeks spent pretending not to want what’s been simmering between you since the mission began.

One second, you’re kissing like you’re trying to tear each other apart—mouths bruising, teeth grazing, hands grabbing for anything solid—and the next, he lifts you onto the marble counter like you weigh nothing at all.

Your thighs fall open around his hips as he steps between them, crowding you. Big hands slide up the backs of your legs, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook behind your knees and spread you wider.

The cool marble kisses the backs of your thighs. The heat of him slams into the front of you. The silk slip you wore to dinner rides dangerously high, thin fabric bunching around your waist as he rakes his eyes down your body—slow, deliberate, hungry.

His gold wedding band glints in the low bathroom light as he pushes the hem of your dress up with both hands, baring you inch by inch.

Then he sees it. The way you’re not wearing anything underneath.

His breath catches, and then he growls. A low, guttural, animal sound that vibrates against your ribs, straight through your chest. He drops his forehead to your collarbone, breath hitching, one hand tightening on your thigh like a man clinging to the edge of control.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, voice shredded. “You’re not wearin’ anything under this?”

You shake your head, dazed. You don’t have the words. You don’t need them.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wild, lips parted, jaw flexing. “You want me obsessed?” he asks, like it’s a confession. A vow. “You have me obsessed.”

Then he drops to his knees.

Hard.

His hands slide down the backs of your thighs as he lowers himself, pulling you to the edge of the counter, guiding your legs over his broad shoulders.

He kisses the inside of your knee—slow, reverent—then the soft skin higher up, his stubble dragging hot across your flesh.

You watch him from above, breath ragged, hands gripping the edge of the counter for balance.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tease.

He devours.

He mouths at your thighs first, inhaling your scent like it’s the only oxygen left on Earth. Then—finally—he buries his face between your legs and groans like it’s a prayer.

“Oh my God—John!” You cry out.

He flattens his tongue and licks, slow and deep, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s learning every part of you by feel, by taste, by instinct. His nose bumps your clit as his mouth works you open, wet and relentless.

His hands grip your hips like he’s trying to hold you to the earth.

You try to squirm, to lift away—it’s too much, too intense—but he pulls you back down.

“Don’t you fuckin’ run from me.” His voice is dark and full of warning.

You shudder.

He growls again—and then he moans into you. The vibration rocks through your whole body.

You’re gone.

Your head tips back as he sucks your clit between his lips, tongue circling it while one thick finger slides inside you—then two. He curls them just right, dragging over your front wall like he’s done it a hundred times in his dreams.

He probably has.

“John—John, I—please!” You’re breathless, panting, thighs shaking against his cheeks.

He lifts his head just enough to speak—lips slick with you, jaw clenched like a man possessed.

“Say it.”

Your eyes flutter open. “Say what?” you whisper.

He drives his fingers in deeper, makes you wail. “Say it again,” he rasps, pumping them slow, deliberate. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

You sob—legs trembling, hips lifting helplessly into his hand. “Yours,” you breathe, nearly broken. “It’s yours, John—it’s yours.”

A low, feral sound punches out of him. He growls again, burying his face back between your legs, licking you faster now, wetter, dirtier, like he needs to hear you fall apart.

“Damn right it is,” he groans against your clit. “Fuckin’ mine.”

You’re gone in seconds.

You come hard, back arching, vision going white around the edges. Your fingers claw at the marble counter, your legs lock around his neck, and you scream his name like you mean it—like he’s been your husband for years, not just days.

And John—John moans into your orgasm like it’s feeding him. Because it is. Because this is what he’s wanted all along.

Not just to fuck you.

But to own you.

To kneel between your thighs and worship the woman who drives him to the edge of madness every day.

And when your thighs finally go slack around his head, when you collapse back against the mirror, dazed and wrecked and ruined—he doesn’t move.

He licks you slow. Gentle. Tender.

And then he looks up, mouth shiny, eyes soft, and says, “Still think I hate you?”

He doesn’t even make it to the bed with you at first. He stumbles forward like he’s drunk off you, still dazed from the taste of you on his tongue, still hard and throbbing inside his jeans, precum soaking into the denim. You barely register the moment he lifts you into his arms, mouth searing down your neck, his wedding ring cool against your bare back.

He backs you through the bedroom doorway, breath ragged, muttering something desperate against your skin.

“Can’t wait… fuck, baby, I can’t wait.”

You’re dizzy. Wrecked. The silk slip still clinging to your thighs is twisted and soaked, and all you can do is cling to his shoulders as he lays you down, face-first, across the mattress.

You barely have time to gasp before his broad palms drag your dress over your hips, exposing everything.

“Stay there,” he pants, low and wrecked.

The bed dips behind you. You hear it—the sharp clink of his belt, the soft rasp of his zipper, the low, broken groan when he finally wraps one fist around his cock.

He strokes it once. Just once.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this…”

You can feel him watching you—devouring the view. The curve of your ass. The slick glistening between your thighs. The imprint of your body melting into his sheets.

“Look at you. Spread out like this. Like you were made for me.” His voice comes out like a prayer.

