pearcheol

[pearcheol]

my angel of life

summary: Bucky tries to get your daughter to say 'mama' for the first time. word count: 3.3k+ pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: this is a stupid thing but here we go - on my doomscroll on instagram, i saw a video of a woman showing small clips of her little boy telling her "you're so beautiful" and "pretty wife" and it got me thinking, bucky would absolutely be the type of person to call you "mama" as a pet name after having a kid. so... here we are, lol (also 2 fics in 2 days who am i???). also also, it's sebastian stan's birthday! (and yes, that is a picture of steve kemp, sue me. he's my baby and there's not a lot of smiling bucky pics out there😔) warnings/tags: takes place after thunderbolts*, domestic thunderbolts, you and bucky have a daughter (around 7-8 months old), bucky is a great dad, fluff!

The Watchtower was still in the early hours of morning—soft blue light pooled along the concrete walls, barely filtered through the reinforced glass windows. Outside, mist rolled over the treetops like a secret no one would speak aloud.

Inside, you rocked gently in the big armchair Yelena dragged in two weeks after the baby was born, claiming you “needed a throne” if you were going to be “the Queen of Waking Up Every Two Hours.” The fabric was worn, one leg wobbled a bit, but it cradled your body like it had memorized you.

Your daughter was curled against your chest in that warm, heavy sleep unique to babies—her cheek pressed against your collarbone, thumb curled under her chin, breath soft and rhythmic.

You hummed quietly under your breath. Something slow and tuneless.

Across the room, Bucky leaned against the doorway, one shoulder pressed to the frame, arms crossed. He wasn’t trying to hide. You always knew when he was watching you. His gaze had a particular weight to it—never invasive, never judgmental. Just heavy with something deeper.

He looked tired, but peaceful. The kind of tired that came from effort, not pain. He was in a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and his hair was a little messy, like he’d pushed it back with his hand a hundred times already.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” you whispered without turning your head.

“You didn’t.” His voice was rough. Mornings made him sound like he hadn’t spoken in years. “She did.”

You shifted Annabelle slightly, keeping your hand cupped behind her neck. “She’s a screamer when she’s wet. Takes after her dad.”

Bucky’s mouth lifted, just a little. “She’s louder.”

He crossed the room slowly, movements quiet and deliberate. You felt him kneel beside the chair before you saw him. His hand rested lightly on your knee, warm and calloused. “She sleepin’ again?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Out like a light.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, just above the strap of your tank top. Then he stayed there, forehead against your skin, breathing you in like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You didn’t speak for a while.

The Watchtower was quiet like that sometimes—when the others were still asleep or off on rotations. You and Bucky had carved out these little silences in the chaos. Silences where you didn’t have to be soldiers, or operatives, or caretakers of a broken world.

Just… people. Just two people who somehow found each other on the other side of everything.

“She smiled at Bob yesterday,” Bucky murmured, pulling back just enough to rest his chin on your leg. “I think she likes him.”

You laughed quietly. “Bob’s basically a golden retriever in tactical gear. Of course she likes him.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s his voice. Real soft. Calms her down.”

“She also tried to chew his thumb.”

“She’s got good instincts.”

Annabelle stirred a little, her nose wrinkling, her fingers twitching. You glanced down, adjusting her slightly with practiced hands. She settled, and Bucky watched every tiny motion with the same quiet reverence he had the first time he held her.

You caught his gaze. “You okay?”

He blinked once. Twice. Then nodded.

“I just keep waiting for it to go away,” he said softly. “This... all of it. You. Her. The quiet. I wake up thinking I’m gonna find myself back in that cell. Alone. Cold.”

You reached down, brushing your fingers through his hair. “It’s not going away.”

“I know,” he said. “But I still check. Every day. Just in case.”

You didn’t tell him not to. You knew better than to fight the ghosts that way. Instead, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his temple. “Then keep checking. I’ll still be here when you open your eyes.”

He looked up at you—those glacier-blue eyes gone soft, undone. And in that moment, it wasn’t just gratitude. It was awe.

And maybe something more.

---

The Watchtower’s common room looked less like a classified government facility and more like a bomb went off in a toy store. Foam blocks. A half-assembled baby bouncer. A stuffed bee that rattled every time someone looked at it wrong.

Bucky stepped over a stack of soft books with a caution you’d once seen him use for landmines.

He was holding Annabelle. Or rather, she was holding him—a fistful of his Henley clenched in her tiny, jelly-smeared fingers. Her head rested against his shoulder, dark wisps of hair curling against his neck. Her onesie had a suspicious stain on the leg, and her socks were two different colors.

He didn’t care.

You watched from the kitchen, drying a bottle and leaning your hip against the counter. Bucky hadn’t even noticed you yet. He was bouncing her gently, murmuring something under his breath. Not baby talk. Just… soft conversation. Like she was someone he’d known his whole life.

“…And then he just walks into the room like he didn’t knock over the espresso machine, and I get stuck with cleanup.”

A pause. Annabelle cooed.

Bucky nodded seriously. “Exactly. I told him, next time he goes near the counter, he’s gonna lose a finger.”

You smothered a laugh. “Bucky?”

He turned. Not startled—he never really was. Just aware.

“She needed a walk,” he said. “She was starting to fuss.”

“She’s due for a nap soon.”

“I know. I was trying to stall. She does that kicky thing when she doesn’t want to sleep. Like a little mule.”

Annabelle chose that exact moment to kick her sock off but Bucky caught it midair.

You raised a brow. “She gets it from you.”

He made a face, turning slightly so she could settle more against him. “I’m not kicky.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“That’s different.”

“You once slept in a chair for five nights because you didn’t want to admit the bed was comfier.”

“That chair had integrity.”

You grinned and tossed him a clean pacifier. He caught it one-handed, and Annabelle immediately reached up like she knew it was hers.

She was growing so fast. Eight months ago, she was a crying bundle of warmth and panic in your arms—delivered in a rainstorm with Yelena yelling about hot water and Bob crying harder than you were.

Now she was… her own little person.

And Bucky?

He was still learning how to breathe through the fear. The kind that told him this was too good, too soft, too temporary. But you could see it in the way he carried her—like every step was sacred. Like she was the one thing in his life that had never been a weapon.

---

Yelena was passed out on the couch, one leg thrown over John’s lap like they hadn’t argued about personal space for three straight days. Ava was quietly fixing the fuse box again. Bob was asleep in the recliner with Annabelle’s bee plush somehow tucked under his arm.

You and Bucky had retreated to the small room that passed as your shared quarters. It wasn’t much—two dressers, a bed, some pictures on the wall. But it was yours.

Annabelle was asleep in her crib, one hand flopped over her eyes like the day had been just too much.

Bucky stood beside her, staring down in that way he did sometimes—quiet, reverent, almost afraid to blink. You came up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist. “She’s out,” you whispered. “Think we can get three hours before she starts teething again?”

“God, I hope so.”

His hand came to rest over yours, lacing his fingers through. You stayed there a moment, breathing in sync, watching the tiny chest rise and fall.

“Hey,” you said softly. “What you told her earlier. About John and the espresso machine?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s gonna believe everything you say, you know.” He glanced down, brows raised. “I mean it,” you said. “She’s going to grow up thinking her dad is the strongest, smartest man in the world.”

Bucky looked back at the crib, jaw clenched like he didn’t quite trust himself to speak. “I’m not—”

“She doesn’t care who you were,” you said, pressing a kiss to his spine. “She just knows who you are to her. And that? That’s enough.”

You felt him exhale slowly. Shoulders relaxed. He turned, wrapping you in his arms like the silence wasn’t enough anymore.

“Come to bed,” you said, tugging gently.

He nodded. But before he let go, he looked over your shoulder, back at the sleeping bundle in the crib. And then quietly, more to himself than anyone else, he whispered, “…she’s got your nose.”

You smiled.

---

The kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the pipes—courtesy of Alexei’s insistence that “plumbing is just a puzzle you threaten enough.” You were still in pajamas, one sock on, one sock missing—courtesy of Annabelle—sipping coffee and pretending to read the same paragraph of your book for the fifth time.

From the living room, you heard Bucky’s voice—soft and patient. “Ma-ma,” he said gently.

Pause.

You smiled, not lifting your head.

“Come on,” he tried again. “Say it. Ma-ma. Just like that.”

Another pause. Then something thumped. Maybe a toy. Maybe Bucky’s forehead hitting the couch in defeat.

You leaned in the doorway, cradling your mug in both hands. Bucky was sitting cross-legged on the floor, socks mismatched, hair still wet from the shower. Annabelle was plopped in front of him, half-swallowed by her yellow sleep sack, chewing on a teething ring like it owed her money.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

“Baba?” Annabelle gurgled.

Bucky frowned. “No,” he corrected, pointing toward the kitchen with exaggerated drama. “Mama. Ma-ma. Not baba. You say that, and Bob’s gonna think he won.”

You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh.

Annabelle kicked one leg and flung the teething ring across the floor. It hit Alexei’s boot with a clink. From the hallway, Alexei muttered something in Russian and kept walking.

Bucky leaned forward and gently tapped her nose. “Ma-ma.”

“Buh-buh.”

Bucky sighed. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

She squealed, delighted at the sound of her own voice.

“Bucky,” you called softly, finally stepping into the room. “You bribing her with snacks over there?”

He startled a little, looked up like a guilty teenager caught sneaking dessert. “No,” he said slowly, “but I would if it helped.”

You lowered yourself onto the rug beside them. Annabelle immediately lunged in your direction with all the grace of a sleepy drunk bear, drooling and determined.

“She’s not gonna say it on command,” you said, settling her into your lap. “She’ll just… pick her moment.”

“She started saying ‘baba’ yesterday,” Bucky muttered, clearly wounded. “You’re telling me she can say baba but not mama?”

“She was chasing Bob’s head. I don’t think that counts.”

Bucky rolled onto his side, head propped on his hand. “I just want her to know it. Your name. The sound of you.”

You paused.

Something about the way he said it… like it wasn’t just about the word. It was the shape of love he still didn’t know how to say out loud. The devotion he poured into the smallest corners of your life—refilling the diaper pail before you noticed, picking the softest nightlight because she always turned toward it in her sleep, stitching a fraying edge on your sweater without saying a word.

He wanted her to say mama because it mattered to him.

Because you mattered.

Annabelle was now determined to eat your shirt collar. You pressed a kiss to the top of her head and looked at Bucky over the fuzz of baby hair. “You want her first word to be about me,” you said softly.

He didn’t blink. “Yeah. I do.”

You stared at him for a beat too long. His hand found your ankle, thumb brushing in lazy circles. “You’re a good dad,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah.”

Annabelle let out a delighted baaaa and smacked her own belly like it was a drum.

Bucky grinned. “Okay, that’s impressive.”

“She’s got rhythm.”

“She gets it from me.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “Debatable.”

“Hey.”

You were still laughing when Annabelle—cheeks flushed, face sticky with drool and victory—pressed both hands against your chest and said, clear as day, “Ma-ma.”

Time froze. Your breath caught. Bucky’s eyes widened. Annabelle blinked up at you like she didn’t understand what she’d just done.

And then Bucky sat up straight, eyes soft and shining like he’d seen the sun rise for the first time. “Mama,” he repeated, pointing between you and Annabelle. “That’s mama, sweetheart. That��s right.”

You couldn’t even speak. You were too busy holding this wiggly, gummy, miraculous little human against your heart while Bucky looked at you like nothing else in the world had ever mattered.

He leaned over and kissed your temple—one hand still resting on your leg. “Told you she’d get it,” he whispered.

You glanced at him, a little breathless. “How long were you trying?”

He didn’t look away from the baby when he said, “just long enough.”

---

The Watchtower never fully slept.

Even now, well past midnight, the ceiling lights in the hallway hummed quietly, low and golden. You padded barefoot from the baby’s room, arms crossed against the chill, sweater hanging loose off one shoulder. Annabelle had finally gone down after a long stretch of teething fuss and something that looked suspiciously like a second tooth coming in.

Inside your shared room, Bucky was half-sprawled on the bed, reading—or pretending to. The book was open, but his eyes weren’t on the page. He looked up when he heard your steps. “You good?” he asked, voice low and warm.

You nodded, climbing onto the bed beside him. “She’s out. For now.”

He reached out and gently tugged you against him by the hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before pulling you into his side. You went willingly, curling beneath his arm, your cheek against his chest.

His heartbeat was slow. Grounding. “She try to crawl out of her crib again?” he asked.

“She considered it. Gave me this look like she was weighing the odds.”

“Rogue,” he murmured fondly. “Definitely takes after me.”

“She chews on her own toes.”

“...Okay, so maybe a little of you too.”

You elbowed him lightly, and he grinned, pressing another kiss to the crown of your head.

The room was quiet. Familiar. Safe in a way that still surprised you sometimes. The armor had melted off the man beside you. Layer by layer. Not all at once, but enough that you could feel the softness underneath now—quiet and steady and yours.

You turned slightly, resting your chin on his chest to look at him. “You ever think you’d end up here?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He ran his fingers through your hair, the rhythm slow and absent, like he needed to feel something moving to stay present.

“I didn’t think I’d make it past thirty,” he said. “Didn’t plan for a crib in the corner and a woman in my arms.”

You traced a slow line across his shirt, over the pattern of his ribs. “You glad you did?”

His hand slipped down to your waist, thumb brushing your side through the fabric of your sleep shirt. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. “This right here is the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

You kissed his chest once, and for a while, that was enough. You let yourself sink into the quiet hum of breathing and blankets, letting your eyes fall shut.

And then—

“Hey, mama,” Bucky murmured, already halfway to sleep, “you leave the bottle warmer on?”

You blinked. Your brain stalled. “…What?”

He didn’t even pause. “For the middle of the night. Just in case she wakes up. I can take the next one.”

You were still staring at him. He wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were closed now, body completely relaxed. The words had slipped out like they belonged to every other pet name he used without thinking.

Doll. Sweetheart. Baby.

Mama.

You bit back a smile and shook your head. “No,” you said softly, “I turned it off.”

“Mmkay,” he hummed, already drifting. “Good.”

And then nothing.

Just breathing. A quiet room. The occasional creak of the Watchtower settling into the bones of the earth.

You pressed closer to him, smiling into his shirt.

He didn’t even know he’d said it.

But you did.

And it wrapped around your heart like a promise.

---

The kitchen was always chaotic in the mornings, but this one was particularly alive.

The coffee machine hissed like it had a grudge. Ava sat at the counter with a protein bar and a schematics tablet, chewing absently. Alexei was heating something that smelled like twelve-day-old cabbage in the microwave. Bob had somehow stacked three mugs in one hand and was making polite conversation with the toaster.

Yelena stood by the fridge, barefoot, wearing one of her ridiculous sleep shirts that said “I’m Not a Morning Person, I’m a Trained Assassin” in bright pink letters. She was staring at a tub of Greek yogurt like it had personally betrayed her.

You were at the stove, swaying a little on your feet as you scrambled eggs one-handed, the other arm holding a babbling Annabelle on your hip. Her sleep curls were wild, and she was chewing on a silicone spoon with great intensity.

Bucky was standing just behind you, leaning a hip on the counter, drinking coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“You want toast or—?”

“Whatever you make is good, mama.”

Yelena’s head snapped up so fast she nearly dropped the yogurt.

You blinked.

Bucky didn’t. He was sipping coffee, eyes still on the stove, completely unfazed. Like he'd just called you doll or baby. Just... part of the rotation now.

“Wait,” Yelena said, holding one finger up in the air like she’d just uncovered a global conspiracy. “Did you just—did he just—did he just call you mama?!”

The entire room paused.

Bob stopped stacking mugs. Ava looked up from her tablet. Alexei looked up from his cabbage and added unhelpfully, “in Russian, we call that nesting behavior. Like swans. Very romantic. Very territorial.”

John walked through the room with a protein bar and muttered, “I’m not awake enough for this.”

You turned slowly, trying very hard not to laugh.

Bucky squinted at Yelena. “What?”

“You—” she pointed between you two, eyes narrowed like she was solving a murder. “You just called her mama.”

He blinked once. “Yeah?”

“Not in reference to the actual baby?”

You bit your lip.

“She’s holding the baby,” Bucky said flatly. “It tracks.”

“No, no, no,” Yelena said, eyes sparkling now. “You said it like—like it was a pet name. Like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘doll’ or whatever you say when you think no one’s listening.”

“Pretty sure I say those when you’re all listening, actually,” Bucky muttered, sipping again. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Just the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Unbelievable,” Yelena said. “This is so domestic. I hate it. I’m gonna throw up.”

“You’re just mad she got the baby and the pet name,” you said, turning back to the stove.

“I don’t want a baby, I want a dog.”

Bob, cheerful as ever, piped in, “I could be your dog.” Bob froze. “I—I meant, like—metaphorically—I didn’t—I’m gonna go—” He walked out of the kitchen holding all three mugs, face red.

Annabelle let out a delighted squeal and threw her spoon.

Bucky caught it midair without blinking.

Yelena pointed dramatically. “See?! Even the baby’s like, ‘You said what?!’”

Bucky didn’t even look up. Just leaned in behind you, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured low enough that only you could hear it, “sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realize I was being surveilled.”

You grinned and bumped his hip. “She didn’t even hear the first time,” you whispered. “Last night. You called me that in bed.”

He raised a brow. “Did I?”

“Mmhm.”

“Guess it’s sticking, then.”

From behind you, Yelena groaned. “You’re disgusting. I hope Annabelle’s first sentence is ‘I reject traditional nuclear family structure.’”

Alexei raised his fork. “I support this.”

You flipped the eggs onto a plate, handed it to Bucky, and kissed his cheek. “Go eat, papa bear.”

Yelena choked on her yogurt.

[pearcheol]

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your Harry Potter fics! Finally our golden boy is getting the attention he deserves on blogs like yours! 🤗💖 Which leads me to ask, since Harry's birthday is coming up really soon, how about something where the reader surprises him with a birthday picnic? She brings a homemade treacle tart (or birthday cake) and surprises Harry with a locket with their patronuses on it and a picture of the two of them. 🎂🎁🎈

Sunlight and Treacle ♡ | H.Potter ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

“She forgot my birthday… and somehow still managed to make it the best one I’ve ever had. How does she do that?”

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : Harry thinks his birthday's been forgotten—until a surprise picnic turns the day into something far sweeter (and funnier) than he expected.

warnings : Use of Y/N, fluff overload, mild kissing/make-out scene, light teasing and banter, Harry being a dramatic sweetheart. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR GOLDEN BOY!!! 💛🥹 Thank you so much for this adorable prompt, I had way too much fun writing Harry being dramatic. He deserves all the treacle tarts and forehead kisses in the world.

word count : 0.9k

navigation <3

banners : @/anitalenia, @/enchanthings and @/cafekitsune

Harry Potter had never been one to make a big fuss about birthdays.

That was probably because his childhood birthdays consisted of either being ignored entirely or Dudley getting a new computer chair while Harry got a sock with a hole in it. But he’d gotten used to that. He’d even told people not to make a big deal this year.

That didn’t stop Ron from texting him "Oi, Birthday Boyyyyy 🥳” at midnight or Hermione dropping off a color-coded planner she made him with “just a few adjustments to your scheduling priorities” (which was very Hermione-speak for stop forgetting you have legs and a social life).

But Y/N?

His sweet, sunshine-in-human-form girlfriend Y/N?

She hadn’t even mentioned his birthday.

And maybe he wasn’t a birthday person, but that stung.

Just a little.

Okay, a lot. He was being dramatic. But still.

“Are we still on for lunch later?” she’d said casually that morning, while buttering toast like it was just any other Tuesday.

“Yeah,” he’d mumbled, watching her like she was a particularly confusing page in one of Hermione’s old Arithmancy textbooks. “Of course.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just kissed his cheek, grabbed her bag, and walked out the door humming.

Not a single “happy birthday.”

What the hell?

He’d even waited. Maybe she was the type to build up suspense—like maybe she’d throw open the door dramatically at some point during the day with balloons or a talking hat.

But by 2PM, all she’d sent was a text saying:

"Meet me in the park. Bring your grumpy face. You know. The cute one. 😘"

Grumpy face?

Grumpy face?!

He wasn’t grumpy. He was birthday-forgotten. There was a difference.

Still, he went. Obviously.

The park was half-sunlit, half-shaded when he got there, and he looked around—feeling weirdly out of place.

Until he saw it.

A blanket spread out under the biggest oak tree. Candles floating above it—yes, floating.

A picnic basket perched beside it.

And standing next to it, barefoot in the grass and wearing a dress Harry definitely hadn’t seen before, was Y/N.

Holding a treacle tart the size of a small planet.

“Oh. My. God,” he said, blinking like he’d walked straight into a dream. “You do remember.”

Y/N grinned like the devil. “Of course I remember, baby. Did you really think I forgot?”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it.

“...No?” he tried.

She snorted and kissed his cheek. “You’re a terrible liar, darling.”

“Yeah, well. You’re a menace,” he muttered, but he was smiling now—relieved and embarrassingly giddy. “You let me sulk all morning.”

“And wasn’t it adorable?” she cooed, squeezing his cheeks. “All moody and tragic. My little brooding birthday boy.”

“I was not brooding.”

“You wore your sad socks.”

Harry looked down. “...They’re comfy.”

She beamed. “Come sit, Potter. It’s time for your birthday feast.”

They ate in the sunshine, Y/N cross-legged and smug while Harry inhaled his third slice of treacle tart like it was the last food on earth.

“You’re trying to seduce me with sugar,” he said suspiciously.

“I don’t need sugar to seduce you,” she replied sweetly.

Harry blushed and muttered something about cheeky girlfriends and treacle witchcraft.

Then she pulled out a small box.

“What’s this?” he asked, licking his fork.

“Your real gift.”

“I thought this was the real gift?” he said, gesturing to the mountain of tart.

“Nope,” she said, and handed him the little box.

Inside it was a silver locket. Simple, elegant. When he opened it, one side showed a moving photo of the two of them, taken last summer when they’d fallen asleep in a hammock and Hermione had declared it "too cute to be legal." On the other side—

Two patronuses.

His stag.

Her fox.

“I charmed it myself,” she said, suddenly a little nervous. “It only works for you. So… whenever you miss me or something.”

Harry looked up, blinking furiously. “You’re such a sap,” he said, voice hoarse.

“You love it,” she replied smugly.

“I really do,” he murmured, pulling her in for a kiss.

They were very much mid-make-out, tangled together on the picnic blanket, when someone cleared their throat nearby.

“Oi!” Ron’s voice said loudly. “We’ve got public decency laws, you know.”

Harry groaned and flopped backwards. “Why.”

“Happy birthday, mate,” Ron added with a grin, holding out a box. “This one’s from me and Hermione.”

Hermione, right behind him, was carrying a thermos and three cups. “Treacle tart again?” she said, shaking her head. “We’re going to have to put you on a diet.”

Harry sat up. “No thanks. Y/N’s cooking is a blessing from the heavens.”

“Mmhm,” Ron said. “You said the same thing about her pancakes last week and nearly passed out from sugar.”

“Worth it,” Harry and Y/N said at the same time.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You two are insufferable.”

Y/N just leaned against Harry, smile all soft and fond. “You love us anyway.”

“Unfortunately,” Hermione sighed.

The four of them lounged on the grass for the rest of the afternoon. Ron challenged Harry to arm-wrestle (and lost. Twice.), Y/N braided Hermione’s hair with wildflowers, and Harry decided—somewhere between the treacle tart, the locket, and the way Y/N kept kissing his nose—that this was probably the best birthday he’d ever had.

“I still can’t believe you let me pout all morning,” he murmured to her as the sun began to dip low.

“I had to make it convincing,” she said, grinning.

“You’re evil.”

“Mm. But I’m your evil,” she replied, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

Harry smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Lucky me.”

[pearcheol]

She Will Be Loved

james potter x reader, black!brothers! x fem!sister!reader

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone— part 3 (extra)

synopsis: in which being a black means learning to carry a legacy you never asked for — and even after escaping its weight, your name still clings to you like a shadow. while everyone else seems to move on, you are left behind with doubt. but james, steady as ever, stands beneath the rain and reminds you that you will be loved, no matter what.

cw: chronic illness, emotional breakdowns, physical pain, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, fluff fluff fluff, tooth-rotting fluff x2, lots of reassurance. can be read as a stand-alone!!

w/c: 6.5k

a/n: based on she will be loved by maroon 5, this is probably the most adorable shit ever </3

part one part two masterlist

“You’re stiff-wristed, sweetheart. The secret’s in the swirl, not the stab.”

Her voice—Euphemia Potter’s—wraps around you like the hush of soft rain against old glass, all lilting warmth and quiet command. 

She stands behind you, close but not crowding, guiding your hand with the kind of reverence you imagine one might reserve for spun sugar or wounded birds. Her fingers barely touch your wrist, feather-light, as though afraid you might shatter from the weight of anything firmer. 

The frosting clings to the whisk like silk, pale pink and shimmering beneath the golden kitchen light, and you stare at it as though it might give you answers you’re too afraid to ask for.

She hums something low, a tune you don’t recognize. It drifts around the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, curling into the corners like the scent of vanilla and lemon zest. 

You think she must be the kind of person who hums to flowers when she waters them, who sings lullabies to empty rooms and means it.

You wonder, distantly, if she’s always been this kind to kids with fucked up families.

You press your lips into a tight line, unsure what to do with the softness curling at the edges of this moment, and murmur without looking up, “I’m not stabbing it.”

A beat. Then laughter—low, honeyed, and bright enough to make something crack inside you.

“You’re threatening it,” she says, her grin audible in the curve of her words. “You’ve got to coax it. Love it a little.”

Love. 

The word lands in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through something long frozen. You don’t know what to do with it—how to hold it, where to place it in a life that’s been stitched together with silence and survival.

So you shrug like it’s nothing, like it doesn���t matter, and let the whisk move in wide, uncertain circles.

You don’t look at her. You look at the frosting, at the way it smooths under your hand when you stop fighting it. At how something can come together when you let it breathe.

The kitchen is warm in a way that startles you—cozy, cluttered, too alive to be anything but real. It’s the kind of lived-in mess you’ve never learned to trust, all soft disarray and stubborn comfort. 

There are crooked portraits on the walls and mismatched rugs softening the floors, and the light from the windows pours in thick and gold, like early spring is trying to wrap you in something gentle.

The whole house smells like vanilla and something older, deeper—like magic that has settled into the floorboards and refuses to leave. 

You keep your sleeves rolled down despite the warmth, even as your hands stir with careful deliberation. There's flour on your knuckles and a strange tightness in your chest, like you’ve wandered into a memory that doesn’t belong to you.

From beyond the archway, chaos hums like a second heartbeat. James lets out a yelp as Sirius tackles him onto the sofa, their limbs a tangled mess of laughter and mock indignation. Cushions fly.