You tremble as the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. And when he pushes in—slow, thick, unforgiving—it’s devastating.

You cry out, spine arching, fists clenching the sheets as he sinks in deep. Every inch makes your body stretch, makes your breath catch, makes your mind go blank with how full he is. Your thighs shake as he bottoms out, grinding flush to your ass, buried to the hilt.

His hand settles between your shoulder blades, pinning you there. “Jesus,” he growls, panting. “You feel that?”

You nod weakly, moaning into the mattress.

His hips roll once, just to feel the grip of you around him. His chest shudders above you. “Fuck. So tight… so warm… like you’ve been waitin’ for me.”

He stays like that a moment—motionless, inside you, holding your body down with one large hand—like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Like he can’t believe he’s finally here.

His wedding ring digs into your back.

You turn your face to the side, gasping, eyes fluttering closed. And then he leans down. Mouth at your shoulder. Kissing it, softly. Once. Twice. Then he bites—not hard, but just enough to make you moan.

“Been dreamin’ about this since the day I met you,” he says, voice dark and trembling. “Since the first time you opened that mouth and gave me hell in that goddamn briefing room.”

You sob as he pulls back and thrusts into you—deep and hard.

“God, I should’ve known then,” he pants, slamming forward again. “That no one else was ever gonna do it for me after you. You—fuck, you ruined me.”

You whimper, pressing your face into the sheets. You feel his cock dragging slow and thick inside you, every thrust pushing you forward on the mattress, making your ring clink softly against the headboard with each movement.

You want to tease him. Bite back. But all you can do is moan.

“Say something,” he growls, voice right in your ear now. “Go on. Tell me I’m a bastard. Tell me I’m too rough.”

“You’re,” your voice breaks on a cry, “still a jackass.”

He freezes for half a second. Then he growls—a low, filthy sound that vibrates against your back—and slams into you harder.

“Say that again,” he snarls, grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging your head back. “And I’ll come so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

You gasp. Laugh.

“Jackass.”

It’s a challenge. A dare.

And John Walker never turns down a fight.

He fucks you. Not quick. Not clumsy. He fucks you like he trained for it—like he’s waited every goddamn day of the mission to do it right. His hips snap into yours with relentless force, each thrust deeper, filthier, more possessive than the last. The hand on your stomach lifts your hips just enough so every stroke hits that sweet, unbearable spot inside you—and you scream.

His other hand clamps down on your waist. You feel it—the hard metal ridge of his wedding band biting into your skin with every thrust.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s my ring diggin’ into you.”

You sob.

“You married me, sweetheart. Doesn’t matter if it was fake. Doesn’t matter what the files say.”

He thrusts harder. Drags your body down the bed with the sheer force of his grip.

“You’re mine.”

You try to reply—to tell him something, anything—but all you can do is cry out as he drives in again, the rhythm brutal, perfect.

You lift one trembling hand.

The gold band on your finger catches the light.

It clinks against the headboard again. Again. Again.

“Look at that,” John groans behind you. “Still wearin’ my ring while I fuck you full.”

And when he finally loses it—when he slams into you one last time, grinding so deep you swear he splits you in half—he moans your name like it’s the only word he’s ever known.

Hot.

Endless.

Possessive.

You feel him pulse inside you, cock jerking deep, thick spurts of cum filling you up until it leaks around him.

He stays buried. Doesn’t pull out. Just lowers his chest to your back, panting, boneless, his mouth dragging over your shoulder with a quiet reverence that doesn’t match how hard he just wrecked you.

He kisses you there. Once. Then again.

And when he finally speaks, it’s soft. Almost shy. His hand finds yours on the sheets. Fingers curl between yours. The gold bands click together. He breathes the words against your skin like a secret.

“…my wife.”

-

Later, you’re wrapped in the hotel sheets—breath shallow, body sore, skin flushed and glowing with the evidence of him. Of what he did to you. What you let him do.

John lies beside you, bare and quiet, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped around your waist like he can’t bear the thought of you slipping away.

You’re still catching your breath when he leans in and kisses your temple. Slow. Reverent.

Like a real husband.

Like a man in love.

His hand moves gently down your stomach, palm broad and warm as he cups the soft swell beneath your navel—right where he finished inside you minutes ago.

He presses his hand there with intent. Possessive. And murmurs, “Should’ve done this the first night.”

Your breath stutters.

“I should’ve filled you up the second Val handed me that goddamn ring.”

You still don’t speak.

He kisses you again—slower this time, mouth dragging along your cheekbone as his fingers spread a little wider over your belly.

“You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s mine now. You. All of it.”

You don’t say a word.

But your hand moves.

Downward.

You find his hand and take it gently, guiding it lower, sliding his fingers through the mess between your legs—slick, hot, his. He groans softly. Eyes flutter closed.

You feel his cock twitch against your thigh.

“Fuck, baby…” His voice is broken now. Quiet and worshipful.

You guide his fingers in deeper, hips twitching from the overstimulation, and he strokes you slow, lost in the feeling of his own come leaking out around his knuckles.

Then you finally whisper, “Don’t let it go to waste.”

And John?

He knows.

You’re his.