“He’s cheating!” James shouts, voice muffled by upholstery and betrayal.

“I’m winning,” Sirius growls, smug and breathless.

And there—just behind the couch, half in shadow, half in sunlight—stands Regulus. Still and composed, arms crossed like a barrier, eyes narrowed with the bored disdain of someone raised in rooms where no one ever raised their voice. 

You glance up, and for a moment, his gaze catches yours.Something wordless passes between you, soft and sharp and impossible to name. He looks away first.

Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to yesterday. To the Potters’ den, flickering firelight painting lazy patterns across the room. You and Regulus on opposite ends of the hearth, James lounging like a spoiled cat between you, half-on, half-off the armrest. 

He’d been demolishing a cupcake—frosting smeared across his cheek, crumbs dotting the fabric like confetti—when he paused, blinked, and looked at you both.

“You’ve never had one?” he repeated, like the very concept offended him.

You and Regulus had nodded in tandem, as if admitting a shared sin. Regulus looked faintly embarrassed. You hadn’t bothered.

“No cupcakes,” James had whispered, horrified. “You poor, repressed creatures.”

You’d shrugged, lifting your teacup with both hands. “We weren’t exactly allowed to eat with our hands.”

James had stared like he could see your childhood printed in bruises across your skin. “That’s it. Mum’s baking with you tomorrow, with Regulus too, if I can pry him off his high horse.”

And so here you are. In socks that don’t belong to you and an apron that does—barely—reading “Kiss the Cook” in faded embroidery. Your hands are sticky with sugar, your elbows awkwardly bent, and Euphemia Potter stands beside you, the very image of maternal grace in motion. 

Every movement she makes is soft, efficient, full of something like love. She shows you how to spoon frosting into the bag, how to twist the top just so, how to guide the tip in slow, looping swirls instead of the instinctive little jabs you keep trying.

Her voice is low, her patience unshakable, but her eyes are sharp—they see too much. They had settled on you the first night with a kind of quiet knowing, like she could already feel the ache tucked behind your ribs, the weight you never speak of.

You feel strange in your own skin—tied into the apron like you’re being stitched into something unfamiliar, clutching the piping bag like it might burst between your fingers (which it might well considering how anxious you are) 

It’s strange, isn’t it, how some places don’t just shelter you—they learn you. Grow around you like moss, slow and soft and impossibly gentle. The Potters’ house is like that. A space that doesn’t just exist, but exhales. Its colors are warm, its corners worn by laughter and living.

The curtains breathe in the wind like old lungs, the frames are all crooked, like no one ever bothered to make anything perfect, only meaningful. 

“You doing alright, darling?” Euphemia asks softly, not looking up from the cake tin she’s buttering.

“I’m fine,” you reply, too fast. The word lands oddly in the space between you, hard-edged and out of tune with the golden hush of the kitchen.

You don’t meet her eyes. You glance toward the sitting room instead, where laughter crashes like a tide against the floorboards.

James is shouting—again. “If he strangles me, tell Mum I loved her—!”

You roll your eyes instinctively. “They’re idiots.”

“They sure are,” Euphemia agrees with a fondness that makes your chest ache. And then—she turns to you fully, flour dusted on her hands, her eyes a little too sharp, a little too knowing. The kind of gaze that only women who’ve borne grief like children know how to wear. “They’re yours too, now.”

Your hands keep moving, mechanical. The frosting in the bowl is starting to lose its shine. You swirl it once, then again yet, it still doesn’t look right. 

You want to tell her something. Anything. That you don’t know what “yours” means. That you’re afraid of claiming things that feel too soft to last.

That you still brace for shouting when you drop a glass. But the words wedge themselves between your ribs, stubborn and silent. So you just nod.

There are still letters from your mother. They come like bruises—paper-thin but lingering. Sirius tears them up before you can read them, jaw tight with old fury.

James doesn’t even look. He lights them on fire with a flick of his wand and watches them curl into ash. 

Once, you caught the edge of your name written in her careful script, underlined like an accusation. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t want to know. Some things are meant to be burned.

So instead, you learn to make frosting.

You’re not sure what to call what you and James have. If it’s dating, it’s the kind with missing rules and unspoken agreements. There are no labels, no promises carved in stone—but there is his hand in yours when you walk in the garden. 

There is his kiss on your forehead when your dreams turn sharp. There’s his laughter echoing down the hallway as he spins you beneath the afternoon light just because it’s pretty. You lean into him more than you mean to. You laugh more than you expected to. It’s not perfect. But it’s warm.

And sometimes, when sleep slips away and grief curls against your spine like a ghost, you wake to find someone already there. Sirius, slouched in the armchair with a blanket thrown over his legs.

Or James, curled at the foot of your bed like he’s guarding you from whatever still lingers in the dark. Sometimes it’s both, sprawled like overgrown puppies, as if they heard your heartbeat change and followed it. 

Just James, pressing a kiss to your temple, whispering, “Hey. You’re here. That’s enough.”

And in those quiet hours, maybe it is.

Outside, the sky is still gray—the way spring always begins. Soft and threatening. Like a promise that hasn’t made up its mind. Inside, the kitchen is warm. The air is sweet with sugar and butter and the faintest trace of something old—like memory. 

You’ve been standing here long enough for the light to change. The kind of morning that feels like it might last all day.

“Alright,” Euphemia says after a while, brushing her hands clean on a tea towel. “Let’s try your first one. Pick a cupcake!”

Your hand hesitates above the tray. It’s silly, maybe, but this feels like a test. You reach. Choose the one with the least cracks. The cleanest top. It’s still warm in your palm, soft around the edges.

And you think—Regulus would’ve picked this one too. The most perfect on the outside, like that could save you from whatever’s rotting underneath. Like surface beauty was ever enough to survive.

You lift the piping bag with uncertain fingers. Squeeze slowly. Your swirl ends up lopsided, a little tight at the base—more question mark than spiral.

“Not bad,” Euphemia says, smiling. “She’s got the hand of a sculptor!”

You blink. Then glance up, startled. Not just by the compliment, but by how gently it lands. Like it wasn’t meant to test or teach you, just offer you a truth.

It feels good, for a second. To be seen by someone who isn’t waiting for you to fall apart. Who gives kindness freely, without demanding anything back.

From the sitting room, Regulus calls, “Is she doing alright?”

You don’t look. “No,” you call, voice flat, automatic. “She’s surviving.”

Sirius whoops, “Like a true Black!”

And something in you eases. You don’t laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitches—an almost-smile.

Because it’s true. You are surviving. You are a Black. You still move like you expect the room to collapse beneath you. You still speak like a warning. But now you’re here, in a sun-drenched kitchen, with pink frosting on your wrist and sunlight on your collarbone. Learning something new.

You stand at the edge of the kitchen now, tray in trembling hands.

The cupcakes are uneven—some leaning like they’re tired, others piped too thick with nerves you couldn’t quite still. 

Euphemia stands behind you, her hand resting lightly at the small of your back. 

“They look beautiful,” Euphemia says gently. Her voice is velvet, all warmth and hush and pride you don’t know how to hold.

Your eyes stay pinned to the tray in your hands — twelve cupcakes, swirled in soft pinks and lavenders, their colors uneven, the frosting imperfect.

One leans too far to the left. One has too much icing; another, not enough. They’re not neat. They’re not elegant.

You’d asked too many questions in the kitchen. Kept second-guessing yourself, measuring the sugar twice, afraid of ruining something you’d never been trusted to make.

Euphemia had only smiled, quiet and patient, as if she could hear the uncertainty in your bones. 

It was supposed to be simple. Cupcakes, James had said. Something to try. Something you’ve never had before.

You hadn’t expected how much that would matter.

Now the tray is warm in your hands, and your sleeves still carry the scent of vanilla and sugar. You can’t tell if the sweetness stayed with you or if you left it all behind in the frosting bowl.

Inside the sitting room, you can hear Sirius mid-argument, half-laughing, half-shouting about something inconsequential.

Regulus leans stiffly over the arm of a chair, trying to explain something with too many syllables to James, who keeps interrupting just to make him scowl. It’s loud. Familiar. Ordinary in a way that makes your chest ache. 

You’ve always watched this kind of life from a distance — the kind where people interrupt each other without fear of being punished, where laughter is constant and never cruel.

Problem is; you don’t quite know how to step into it.

“They’re waiting,” Euphemia murmurs. She steps forward and opens the door all the way, but she doesn’t push. She just rests her hand gently at the small of your back — not forceful, just present.

The tray shifts slightly in your hands as you cross the threshold. You steady it quickly, trying to school your features into something neutral. All three heads turn at once.

James rises first, his expression flickering from surprise to something quieter. He just looks at you like you’ve brought something more than sugar into the room.

And for a breath, you forget what you’re holding.

“I, um…” You clear your throat. “I made these.”

Sirius squints. “You? In a kitchen? With actual ingredients?”

You shoot him a look, but your voice doesn’t wobble this time. “Do you want one or not?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, grinning, “this could be a trap. What if they’re poisoned?”

James is already stepping forward, inspecting the cupcakes with a kind of gentle reverence. “They look brilliant.”

“They’re uneven,” you say quickly, before anyone else can. “I didn’t mix the color all the way. And I think I overfilled the third row.”

James ignores that. Picks a lavender-swirled one with a little too much icing and cradles it like it might sing. “They look so pretty, love,” he says softly. “Just like you.”

That catches you off guard. You don’t know how to carry a compliment that tender. So you don’t reply.

Regulus doesn’t speak at first. His eyes skim the tray, then flick to your face. “Which one’s yours?” he asks.

The question is simple. But it lands like a stone in water.

You hesitate. “The ugly one?”

He tilts his head. “They’re all a little ugly.”

Sirius snorts. “Which means they’re honest. I like that!”

You laugh, a breathy, uncertain sound that escapes before you can stop it.

Regulus steps forward slowly. He doesn’t reach for a cupcake. He just looks. And then, quieter this time: “Can I have yours?”

It’s such a small sentence, but it knocks something loose inside your chest.

You nod, carefully. Select the one with the uneven spiral, where the frosting pooled too fast and dipped at the edge.

He takes it from you like it’s a glass relic. And then, with a quiet kind of sincerity, he says, “Thank you.”

Sirius bites into his with theatrical flair. “Oh, hell, this is good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you mutter.

James is already halfway through his. “I’m putting in a request for another batch. Maybe lemon next time?”

“There’s not going to be a next batch,” you say, but it’s a soft lie. One you hope someone sees through.

Regulus finally bites into his. His expression doesn’t change much, but his gaze returns to you — steady, unreadable — and then, after a pause, he murmurs, “It’s sweet.”

The laughter rises again, light and irreverent, as James starts a dramatic monologue about how cupcakes are the purest form of magic and Sirius demands to be taught immediately so he can outshine you. Regulus settles back into his seat, eyes flicking between the cupcake and you. 

You set the tray down on the coffee table, then retreat a half-step as if the cupcakes might embarrass you by existing.

You’ve never made something like this before — sweet, delicate, not meant to survive a war or a dinner at the Black family table.

You don’t know how to be proud of it. You only know how to hope it isn’t a disappointment.

James doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you, then at the tray, then back at you. The silence stretches too long.

He smiles — not his usual grin, not the cocky, tilted thing he uses when he wants to charm or tease. This one is quiet, like a secret he’s sharing only with you. “It’s perfect.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t,” he agrees, stepping closer. “But I’m saying it anyway.”

You glance down, but he reaches out and gently taps the edge of your hand. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

He’s all warmth and open sky. There’s frosting at the corner of his mouth. His hair’s a mess from wrestling Sirius earlier, and his voice is steady in a way yours hasn’t been all day.

“You did something new,” he says. “You made something. You shared it. That’s brave. And I am so so proud of you, yeah baby?.”

Something catches in your chest — like a thread being pulled too tight. You don’t know how to answer, so you don’t.

He just brushes a curl from your cheek, fingers warm against your skin, and the softness in his touch undoes you more than anything he’s said.

James reaches for another cupcake and holds it out to you.

Your brows raise. “What’s that for?”

He shrugs, tilting the cupcake toward you again — an unspoken offer, gentle and insistent. “You baked them,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t even tried one.”

“I know what they taste like,” you murmur, though your eyes remain on the small swirl of frosting.

“Do you?” he asks, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You stood next to Mum, mixed everything, piped the frosting like an artist—” his hand gestures loosely to the tray, already missing three cakes, “—but you haven’t taken a single bite.”

James nudges it forward again, a nudge that feels like kindness disguised as teasing. “First time for everything, yeah?”

Your fingers hover, then curl slowly around the paper casing. It yields beneath your grip — soft, still warm from the kitchen heat, as if it had been waiting for your touch.

You bring it up, careful, uncertain, aware of the hush that falls across the room. You don’t meet anyone’s eyes. 

You just take a breath and press your mouth to the top, just enough to taste.

The frosting melts instantly on your tongue — silky and slow, bright with vanilla and a whisper of lemon, like sunlight folded into sugar. It’s not overwhelming, not too rich.

Just… soft. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t need to be earned. The kind that offers itself freely. For a moment, your chest feels too tight for your ribs, your throat too narrow for words.

You swallow. “That’s—” Your voice falters. You blink. “Good.”

James beams. Not like someone who expected praise, but like someone who’s just watched a door open. “Just good?”

You look down at what’s left in your hand. You dip your finger gently into the frosting, curl it into a neat spiral, and pop it into your mouth.

The taste is quieter now, familiar already. But still — still — it makes you feel something that has no name.

Sirius makes a dramatic sound of protest from the sofa. “Criminal,” he declares. Regulus mutters something darkly unimpressed, but neither of them matter right now.

Because James is still watching you. Like he’s been handed something rare and breakable.

“You’re telling me,” he says softly, “you’re going to eat only the frosting?”

“It’s the best part,” you reply, licking your thumb, almost defiant.

He reaches for another cupcake, peels the paper halfway back, and takes a slow, deliberate bite of just the cake — clean, unfrosted.

He chews, thoughtful, then glances at you, the corner of his mouth curling. “Well,” he says, “we’re clearly soulmates.”

You blink. “What?”

“I hate frosting,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Always have. It's way too sweet and sticky. I'd much rather eat the cake part.”

Your brow furrows. “You’re making that up.”

“I swear on all of Gryffindor’s noble dead.” He raises a solemn hand, though his eyes are dancing. “This is fate. You eat the tops, I eat the bottoms. Every cupcake perfect, every piece devoured. Balance in all things.”

You try to glare at him. You try to keep your mouth straight. But your lips betray you, twitching at the corners. You look away, but not fast enough.

“You’re flirting again,” you say, voice too soft to sting.

“Can you blame me?” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “You’re frosting-drunk. It’s adorable.”

“It’s frosting,” you reply, scoffing. “I’m not drunk.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a poem he’s trying to memorize. “Are you sure?” he says, voice a hush now. “Because I think I just fell in love all over again.”

James doesn’t say anything else. He just watches you, eyes warm, quiet, full of something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.

You feel it anyway — that impossible softness, that lightness he brings with him like a second skin. The kind of sweetness that lingers even after it’s gone.

And as you bite into the frosting, as Sirius resumes his argument and Regulus sighs into his tea, something inside you begins to settle.

Maybe sweetness doesn’t have to be earned.

The rest of the evening settles like golden syrup over the table — slow, warm, and rich with laughter. The sun filters through the windows in long amber slants, gilding the countertop where half-eaten cupcakes sit like tiny triumphs. 

You’re tucked between Sirius and Regulus on the floor, knees brushing, while James sprawls at your feet, arms flung behind his head like the world’s most content boy.

He keeps glancing up at you as if he’s never seen you smile before — like he’s trying to memorize every possible angle, afraid he might blink and miss it.

Sirius is midway through some outrageous tale about a stolen broomstick and second-year mayhem. Euphemia gasps in mock horror. Fleamont peers over his glasses with a grin that threatens to tip into laughter.

Regulus groans into his palm and mutters, “You two are why she has grey hairs.”

And for a moment, you let yourself laugh.

Really laugh — not the careful, calculated chuckles you’ve grown used to offering like coins at a tollbooth. This is warm, bright, unguarded. It spills out of you without permission, lifting your shoulders and loosening something long-caged in your chest. 

When James reaches for your hand, you let him take it. His fingers thread through yours, firm and certain, like a promise you almost believe.

For a little while, you let yourself believe this could be yours — this ordinary sweetness. Something with frosting and sun-drenched floors and a kitchen that always smells like cinnamon and safety.

Something not carved from pain. Not built on survival.

You go to bed that night feeling full in a way that has nothing to do with cupcakes.

—

The ache begins quietly, as it always does. A heaviness that coils at the base of your spine, patient and precise. Something about the way it settles there—like a bruise blooming behind your ribs, tender and unnoticed—makes it easy to dismiss. 

You stretch your fingers. Roll your shoulders. Breathe through it like it’s nothing more than morning stiffness or a restless night’s sleep.

You tell yourself it will pass, that maybe you’ve just been sitting too long, dreaming too hard.

But two days later, it’s harder to rise. 

The bed feels heavier, the light colder, and the spring air bites through the cracks in the stone like it wants to warn you of something. Still, you manage. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders and curl beside the others near the hearth. 

The pain deepens when you move too quickly, or laugh without bracing for it. It hides in strange corners of your body—sharp beneath your ribs, warm and aching behind your knees, slow and stubborn in your breath.

 Sometimes it steals the air right out of your lungs as you climb the stairs or reach for something just out of grasp.

But you smile through it. You always do. You bite the inside of your cheek and hold your posture like a prayer, like it might keep you whole a little longer.

You don’t want to ruin it. They’re so happy — Sirius losing at chess with theatrical flair, Fleamont snorting into his tea, Euphemia gently guiding Regulus’s hands through loops of yarn as he pretends not to care.

James tugging you into corners thick with laughter and warmth, brushing your cheek with reverence, telling you your eyes look like dusk when the world is kind.

You won’t be the shadow in their light.

So you laugh when you’re meant to. You nod at all the right moments. You stir the ache into your tea like it’s just another kind of sweetness.

You tell yourself it’s nothing — that it will pass, that it must. That you owe them this version of you, the one who is steady and soft and whole.

And when the hurt steals your voice, you simply say you’re tired. It’s easier that way. You’ve had years to perfect the script, and the silences between the lines.

You breathe through it, quiet and constant.

Because what else can you do?

You don’t cry. You just sit there, letting the rain pour over you like a second skin, not harsh but steady, familiar — not the warmth of this place, not the laughter pressed between the walls, but something older, something colder, something that remembers the echoing halls of Grimmauld Place. 

The kind of silence that didn’t need a reason. The kind that stitched itself into your bones so long ago you forgot what it felt like to live without it.

You sit with the rain in your lap like it belongs to you, like the storm found you first and decided to stay. 

It slides down the curve of your spine, pools in the hollow of your throat, traces your wrists like rivers returning to the sea. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch.

You’ve always known cold — cold hands, cold glances, cold corridors and colder silences — and this kind of chill feels almost merciful, soaking into you gently instead of cutting you down.

Through the glass, the fire glows soft and golden, and their laughter spills out in waves, blurred and beautiful — Sirius, all brightness and reckless limbs, draped across the couch like it was made just for him; James beside him, head thrown back, eyes shut with joy, tipping into Sirius like gravity’s favorite joke.

Their laughter is loud and unbreakable, the kind of joy that fills rooms and hearts and lifetimes.

 And as you watch, you realize they are whole in ways you were never taught to be.

Near the window, Regulus leans toward Remus, long fingers brushing across an open book, nodding as Remus speaks. Their voices are low, private, thoughtful.

Regulus is in a sweater too big for him and socks with mismatched toes, the kind of domesticity you never thought would suit him.

But it does. He looks… soft. Happy, maybe. Or something close enough to it that you could believe in it if you squinted.

Even Peter, curled up near the fire, hums to himself without shame.

And you — you are the ghost at the glass. The story that doesn’t belong in this chapter.

They’ve all found something that quiets the noise in their heads. Sirius with his rebellion. Regulus with his books. James with his heart wide open. 

You want to reach for them — you do — but your hands feel wrong, too heavy, too worn, made of sharp edges and sore joints and skin that’s forgotten how to feel safe. 

You shift, just barely, and pain flares up your spine like a slow-lit match, bright and hot and unmistakably alive.

Your bones ache as though they’re begging to be remembered. The rain, relentless and soft, hides your tears — the only kindness this sky offers. 

You try to breathe around it, around the heat coiling behind your ribs, around the memory that presses down on your chest like a weight you can’t lift. It shouldn’t hurt like this anymore. 

You’re not there. You’re not hers. You’re not her daughter anymore.

And still, you can feel her fingers in your scalp, ghost-thin and cruel, tugging until obedience became instinct.

Even now, even with your hair down and soft and brushed through by Euphemia’s patient hands, the ache lingers — hot and deep at your crown, where braids once pulled tight enough to silence you. 

You wonder if the pain will ever leave you, if someday you’ll touch your own head and feel nothing but skin. 

She braided your obedience into your body — every twist a warning, every knot a prayer for silence. 

You remember sitting beside Regulus, knees knocking together as your mother yanked the brush through your hair.

You whispered, “Do you think cupcakes taste good?” and he smiled like it hurt, like something blooming too fast — neither of you had ever tasted one. 

And now, somehow, you’ve found yourself somewhere soft, somewhere warm, where the air doesn’t sting and the quiet isn’t cruel — but still, you carry the weight of old commands in your spine, and your skin tenses like it expects to be scolded. 

Even now, even here, you feel like an intruder in your own softness.

You watch James laugh again, mouth open wide, the kind of joy that belongs in sunlit fields and childhood games. And suddenly, you want to scream. 

You want to bury your face in his shoulder and cry and say I’m still hurting. I still wake up afraid. I still hear her voice in mine when I speak too sharply. But instead, you sit very still. You keep your shoulders straight.

Because this is the only way you know how to keep from breaking open.

And somehow, even with your twin in the room, even with James who loves you more than air, you’ve never felt more alone. It’s like watching life through glass, your fingers pressed to the warmth without ever quite feeling it.

Their laughter is real, their joy is real, but you are a quiet echo curled in the corner, a shadow in a room full of light, trying to remember what it felt like to belong.

It starts at your spine.

A low throb at first, something quiet enough to ignore if you just breathe through it, if you just pretend long enough that you’re still strong, still whole, still more than what she made of you. 

But it spreads. Down your legs, up through your ribs. Every breath starts to feel like a small betrayal — your lungs stiff and aching, like they too are tired of you surviving. 

By the time it reaches your hands, you can’t even feel the rain anymore. 

It always begins softly—never a crash, just a hush, like memory, like shame, like your mother’s voice woven into the fabric of your childhood.

You’ve learned to carry pain quietly, tucked behind small smiles and well-timed stillness. Inside, they laugh.

And that is when it hits you. The quiet rage. The kind that doesn’t scream but digs deep into your ribs.

Because why didn’t she stop this? Why didn’t she see you breaking and fix it? Why did she look at your pain and name it a lesson?

You hate her. You hate your name. You hate that no matter how far you run, your body still sings in her voice.

You can still feel the ghost of those braids. Can still remember the weight of silence tied to the nape of your neck.

And you wonder — as the rain runs into your eyes and your bones begin to tremble — if you’ll ever be free of her.

If the damage is permanent. If you’ll always be the girl with the broken smile who hides in corners and gardens and rain.

You feel so far away from joy, from light, from yourself, breath snagging not on a sob but on a scream too tired to rise, your body tight with silence, with the weight of what you won’t let slip. 

Then warmth, sudden and soft, fingers on your cheeks, steady and certain, anchoring you to the now. 

You flinch, bracing for the sting, for the world to splinter beneath the touch, but the hands stay, quiet and kind. 

A voice follows, low and breathless, threaded with something like worry, something like care—“Hey, look at me, c’mon, open your eyes for me,” And you do, slowly, like coming up for air after a long, aching dive.

And there he is — James Potter, kneeling in the wet grass in front of you like he was sent by the gods of mercy themselves. Soaked clean through, curls matted to his forehead, glasses beaded with rain.

His hands cradle your face like he’s holding something sacred, and there’s not a flicker of pity in his gaze. Only concern. Only knowing. Only love.

Your mouth trembles, but the words won’t come. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with cleverness, doesn’t ask what’s wrong or tell you it’s okay—because it isn’t.

He just stays close, forehead nearly brushing yours, his gaze steady and bright like lanterns flickering through the rain. 

You don’t notice the tremble in your hands at first, only the sharp hitch in your breath and the way your bones begin to shake, too deep for the rain to be the cause.

The ache builds quietly, curling behind your ribs like smoke, but then it crests, pressing up into your throat until your mouth tastes of salt and sorrow.  And then the tears come—jagged, hot, unhidden. 

You hate it. Hate how your body betrays you like this. Hate that even now — surrounded by warmth, by voices that laugh like nothing hurts — you can’t stop breaking. That even now, soaked in the middle of spring rain, your grief still finds you.

His thumbs sweep along your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, and the word breaks something open in you. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s kind.

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head. The words come before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I— I don’t know why I’m crying, I just— I still feel so broken sometimes. And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just be fine.”

Your voice cracks, and so does your chest.

James doesn’t say anything right away. He just pulls you close — soaked wool and trembling hands and that smell of petrichor and something sweeter beneath it, something like safety. One of his hands slides to your back, the other still at your jaw, grounding you.

And then he says, soft as rain, “Then I’ll just love you in pieces.”

“I’ll love you whole, when you’re ready,” he continues, breath warm against your temple, “but if all you can give me today are pieces, then I’ll hold them all. I’ll love you as you are. No fixing, no conditions. Just you.”

Something in your chest gives in.

And you sob again, not from pain this time, but from relief. From the unbearable gentleness in his voice. From the way he’s still here, even as your tears fall like spring rain and your body aches with every breath.

“I don’t want to be pieces forever,” you whisper.

“You won’t be,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed from cold, but his eyes are steady. “But if you are, even just for a little while… I’m still yours.”

You don’t know what you’ve done to deserve him.

Then his voice cuts gently through the hush, low and steady near your ear.

“Some days,” he says, “your smile will feel like a lie.”

James doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ask you to stop crying, doesn’t try to fix the ache sitting heavy in your chest. He just keeps going, voice warm, soaked hair sticking to his forehead as he holds your gaze.

“And that’s alright. I’ll know where to find the real one.”

You glance up at him, lashes damp, heart aching. “Where?”

He grins, the smallest tilt of his mouth, not smug or teasing but certain, like he has spent months learning every version of you, and this one—wet with rain, worn thin, unraveling at the edges—is just another part of the map he already knows by heart.

“I find it when you’re baking with Mum,” he says first, brushing a lock of wet hair from your cheek. “When you pretend not to care but you lean in every time she offers to teach you something.”

You swallow. He goes on.

“When you try something new and your face gets all confused, and Regulus teases you, and you act offended but you never actually stop.”

You let out the softest breath — almost a laugh.

“When Sirius hugs you and you pretend to hate it, but you always hug him back for half a second longer than he does.”

You hate how seen that makes you feel.

“When I kiss you,” James says, voice dipping slightly lower, “and you push me away, all huffing and scowling — but then you smile anyway, right after. Not for me to see. Just… because.”

You look down, heart a mess in your throat.

“When you steal the biggest jumper in the room but still act like it’s not enough and curl up into yourself like you’re trying to disappear.”

You blink. You hadn’t even known he’d noticed that.

“When you fidget with your rings during serious conversations. When you cut your toast into perfect halves but only eat one.”

He brushes his thumb beneath your eye, gentle.

“When you braid your hair with shaking hands on bad days because it’s the only thing you can still control.”

He keeps going, and he doesn’t falter once.

“When you laugh at something Sirius says but bite the inside of your cheek after, like you’re not used to joy lasting that long.”

You’re crying again. This time you let yourself.

“When you tuck your feet under you on the couch and pretend you’re cold, even though we both know it’s just so you won’t be touched unless you choose it.”

You want to look away, but he won’t let you.

“When you whisper goodnight to your own reflection in the hallway mirror — like you’re still learning how to be kind to the girl staring back.”

“And when you say nothing at all,” James murmurs, “but your fingers reach for mine under the table anyway.”

His voice is almost a prayer now.

“I find your real smile in the in-between places—the quiet moments, the gentle cracks where the light slips through.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering like a promise.

“So even when you feel like you’re disappearing, like you’ve slipped too far into the dark — I’ll still know where to look.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until James wipes a tear from your chin, not startled, not worried — just there, always, with hands steady and patient.

“See?” he says softly. “Even when you’re hiding, you still leave a trail.”

“And you’ll always find it?” you whisper, throat thick.

He leans his forehead against yours, soaked and breathless. “Every time.”

His thumb brushes another tear from your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s touching something sacred.

Then another. And another. As if every drop matters to him. As if each one deserves to be seen, and then let go. 

His other hand finds its way into your hair, tucking back a rain-heavy strand that clings stubbornly to your skin.

You’re both soaked — your clothes plastered to your bodies, your hearts just as bare — but his gaze holds so much gentleness, it feels like warmth.

He leans in.

Not rushed, not greedy — just sure. Like this moment has always been waiting for itself. His lips meet yours, soft and slow and steady, like the way honey slips from a spoon.

And when you pull back — cheeks damp with rain and love alike — you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in the curve of his shoulder, voice barely a whisper.

“I love you, Jamie.”

He stills. Just for a second. Like the world stopped to catch its breath.

Then: “Merlin, I love when you say my name like that.”

You laugh, a little hiccup of sound against his chest, like joy finally broke the surface.

He grins into your hair, arms tightening. “Say it again.”

“No,” you murmur, but you’re still smiling, your face warm despite the chill. “Don’t get greedy.”

“Oh, but I will,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “because I’ve been waiting since the minute I met you for this moment. For you, all of you.”

You shake your head, blushing, but before you can bury yourself back into his chest, he tugs on your hand and nods toward the house. “Come on, love. Let’s go make some more frosting.”

You blink at him. “Didn’t we have frosting two days ago?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically beaming, “and we’ll have it every day if you want. Frosting and love and all the soft things you never got.”

You don’t answer right away.

You just let yourself be pulled forward, hand in his, the rain washing down your spine like a second spine. Inside the house — warm, golden, safe — light spills through the windows. 

Through the foggy glass, you can already see Sirius rolling his eyes at something Euphemia says, while Regulus sips tea like it’s a ceremony and pretends not to smile.

Inside, your voice rises again—bright and unexpected, like a flame refusing to go out.

James watches you with that look he doesn’t bother hiding anymore, the one that says he’s memorizing you, holding each moment like it’s something rare, something he’s scared to lose. 

You swipe frosting onto his nose, slow and teasing, and he doesn’t flinch. Just stands there with that soft look he gets sometimes, the one that feels like a held breath. 

Then, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be known by you, he dips a finger into the bowl, brings it to his mouth, and pulls a face so exaggerated it nearly breaks your laugh into two.

He grimaces like a child tasting medicine, all scrunched eyes and over-the-top theatrics, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a real one, bright and full in your chest like something blooming open.

He leans in close, gentle in a way he doesn't speak aloud, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s sacred. 

The world hums along as if nothing has shifted, but something has. In the stillness that follows, he looks at you like he could live a hundred lives and choose this one every time—just to be here, covered in sugar and light, with you laughing in the kitchen like it’s never hurt to be alive.

Outside the doorway, tucked in the quiet curve of the hallway, two figures stand watching. The lights from the kitchen paint them in warm shadows.

Euphemia stands in the doorway, her silhouette lit soft by the kitchen light. 

She watches her son with something ancient in her gaze — not surprise, not pride, but the kind of quiet understanding only mothers ever seem to carry.

Her hands are tucked gently into her sleeves, like there’s something sacred she’s holding onto.

A moment later, Sirius joins her, silent and slow, leaning against the frame beside her.

“She thinks he hates frosting,” Euphemia says softly, her voice like the rain still tapping the roof.

Sirius glances sideways. “He doesn’t?”

“He adores it,” she murmurs. “Used to sneak it out of the tin with a spoon when he was ten. Still does, when no one’s looking.”

Sirius huffs a breath of laughter. “Why let her think otherwise?”

Euphemia doesn’t look away from the pair in the kitchen. “Because she always lets him have the cake part. And he wants her to have the sweet.”

Sirius looks toward his brother, who’s now brushing a smudge of flour from your nose while you pretend not to smile too much.

“He’d give her anything.”

“He does,” Euphemia says. “Even the things she doesn’t know she’s missing.”

There’s a pause, soft and full of something unspoken, before Sirius says quietly, almost to himself,

“She’ll be loved.”

And so you stand in the kitchen washed in gold, where the rain outside sings soft against the windows and the scent of vanilla drapes itself over the bones of the house. 

There were years when love came braided in silence and obedience, when sweetness was something you only ever imagined, something you gave away without tasting, something that lived in storybooks and other people’s birthdays. 

But here — in this glowing hush, in the weight of his eyes on you like a vow he keeps choosing — something breaks open in you. Gently. Without pain. 

The bowl is nearly empty, but the love lingers, rich and steady, not loud or grand, but real in the quiet curve of your mouth and the warmth in your chest. 

Behind you, in the doorway, a mother and a brother stand without speaking, carrying a kind of ache that only love knows — the kind that waits in the wings, the kind that chooses softness again and again. 

And maybe that is what love is in the end, not the absence of pain but the presence that follows it, the quiet return, the choosing again and again. 

He never stopped loving the sweetness. He just wanted you to have it first — to taste what your childhood kept out of reach, to learn that softness could be safe, that someone would wait in the rain with hands full of kindness just to be near you, that someone would stay even when you break, even when you cannot ask.

Simply to show that no matter what the world took from you, you will be loved.

[pearcheol]

"If you look closely, you'll see them!"

Regulus Black x fem!reader

synopsis: you swear regulus has dimples but no one believes you, not until he walks in and finds you with his eyes. the room stills, and for a breathless moment, they begin to see what you always have.

warnings: pure fluff, mentions of cold deameanor, some mild language, grumpy x sunshine kinda?

w/c: 3k

a/n: my headcanon is that regulus has dimples!!! i said what i said guys, argue with me !! also this has been in my drafts for a good 7 months </3

masterlist

"Regulus Black does not have dimples!"

Sirius declares for the third time that afternoon, sprawled across the common room sofa with his legs thrown carelessly over James’s lap, his voice carrying that unbothered arrogance he wielded like a second skin.

"You’re hallucinating."

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you stand firm before the Marauders, unyielding in your defiance. Mary is nestled against Remus’s shoulder, her eyes glimmering with barely-contained amusement as if she knows something the others don’t.

"I am not hallucinating," you retort, voice dripping with indignation, hands finding your hips in a stance that borders on stubbornness. "I’ve seen them! They’re right here."

You jab your own cheeks for emphasis, fingers pressing into the softness just beneath your eyes, and the room erupts into snorts and muffled laughter, your so-called friends delighting in your apparent delusion.

But you know the truth. You have seen them—the delicate crescents that carve themselves into his cheeks when he smiles in that unguarded way, soft and fleeting, like moonlight filtering through darkened leaves. It is a secret you hold close to your heart, something sacred and untouched, for Regulus Black is not supposed to smile like that. Not according to them.

To everyone else, he is sharp lines and cold eyes, distant and unyielding, a boy forged from winter’s breath and brittle starlight. His name drips from their tongues like a warning, a reminder of ancient bloodlines and whispered expectations. But you know better. You have seen the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way his hands hesitate before touching yours as if afraid he might shatter something precious.

Regulus Black, to you, is soft edges and hidden warmth, tenderness folded into the corners of his smile, something gentle and achingly beautiful beneath the surface. They could not see it, would not believe it, but you did. You always did.

"Darling," James begins, slipping into his most condescending tone as he tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at you properly, eyes alight with mischief. "I’ve known Reggie since fourth year, and not once have I ever seen a dimple. Not even a suggestion of one."

He is wrong, you think, pressing your lips together to keep the secret tucked safely in your heart.

They do not know the way Regulus looks at you when no one is watching, how his gaze softens like the edge of dawn, or how his laugh—rare and unbidden—blooms like a flower in the dark. They do not know that Regulus Black, for all his coldness, holds sunlight in his smile, and you are one of the very few who has ever been allowed to see it.

"That’s because you’re not paying attention," you shoot back, arms crossing defensively. "He does this little smile sometimes, it’s soft and kind of lopsided, and there’s this tiny dimple right here—" you poke your cheek again, more insistently, as if the physicality might convince them. "I swear, it’s like magic."

"Or madness," Remus suggests mildly, and Mary dissolves into laughter, her curls shaking as she leans further into him.

"I mean, we’re talking about Regulus Black here, right? My-face-is-carved-from-stone Regulus Black?"

"Maybe it’s just a shadow," Sirius chimes in, inspecting his nails with a grin that teeters on smugness. He hardly even glances up, as if the matter is too trivial for his full attention.

"A trick of the light. Or you’ve been hexed. Definitely hexed. I bet it’s a dimple jinx. You see fake dimples, fall madly in love." His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, and the others snicker at the notion.

"I have not been hexed!" you cry, voice pitching higher in your indignation, but your outburst only seems to spur their laughter further.

The sound spills into the room like the crackle of firewood, unrestrained and merry, and you stand at the center of it all, defiant and unyielding. "I’m telling you, I’ve seen them. He has dimples!"

"Right," James nods, his expression shifting to exaggerated seriousness as he claps a hand on your shoulder, eyes sparkling with that brand of Marauder mischief that rarely bodes well.

"And I’m secretly the heir to the Malfoy fortune."

"Stop it." you protest, your hands flying to your hips as if that might root your argument more firmly in truth.

"He has dimples. If you look closely, you’ll see them!"

They laugh again, the sound bubbling up like champagne flutes clinking together, indulgent and disbelieving. But you only hold your ground, chin tilted upward with all the stubbornness of someone who has glimpsed something magical and refuses to let it be reduced to smoke and shadows.

Because you know. You have seen the way Regulus’s face softens when he lets his guard slip, how those tiny, secret dimples blossom at the edges of his smile like something fragile and hidden from the rest of the world. It is not a trick of the light, not some fleeting mirage conjured by wishful thinking.

It is real. He is real. And maybe, just maybe, they have never looked closely enough.

"He does not," Sirius says flatly. "I would know. I’ve seen that miserable mug for seventeen years straight, and not once has it ever hinted at joy. If he’s smiling for you, you might want to check if he’s choking."

"You don’t know everything about him," you snap back, and it’s a bit more pointed than you intended, because Sirius’s expression shifts for the briefest moment, but then he’s back to smirking, one brow arched.

"Oh, I know enough. And I know that my miserable little brother is physically incapable of producing dimples. It would require smiling first. Which is practically illegal for him, by the way. Pretty sure he signed a contract with Death himself."

"He does smile," you argue. "Just... not around you lot."

Mary’s eyes light up at that, and she sits up a little straighter, nudging Remus. "Not around us, huh? Just around you?"

You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. "Well… yeah. I suppose." At their expressions, you quickly add, "That’s not weird!"

"It’s a little weird," Remus says thoughtfully. "I mean, I’ve never seen him smile like that." He looks to Sirius for confirmation, who just shakes his head.

"Me neither," Sirius agrees. "And if he was going to be grinning like a lovesick idiot, I feel like I’d know. Or maybe you just have some sort of freaky dimple-seeing ability. Is that a thing? Can we get that checked?"

"Maybe he only smiles for her," Mary sing-songs, and you swat at her, cheeks blazing. "What? I’m just saying!"

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, frustration curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs. You know what you saw. It wasn’t magic or shadows or madness. It was Regulus, soft and unguarded in a way that felt almost secret. A piece of him reserved just for you, like a glimpse behind the curtain of a play only you were meant to watch.

But they wouldn’t believe you. They couldn’t. Because to them, Regulus was all sharp edges and cold stares, impenetrable as stone. But to you, he was something else entirely.

You saw the parts he kept hidden—the softness, the ache, the way his eyes would linger when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his fingers brushed yours just a bit too long when he handed you your books, the way he stood a little closer than necessary when you walked side by side. His dimples were proof of it. Proof of the parts of him that were gentle and real and yours.

"I’m not making it up," you murmur stubbornly, softer this time, almost like you’re telling it to yourself.

James leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know, I almost want you to be right. I’ve never seen Regulus with dimples before. I think it would break my brain."

The room is still shaking with laughter when the portrait door swings open. It is a subtle thing, just the soft groan of hinges and the hush of movement, but you feel it like an echo in your bones. Your gaze snaps up before you can help it, the breath stalling in your lungs as if caught between heartbeats.

There he is, Regulus Black, framed in the doorway like he has stepped out of a painting, shadows and light playing across his features in sharp relief.

He is ice and elegance, his gaze sweeping over the room with cool detachment, the sort of look that makes even Sirius go still. His brother’s grin falters, an instinctual pause as if the air has been sucked from the room.

Regulus’s eyes flicker over them, James’s raised brow, Sirius’s smirk half-frozen in place, Remus’s unbothered calm, but there is nothing there, not even a nod of acknowledgment. His expression is marble-carved, beautiful and unyielding.

But then his gaze finds yours, and it softens, melts like snow beneath the first touch of spring. His eyes brighten, lips twitching at the corners, and suddenly it is like you are the only two people in the room. The change is breathtaking, the kind of transformation that feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

Without thinking, you are already moving, feet carrying you across the room as if pulled by some invisible thread.

"Regulus," you breathe, and the way his name falls from your lips feels like unspooling thread, like the first sigh of spring. His expression softens entirely, something delicate and aching sparking behind his eyes as you practically throw yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, arms winding around your waist, steady and certain, like he has been waiting for you his entire life.

Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, fingertips grazing the base of his neck as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. His smile is still there, still hovering at the edges, and it is soft and real and yours.

"I missed you," you whisper, half a confession, half a prayer, and as soon as the words leave your lips, it happens.

A tiny crease, delicate and almost imperceptible, blooms on his left cheek, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

A dimple, soft and secret, there and gone in a heartbeat, as if it only exists for you.

"I missed you too, amour," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over your face like he is memorizing it. "You have no idea."

There is a tension in the room, thick and breathless, as if the very walls are leaning in to listen, the crackle of the fire muted under the weight of disbelief.

The Marauders and Mary are watching with wide eyes, suspended between fascination and utter incredulity, as if the scene before them is too tender, too impossibly soft to be real.

Regulus Black—aloof and unyielding, frost-kissed and sharp-edged—is holding you like something sacred, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness that seems to contradict everything they thought they knew of him. His thumb brushes across your cheek, feather-light and reverent, as though you are made of something finer than bone and breath, something worth protecting.

And then he smiles—just a fraction more—but it is enough.

You do not even realize what you are doing; your body moves before your mind catches up, and you lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and soft and so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into an old memory. He blinks, eyes flickering with surprise, but you do not pull away.

You lean in again, pressing your lips to his other cheek, right where his smile deepens, and it happens—a twin to the first, blooming on the opposite cheek as if coaxed into existence by your touch alone.

A second dimple, tender and unmistakable, carved into his pale skin like it had been waiting there all along, hidden just beneath the surface.

You are not the only one who notices.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own breath, followed by a very loud, "What the hell?" from James, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and utter disbelief.

Regulus glances up, his gaze catching on James, who is staring as if he has just witnessed stone turn to gold, like magic itself has unfolded right in front of him.

Sirius is uncharacteristically silent, eyes narrowed in something akin to suspicion or maybe even wonder, while James’s jaw is completely unhinged, glasses slipping precariously down the bridge of his nose.

Remus is blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear away a mirage, mouth slightly parted in surprise. And Mary—sweet, sharp-eyed Mary—looks positively gleeful, her grin spreading slow and wicked as she nudges Remus sharply in the ribs, her eyes dancing with triumph.

"I told you," she mouths, lips curving around each word with delight.

Because it is true.

There is no need to look closely, no need to squint or peer beneath shadows—Regulus Black’s dimples are right there, clear as daylight and twice as warm, so stunningly visible that they might as well have been carved out of starlight.

They blossom wide and unguarded, softening the sharp lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, he is not the boy forged from winter’s chill and midnight silence. He is something brighter, something softer, and it is plain to see that with you, he is allowed to be gentle.

"I told you!" you practically crow, turning back to face them while still locked in Regulus’s arms. "I told you he has dimples!"

Sirius remains silent, watching with something like suspicion, but James looks like he has seen a ghost.

James is still staring. "I think I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down," Remus points out.

"I think I need to sit down lower," James clarifies faintly.

But you are not paying attention to them anymore, because Regulus is looking at you with that same impossible smile, both dimples still lingering like promises.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking a gentle line across your skin. "You told them about my dimples?" he asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

You nod, breathless and unashamed. "I did. And they did not believe me."

His smile softens, stretching wider, and both dimples deepen like secret doorways to some hidden softness that only you are allowed to see.

He leans in, the space between you shrinking until his breath mingles with yours, and his voice drops to a low, velvety murmur meant only for you.

"You really should not spend so much time with Gryffindors," he whispers, his tone laced with quiet disdain that is more habit than heart, though his gaze remains warm and unyielding, crafted entirely for you. "I think they are starting to rub off on you." His eyes glimmer with amusement, but there is something else there too, something tender that settles in the quiet curve of his smile.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, like the first crack of sunlight through winter clouds, and before you know it, your hands are tugging him closer, closing whatever space remains.

In that moment, it is just you and him, suspended in the fragile stillness that belongs only to the two of you, where the rest of the world feels distant and unimportant, something to be dealt with later.

For now, there is only this: his smile, his dimples carved like promises into his cheeks, and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his arms around you, holding you close as if he is terrified of letting go, as if this is a vow whispered into the spaces between heartbeats.

The truth is, Sirius had always known that Regulus had dimples.

He had known for years, had seen the faint creases carve themselves into his brother’s cheeks on the rarest of occasions, like fleeting whispers of a softer world beneath the ice.

But the thing is, those dimples only ever appeared when Regulus was around you, when your laughter spilled into the room like sunlight or when your name slipped from his mouth with that unguarded tenderness that seemed to unravel something deep and hidden in him.

It was as though the universe had woven this small, delicate fragment of softness solely for you to uncover, a secret threaded carefully into the very fabric of him, waiting patiently for your hands to find it, to hold it like something sacred and fragile and wholly yours.

[pearcheol]

The sound of hunger is really louder than the sound of bullets!!

Yes, this fact, I ask you repeatedly to donate to carry me and feed my family, and this is the last time I ask you honestly. If donations are obtained, I will be the happiest person in this world because the need is very difficult. I don’t know how to tell you what we are going through, but everyone knows what we are living and it is difficult for many of you to look at it on the Internet. So I ask you periodically and repeatedly to donate to me. I don’t know English. Write on Google translator. If you don’t really feel what I’m going through, it’s from my lack of knowledge to express well in English. I ask everyone who sees the donation and participation post to reach donors, friends. I’m living the most difficult days of my life. I have never seen such days that make it difficult to get a loaf of hunger bread. It’s really painful. 😞💔

More than a year and I’m stuck in the same amount. I didn’t get many donations for not knowing enough about the program. I hope you stand with me and everyone is able to publish with the status of hashtags and some words that encourage donations to the people of Gaza ⚰️🙏🏻💔We are slowly dying of hunger .

[pearcheol]

‘cause i can see you

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong! word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3) note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x

masterlist

You hadn’t meant to look at him—again.

But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. He’d just bumped into the edge of someone’s desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.

Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.

Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased. 

Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films. 

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism. 

Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.

Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.

“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”

Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke. 

“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you. 

You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet. 

You were still new.

Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.

Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead. 

“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.

You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”

Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve. 

Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.

He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”

“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.

When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you. 

You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.

You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural. 

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing. 

You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.

There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.

It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.

You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.

Maybe.

The office changed at night. 

Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet. 

You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.

He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges. 

Almost like a different person entirely. 

You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes. 

Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway. 

“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.

Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”

You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.

He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm. 

Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look. 

“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback. 

It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely. 

Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered. 

Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.

The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.

“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.

His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.

Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”

“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement. 

“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper. 

You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he’d done it.

You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet. 

Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.

He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.

His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.

You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased. 

Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”

“I thought you liked being late.”

He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”

You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”

“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.

“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.

Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.

You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance. 

His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors. 

He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless. 

And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone. 

Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.

You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.

Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.

That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.

“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”

“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard. 

“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”

You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.

Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”

“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”

He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”

That caught you off guard.

Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”

The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.

You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard. 

Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”

Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”

He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out. 

You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.

You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.

It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.

And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength. 

Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist. 

The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.

“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”

You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”

Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview. 

And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??

You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.

For now.

You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.

He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.

Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.

In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C

You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.

The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.

But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”

Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.

Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.

Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.

Until now.

You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.

You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention. 

This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.

This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.

Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.

Something had changed, and you liked it.

Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.

Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.

Clark Kent? Superman?

You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.

You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.

A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.

Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.

You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.

Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.

Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.

By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.

“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”

The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.

You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.

For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different. 

Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.

Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.

Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”

You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”

Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”

You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.

Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.

“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”

“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”

You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”

“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”

Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point. 

Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.

Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You blinked, amused. “What?”

“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”

Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”

You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk. 

Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”

You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”

His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.

“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.

And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.

You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.

You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator. 

You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end. 

Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen. 

So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.

Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.

It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.

You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.

You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.

“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”

A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”

Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat. 

You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?

Except no, they didn’t. 

You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.

You stared back at the screen.

Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.

You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.

What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—

That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.

Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”

And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.

You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.

You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.

Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.

Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark? 

You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.

Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.

Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.

He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.

There was no way they were the same person.

You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.

That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.

You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.

Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.

Unless that was the point.

You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.

You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.

You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.

You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.

And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.

The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.

Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.

The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.

Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself. 

Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city. 

You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.

What exactly were you doing?

You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark. 

Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.

You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.

But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.

And yet.

When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.

Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.

You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.

The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.

Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable. 

You flinched, braced for impact.

But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.

There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.

Nothing so much as grazed you. 

When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you. 

Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.

Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you. 

You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.

You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”

Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.

When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.

Superman was right in front of you.

“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.

Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.

You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system. 

You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.

Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.

But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen. 

The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.

It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.

And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.

Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly. 

But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark. 

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”

“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.

Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”

He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.

Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.

God.

You were losing it.

Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks. 

He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.

Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.

“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently. 

Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.

You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.

The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.

But you knew. You knew.

Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.

This was real.

Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.

The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.

Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.

And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.

You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins. 

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.

The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.

Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere. 

While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.

You glanced up.

Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.

Your eyes met.

It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into. 

It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.

Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark. 

There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose. 

Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.

You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.

Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.

It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.

You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message. 

You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.

Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask? 

The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.

Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.

You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to. 

Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.

You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.

Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual. 

There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard. 

The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.

You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.

It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.

This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.

He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.

“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.

You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.

You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.

“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”

You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”

You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it. 

You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence. 

How could the same man feel so different?

Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.

Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.

Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.

Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”

You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”

You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes. 

Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.

Your breath caught.

Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.

Still unmistakably Clark Kent. 

And Superman.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.

Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”

Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.

It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before. 

It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.

Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.

“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.

He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you. 

“They’re supposed to—”

You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”

Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”

The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.

You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss. 

His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.

“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”

Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying. 

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”

Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.

“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”

You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”

Clark’s expression faltered.

“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”

“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”

He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.

“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”

You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”

His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”

“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”

“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”

You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”

Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out. 

Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours. 

Clark Kent loved you.

“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”

You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.

“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”

His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?” 

You nodded before your words could betray you.

Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”

Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark. 

He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.

In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”

His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”

You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.

The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.

There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.

You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.

It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.

“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”

Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”

Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.

The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips. 

Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.

Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.

Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another. 

The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric. 

You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.

It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman. 

Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”

Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.

You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.

You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”

And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners. 

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.

The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.

Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.

In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.

At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.

“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.

Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.

It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.

You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.

And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.

Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.

Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.

“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.

Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.

“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.

You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.

Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.

The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.

Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.

You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.

Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.

“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.

He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.

“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.

Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.

“I missed this,” you murmured.

“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.

It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”

Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.

Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.

“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”

Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.

You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.

As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.

“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.

Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.

Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.

Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator. 

Everything was back to normal.

Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.

note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭

[pearcheol]

the love list

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.

You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.

Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.

Better make a list.

[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.

‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.

Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.

It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.

The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.

You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.

And after that, it had been a long while.

Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.

Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.

You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come. 

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things. 

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so. 

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently. 

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you. 

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort. 

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time. 

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in. 

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love. 

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours. 

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. 

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met. 

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days. 

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often. 

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.) 

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile. 

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response. 

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe. 

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart. 

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?” 

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back. 

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’. 

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point. 

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing. 

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees. 

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to. 

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing. 

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it. 

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here. 

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing. 

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt. 

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet. 

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ? 

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

 “They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?” 

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up. 

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t. 

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?” 

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?” 

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.” 

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon. 

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them. 

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?” 

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out. 

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.” 

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets. 

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again. 

“Clark?” 

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk. 

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised. 

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady. 

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away. 

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him. 

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual. 

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising. 

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge. 

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me. 

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs. 

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone. 

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up. 

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?” 

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to. 

“You’re already home, though.” 

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, ���Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment. 

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology. 

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching. 

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.” 

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.” 

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling. 

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it. 

You remind him, “You like surprises.” 

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything. 

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet. 

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed. 

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly. 

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper. 

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?” 

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours. 

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?” 

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence. 

You melt in his lap. 

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend. 

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low. 

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly. 

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.” 

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly. 

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes. 

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads. 

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it. 

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue. 

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder. 

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night. 

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.  

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it. 

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary. 

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means. 

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes. 

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it. 

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me. 

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all. 

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide. 

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.  

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good. 

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.” 

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.” 

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest. 

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely. 

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget. 

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease. 

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later. 

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—” 

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease. 

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you. 

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon. 

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you. 

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door. 

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye. 

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list. 

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

[pearcheol]

can anyone match my donation of $10 for Amal and her family? this fundraiser has 6 days left and isn’t near its goal

[pearcheol]

be my, be my baby

summary: Now that the team knows you and Bucky are married, they learn very quickly about your strange marriage. word count: 8.9k+ pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: here is the long awaited part 2 to electric touch! (i hope i live up to the expectations😭) i had a lot of fun writing this, it's a bunch of fun little scenarios of the team learning about your marriage - which is... unconventional to say the least warnings/tags: takes place after thunderbolts*, domestic thunderbolts, bamf!reader, grumpy x sunshine (bucky is sunshine), reader is "brooding" and "cold", bucky is a lover boy, drinking alcohol, smut, slight sub!bucky, slight dom!reader, punishment, but not like punishment punishment, oral (f!receiving... and through the underwear), just the tip, a little bit of biting, slight switch!bucky & reader, bucky is a giver, unprotected piv, creampie, needy!bucky, yelena is a little shit

“If I find out who isn’t cleaning the lint out of the dryer, I will kill you,” you spoke, staring blankly at the team sitting in the common room.

John immediately raised his hands defensively. “Not me—I always clean it.”

Ava shrugged lazily. “I don’t do laundry here.”

Yelena glanced suspiciously toward Alexei. “Dad?”

Alexei frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “Dryer makes lint? I thought that was feature.”

Bucky snorted, clearly amused. “Alexei, it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes at Alexei. “It could start a fire.”

Alexei’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. This explains strange burning smell.”

Bob looked alarmed. “There’s a burning smell?”

Yelena groaned dramatically. “Dad. Seriously?”

Alexei shrugged, grinning cheerfully. “Sorry. Next time, no fire.”

You sighed heavily, turning toward the hallway. “Just clean the lint trap.”

“Will do, sweetheart,” Bucky called playfully after you.

You paused briefly, glaring over your shoulder. “Barnes, you’re still on thin ice.”

He smiled warmly. “Noted.” You disappeared down the hall without another word.

Yelena turned, raising a brow at Bucky. “She really is charming.”

Bucky chuckled softly, eyes affectionate. “Yeah, I know.”

John shook his head, voice dry. “Barnes, you have weird taste.”

Alexei nodded approvingly. “Is good taste. Y/N very scary, very effective.”

Bob looked thoughtful. “Maybe you could remind everyone about the lint trap with a sign.”

Ava snorted. “Yeah, ‘clean lint trap or Y/N will murder you.’”

Bucky smirked faintly. “Might actually work.”

Yelena glanced toward the hallway again, sighing softly. “Honestly, I’d believe her.”

Alexei grinned cheerfully. “Good motivator! I clean lint right now.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said dryly, shaking his head as Alexei rushed enthusiastically toward the laundry room. “At least someone listens around here.”

---

You walked quietly into the kitchen, pouring yourself a cup of coffee without a word. Bucky glanced up from his seat at the counter, eyes lighting up slightly. "Morning, sweetheart."

You hummed noncommittally, sipping your coffee.

John groaned quietly. "Do you two ever stop flirting?"

You raised a brow at him, face blank. "We aren't flirting."

Yelena rolled her eyes dramatically. "Right. You just stare deeply into each other's souls every five seconds."

Bucky snorted softly. "That's not flirting. That's basic affection."

Ava sighed heavily. "I hate to see what you two actually think flirting is."

You exchanged a subtle, meaningful glance with Bucky. His lips curved faintly. "Trust me," you muttered dryly, looking back at Ava, "you haven't."

"Is threat or promise?" Alexei asked curiously from the table.

"Both," you replied flatly.

Bob smiled hesitantly. "I think it's nice."

Yelena waved him off. "You're too innocent for this, Bob."

Bucky stood casually, moving toward you and lightly touching your lower back. "Come on. Let's give them space."

John scowled. "See? Right there! Flirting."

You stared at him blankly. "Barnes touched my back. How scandalous."

Bucky shook his head slightly, guiding you toward the hall. As soon as you both were out of sight, he leaned in, voice low. "Wanna give them a real show?"

You smirked faintly, eyes glinting. "Absolutely."

"Perfect," he murmured softly, leaning in close. "Can't wait."

You gave him a small, dangerous smile. "They asked for it."

Bucky chuckled warmly. "We'll make them regret it."

You raised an eyebrow calmly. "Guaranteed."

---

The next morning, you walked calmly into the kitchen, wearing one of Bucky’s oversized shirts and shorts that barely peeked from beneath it. The team was already scattered around the kitchen, drinking coffee, half-awake.

Bucky immediately looked up from his coffee, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his lips. “Damn, sweetheart. You wear that better than I do.”

You didn’t reply verbally, instead stepping smoothly toward him, pressing your hand lightly to his chest. You leaned down, brushing your lips softly against his cheek before casually whispering, just loud enough for the others to hear, “missed you in bed.”

Bucky’s grin widened, his metal hand sliding slowly around your waist. “Sorry, doll. Early morning training.”

John nearly choked on his coffee. “Oh, come on!”

Yelena’s mouth twisted in clear disgust. “Really? It’s barely seven.”

You turned slowly, settling comfortably into Bucky’s lap. You reached casually for his coffee cup, taking a slow sip. “Problem?”

Ava shook her head irritably. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You arched an eyebrow calmly. “This is flirting. Yesterday was not.”

Yelena sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We take it back. Stop.”

Alexei looked up curiously, clearly confused. “I see no issue. Couple seems happy.”

Bob smiled shyly. “It’s sweet.”

John gestured dramatically toward you both. “They’re being obnoxious!”

You took another slow sip from Bucky’s mug, eyes perfectly neutral. “You specifically requested clarification.”

Bucky squeezed your waist gently, smiling up at you affectionately. “Just giving the people what they want.”

“We definitely do not want,” Ava muttered flatly.

You leaned closer, whispering softly in Bucky’s ear, fully aware everyone could still hear. “Apparently, we’re making them uncomfortable.”

He chuckled quietly, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck. “They’ll live.”

Yelena groaned dramatically, standing abruptly. “Come on, Bob. Let’s go train. Far away.”

Bob glanced uncertainly at you both, following obediently. “Okay.”

John shook his head, leaving the kitchen quickly. “This is torture.”

Alexei remained seated, completely unbothered. “You two continue. I have popcorn.”

You rolled your eyes faintly, sliding smoothly from Bucky’s lap. “Show’s over.”

Bucky pouted dramatically. “Already?”

You shot him a pointed look. “Barnes.”

He smiled warmly, eyes crinkling. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

“Gross,” Ava muttered, finally stalking out after the others.

Bucky watched them leave, smiling faintly. “I think our work here is done.”

You hummed softly, taking another sip of his coffee. “For now.”

---

Someone—Alexei—suggested that the boys have a boys' night out while the girls stay in and “gossip.” You stared blankly at Yelena and Ava, a bottle of vodka and six shot glasses on the coffee table in front of all of you.

“Are we expecting guests?” you asked dryly, nodding toward the glasses.

Yelena smirked, pouring the first shots. “No. These are backups.”

Ava took hers, glancing at you. “Don’t look so excited.”

“I’m thrilled,” you replied flatly.

Yelena raised her glass. “To Barnes somehow convincing you to marry him.”

Ava raised hers as well. “A true miracle.”

You sighed, lifting your own glass. “Sure.”

Yelena downed hers instantly, eyeing you sharply afterward. “Okay. Start talking. When did this whole… you-and-Barnes thing happen?”

You shrugged lightly, sipping your vodka. “Years ago.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“New York,” you replied blankly.

Yelena squinted suspiciously. “How?”

“We met. We dated. We got married.”

Ava stared at you, clearly unimpressed. “Incredible storytelling skills, Y/N.”

“Did he propose?” Yelena asked, pouring herself another shot.

“Yes.”

Ava groaned loudly. “Details, Y/N!”

You took another slow sip, voice neutral. “He got on one knee and asked.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes, slamming down another empty glass. “You’re impossible.”

---

At the bar, Alexei eagerly placed fresh drinks in front of John and Bucky and slid a soda toward Bob. “Now, Barnes—how did you and our scary friend fall in love?”

Bucky smiled softly, looking thoughtful. “It was gradual. She’s… different, you know? Quiet, guarded. Took a while before she let me see beneath that. Then it was like I couldn’t imagine a day without her.”

John stared at him skeptically. “You’re telling me the woman who threatens murder over lint traps won you over by being quiet?”

Bucky chuckled warmly. “Trust me, there’s a lot more under the surface.”

Alexei nodded enthusiastically. “How did you ask for marriage?”

Bucky’s smile turned warm, eyes brightening at the memory. “We went for a walk in Brooklyn. I took her to our favorite spot near the bridge, got down on one knee, told her how much she meant to me, and asked. She actually smiled.”

John snorted. “I don’t believe you.”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head fondly. “I swear, it happened.”

Bob smiled shyly. “That sounds romantic.”

“It was,” Bucky agreed softly. “She’s amazing.”

Alexei clapped loudly. “Barnes, you old softie! I like this story.”

John rolled his eyes. “I still don’t buy it.”

---

Back at the Watchtower, Yelena was pouring her fifth shot, eyes slightly glazed. Ava was sprawled comfortably on the couch, nursing her own drink. “Wedding,” Yelena slurred, pointing dramatically at you. “What about the wedding?”

You took a careful sip from your own glass, completely unaffected. “Lake. Upstate New York.”

Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Who was there?” Yelena demanded loudly.

“The Avengers,” you replied simply.

Ava stared blankly. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “And your dress?”

“Princess gown,” you deadpanned, voice perfectly even. “Big skirt, lots of sparkle.”

Ava snorted loudly, dissolving into giggles. “Yeah, right.”

Yelena laughed, shaking her head dramatically. “Now I know you’re lying.”

You calmly sipped your vodka again. “Believe whatever you want.”

Yelena pointed at you accusingly, swaying slightly. “You’re funny, Y/N. You pretend not to be, but you are.”

“Sure,” you said flatly.

Ava smiled lazily, slumped further on the couch. “Princess gown. That’s hilarious.”

Yelena nodded emphatically, pouring another shot shakily. “Almost got us there.”

You shrugged, voice dry. “Almost.”

---

“You too, huh?” Yelena asked, rubbing her forehead as she walked into the kitchen, seeing Walker with his head in his hands.

John groaned quietly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Ava walked in after Yelena, looking half-dead. “I doubt anyone could.”

Bob glanced around hesitantly. “Did anyone else… hear things?”

Alexei nodded, completely unaffected. “Ah, yes. Barnes and Y/N were very active last night.”

John scowled deeply. “It was nonstop.”

Ava grimaced. “Very loud.”

Yelena sighed irritably, pouring herself coffee. “We need soundproofing. Immediately.”

At that moment, you walked casually into the kitchen, Bucky trailing just behind you. All eyes turned instantly, staring pointedly. You paused, eyebrow raising slowly. “What?”

Yelena narrowed her eyes accusingly. “You both had fun last night, I assume.”

You glanced at Bucky, confused. “What?”

John waved his hand irritably. “Don’t play dumb. We heard you two.”

Ava nodded firmly. “We heard everything.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed deeply. “Wait—what exactly did you hear?”

Alexei grinned widely, completely shameless. “Lots of grunting. Heavy breathing. Banging sounds.”

You stared blankly at them, slowly processing. Then, abruptly, you laughed—a sudden, genuine laugh that stunned everyone into silence.

John stared openly. “Did she just… laugh?”

Ava looked equally shocked. “That was terrifying.”

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “We weren’t having sex.”

Yelena looked skeptical. “Then what the hell were you doing?”

Bucky sighed deeply, rubbing his face tiredly. “She woke me up at 2 am because she couldn’t sleep. We rearranged the bedroom.”

Silence again. Then Alexei snorted loudly, clearly amused. “You move furniture at night instead of sex? Strange married life.”

Bob smiled shyly. “That’s kind of sweet.”

John shook his head irritably. “It’s still annoying.”

You shrugged lightly, pouring your coffee calmly. “Maybe next time we’ll actually have sex. See if you prefer that.”

John grimaced immediately. “No. Definitely not.”

Ava sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’d rather listen to the furniture.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Just warn us next time.”

Bucky chuckled softly, looking fondly toward you. “We’ll see.”

You glanced toward him briefly, voice dry. “No promises.”

John sighed again, clearly resigned. “I hate it here.”

Alexei grinned broadly. “I love it here. Very exciting every day.”

---

You slipped quietly into the dark closet, pulling the door almost closed behind you, leaving just a thin sliver of light. Exactly five minutes later, the door opened again, and Bucky’s silhouette filled the frame. He stepped inside smoothly, shutting the door fully and sealing you both into darkness.

“You couldn’t pick somewhere a little roomier?” he murmured softly, hands finding your waist effortlessly.

“You’re complaining?” you replied evenly, sliding your fingers into his hair.

“Not at all,” he whispered against your lips, pulling you flush against him. “Just observing.”

You didn’t respond, capturing his mouth firmly instead. He pressed you carefully back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other slipping beneath your shirt. Your breathing deepened, mingling together in the tight, quiet space.

His lips moved down your neck, teeth gently grazing your skin. “How long do we have?”

“Fifteen minutes,” you whispered breathlessly.

Bucky smiled against your collarbone. “More than enough.”

Suddenly, bright light flooded the closet as the door swung open abruptly. “What the hell?” John demanded, recoiling dramatically at the sight of you both tangled together.

Bucky turned slowly, sighing irritably. “Walker.”

John stared incredulously. “Why are you—why are you in the cleaning closet?”

You pushed Bucky back slightly, straightening your clothes smoothly, face carefully blank. “Clearly, for the privacy.”

John shook his head, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That’s weird.”

You stepped forward calmly, brushing past him without another glance. “I’m done here anyway.”

John glanced back at Bucky, eyebrow raised skeptically. “Closet, Barnes? Really?”

Bucky just smirked slightly, adjusting his shirt. “It has its charm.”

John groaned loudly. “Disgusting.”

You walked away without looking back, irritation clear in every step.

---

Later that night, Bucky leaned comfortably against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee. Yelena glanced at him suspiciously. “Closet, Barnes?” she repeated, looking entirely unimpressed.

He chuckled softly. “She picks the locations. I just follow instructions.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “You have instructions for this?”

Bucky shrugged, smirking faintly. “Once a week. Always in a different spot. She texts me exactly five minutes before—in code.”

Bob looked fascinated. “Why in code?”

“Because she’s paranoid,” Bucky replied easily. “And because she enjoys watching me struggle.”

Alexei laughed heartily. “Ah! Mystery and romance. Very good.”

John shook his head, still irritated. “I still don’t understand why a closet.”

Bucky sipped his coffee, smiling faintly. “Because she’s full of surprises.”

Yelena sighed deeply, rolling her eyes. “You two are ridiculous.”

Bucky just smiled quietly, eyes drifting toward the hall, already wondering where next week would take him.

---

You stood silently in front of the fridge, staring blankly at the empty shelf where your leftover slice of cheesecake had been sitting all day. You closed the fridge door, turned slowly, and moved toward the living room, where the team was sprawled out comfortably watching some pointless TV show. "Who ate it?" you asked flatly, stopping behind the couch.

Everyone turned simultaneously to look at you, blinking in confusion.

"Ate what?" Yelena asked carefully.

"My cheesecake," you said, eyes slowly scanning the room. "It was in the fridge."

John raised his hands immediately. "Not me. You scare me."

"Didn't touch it," Ava said, completely unconcerned.

Alexei shook his head innocently. "I learn lesson after dryer incident. No touching Y/N's things."

Bob shifted nervously, eyes wide. "I didn't even open the fridge today."

Your gaze settled on Bucky, who suddenly looked far too interested in the TV screen. "Barnes," you said slowly, voice dangerously calm. "Where's my cheesecake?"

Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes flicking briefly toward you. "Cheesecake?"

You stepped around the couch slowly, eyes locked onto his face. "My cheesecake. The last slice. The one you watched me carefully wrap last night and say, and I quote, 'I'm saving this for tomorrow.'"

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Oh, uh… that cheesecake."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah. That cheesecake."

He smiled apologetically, attempting charm. "I didn't realize it was that important to you."

"Barnes," John said dryly, "you're digging your own grave."

Yelena nodded. "Just apologize and offer to buy more."

You tilted your head slightly, eyes still on Bucky. "It was important enough that I wrapped it carefully and said out loud that it was mine."

Bucky winced slightly. "Sorry, doll. Really."

You stared at him silently for a long moment, then turned on your heel and walked out without another word, leaving tense silence behind you.

Bucky groaned softly, dropping his head back against the couch. "Shit."

John shook his head solemnly. "Nice knowing you, man."

Alexei chuckled, amused. "Barnes, maybe sleep with eyes open tonight."

---

A few hours later, you were quietly sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling absently through your phone when the bedroom door opened slowly, revealing a cautious-looking Bucky.

You didn't look up.

He stepped quietly into the room, closing the door gently behind him. "Still mad?"

You didn't respond, gaze still fixed on your phone.

He moved slowly toward the bed, voice carefully gentle. "It really was an accident. I genuinely didn't realize you'd care that much."

Your eyes flicked briefly toward him, cool and unreadable. "You didn't think I'd care about something I deliberately set aside?"

He sighed softly, dropping down onto the edge of the bed beside you. "Okay, yeah, that was dumb. I'm sorry."

You stared at him for a long moment, clearly unimpressed. "Apology noted."

He reached out carefully, gently touching your knee. "I'll buy you another cheesecake."

You raised an eyebrow slowly. "You'll buy me two."

"Three," he offered immediately, lips quirking slightly.

You narrowed your eyes, still cool. "Four."

He chuckled softly, gently sliding his hand further up your thigh. "Fine. Four cheesecakes. Whatever you want."

You finally set your phone aside, watching him evenly. "And?"

He tilted his head, eyes amused. "And… what?"

You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto his. "Apologize properly."

He smiled faintly, leaning in to brush his lips softly against yours. "I'm very sorry," he murmured gently, slowly deepening the kiss.

His hand slid higher, slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown, fingers ghosting over the soft fabric of your underwear. He shifted, lowering himself slightly, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, slow and deliberate.

Then he tried to tug your underwear down. Your hand shot out fast, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Leave them on," you said flatly.

He froze, head lifting slightly. "...What?"

You tilted your head, deadpan. "You want to apologize? Do it through fabric."

He blinked, mouth parting, and you watched the flush crawl up his neck like a slow burn. "...You're serious?" You stared at him. He swallowed. "Okay. Yeah. No, that’s... fair."

You leaned back against the pillows again, arms folding behind your head, gaze steady on him. "You shouldn't have eaten my cheesecake."

"I know," he mumbled, already kissing down your stomach. "Big mistake."

"Massive," you muttered.

He grinned against your skin. "You’re gonna hold this over me forever, aren’t you?"

"That was the last slice," you said darkly.

He nodded solemnly, hands spreading over your thighs, lifting them just slightly as he shifted between them. "I deserve this."

"Yeah," you muttered as he kissed the inside of your thigh. "You do."

He didn’t say anything else. Just pushed your legs wider, settled in, and started slow—open-mouthed kisses against the thin cotton, tongue pressing against the damp spot already forming. He groaned softly, fingers digging into your hips.

You exhaled sharply, eyes falling closed. "You’re not taking them off," you reminded, voice low.

His voice was muffled. "Wouldn’t dare."

His mouth worked over the fabric, patient, reverent, the friction maddening. You twitched beneath him, hips rolling slightly, and he just groaned again, hands holding you still.

"Fuck," you whispered, breath catching when his tongue circled deliberately over the same spot, again and again, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted through the fabric.

He pulled back just long enough to say, "You still mad at me?"

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling. "...Yes."

He smirked. "Good." Then he ducked back down, licking harder.

You bit your lip, biting back a sound, hands twitching where they were clenched in the sheets.

He was grinning against you now. You could feel it—obnoxious, smug, and cocky. But his tongue moved with purpose, with desperation, with apology. "Four cheesecakes," he breathed, hot against you.

"Five," you rasped.

He nodded, lips dragging slow and filthy across the soaked cotton. "Five. And I’m never eating your shit again without asking."

His mouth stayed pressed to the soaked cotton, tongue flattening and dragging slow as molasses across your clit, so relentless it made your back arch involuntarily. He was determined—like a soldier on a mission. His fingers dug into your thighs, thumbs rubbing idle circles against the soft skin just to soothe, but nothing about his mouth was gentle.

“Mmmph,” he groaned into you, the sound fucking obscene. The vibrations shot through you, sharp as a knife edge. You bit your lip hard, eyes fluttering shut, chest rising faster.

When his teeth grazed just barely over the fabric, you hissed. “Bucky—”

He pulled back just enough to breathe, chin slick, lips shiny, pupils blown to hell. “Yeah, doll?”

You stared down at him, your voice flat. “You're not taking them off.”

He smirked, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Didn’t plan to. I’m just gettin’ creative.” Then he leaned in again, tongue flicking the edge of the wet patch like he was teasing a wound.

Your head thunked back against the headboard with a low growl. “Then stop fucking around.”

He chuckled. "Yes ma'am."

His mouth sealed to your cunt again, tongue pressing hard right through the fabric, and you gasped—hips jerking before his arms locked you in place. He sucked over your clit like he was starving, tongue moving under the barrier, trying to get every drop. You felt the heat surge deep in your core, coil tight and fast, snapping like a tripwire.

“Ah—fuck—” Your thighs twitched in his grip, toes curling, back arching as your orgasm punched through you without warning, hot and sharp and fast. “Jesus—”

He didn’t stop. He kept licking, kept grinding his mouth into you like he wanted to wring every last shudder out of your body. You slapped the headboard behind you, fingers scrabbling for anything to hold.

"Goddamn it, Bucky—"

He finally pulled back, panting, mouth wet and eyes wild. "Still mad at me?"

You blinked down at him, your voice dry. “I hate you.”

He grinned, dragging his tongue over his lower lip. “That’s fair.”

You shoved his shoulder. “Move.”

"Move where?"

“Off the floor, you idiot.”

Bucky let himself be manhandled up onto the bed, his expression smug. You straddled him, still in your underwear, still flushed and breathing heavy.

He leaned back on his elbows, eyes trailing over you with heat. “So… still five cheesecakes, right?”

You didn’t answer. Just shifted, sliding up his thighs until your soaked underwear brushed the thick line of his cock through his sweats. His breath hitched. “Ohhh,” he murmured, eyes dragging up to your face. “So that’s how we’re playing it.”

You ground down slow, dragging your cunt along the length of him with maddening friction. “You wanna apologize? Start here.”

Bucky groaned low, fingers gripping the sheets, jaw tight as you rolled your hips again—dragging yourself along him, the wet cotton of your underwear catching perfectly over his cock.

“Fuck, baby…” he muttered, hips lifting into you. “That’s not even fair…”

You shrugged, moving again. His cock twitched under you, hard and pulsing, and you just kept going, using him, teasing yourself, grinding down like you had all the time in the world.

His voice dropped, rough and coaxing. “C’mon. Just the tip.”

You paused, eyebrow lifting. “You think that line still works on me?”

He grinned. “We’re married. I don’t need lines. I just need you to move those pretty little panties to the side.”

You stared at him. He held your gaze, cocky but not pushy, like he knew you'd give in eventually. You exhaled, dragged your underwear to the side slowly, and sat back down—just enough to line him up, just enough that the head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance.

Bucky cursed under his breath, hands flying to your hips. “Shit. Just like that—don’t move yet—fuck.”

You shifted slightly, and the tip slipped in. You both inhaled sharply.

“Jesus, you’re warm,” he breathed, eyes fluttering half-shut. “Just let me—”

You tensed when he pushed an inch deeper. “Bucky—”

“I know,” he whispered, voice tight. “I know, just—fuck, just a little more.”

You felt the stretch as he eased in slow, inch by inch, until you were nearly full and your breath stuttered in your chest. “I said just the tip,” you muttered, nails digging into his chest.

He gave a sheepish, breathless laugh. “Baby, I’m sorry—I got greedy. You’re just—fuck, you’re so good.”

You opened your mouth to snap something, but then he bucked his hips up, slow and deep, and you gasped, thighs trembling. “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured, hand sliding behind your neck to pull you down, lips brushing your jaw. “I’ll fuck you nice, yeah? Just let me—”

He surged up again, and your protest turned into a moan, your hands flying to his shoulders. “Fuck, Bucky—”

“Yeah,” he breathed, eyes blazing now. “That’s it, doll. That’s what I wanted. Been thinking about you all night.”

His hands gripped your thighs, guiding your movements as you started to ride him in earnest—slick, filthy sounds between you, the wet drag of your cunt around his cock making his head drop back with a groan.

You leaned forward, panting, chest brushing his. “You think this fixes it?”

“No,” he rasped, lifting his hips into you hard. “But it’s a start.”

You bit his shoulder, just enough to make him hiss. “You’re an asshole.”

Bucky grunted as your teeth sank in, low and sharp, and his hands clenched around your hips like he was holding back a groan.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice rough against your ear, "I know."

Then he flipped you. Fast. Smooth. Like he’d been thinking about it for a while. One moment you were on top, grinding down with full control, the next your back was pressed to the mattress and his weight settled over you, thick and hot and deep inside. His hands framed your face like he was scared you'd vanish if he blinked.

You blinked up at him.

His mouth was parted, breath ragged. "Let me."

You didn’t say anything. Just stared, waiting.

He leaned down, kissed your throat. "Gonna make it up to you, promise." His hips rolled into you slow, deep, like he was trying to learn every sound you made from the inside. He cursed under his breath.

"God—you're so fucking wet," he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. "Felt like heaven even before I was inside. Now it's—shit—"

You exhaled through your nose, fingers digging into his back. “You're stalling.”

That got a growl out of him. One of his hands slid down between your bodies—his vibranium one, cold at first, then warming quick from contact—pressing flat against your stomach as he fucked in deeper.

"Feel me right there?" he murmured, nose brushing yours. "Right where I belong."

"Talk less," you snapped.

He bit back a grin, lips dragging down your neck. "Yes ma'am."

And then he got serious. His rhythm changed—harder, slower, the kind that made your toes curl and your thighs twitch involuntarily. His human hand slid down your leg, hooking under your knee, pressing it up toward your chest.

You gasped when he hit deeper.

"There we go," he muttered, mouth grazing your collarbone. "Right there. That it?"

You didn't answer. Couldn't. Your nails dug into his shoulder and he moaned when you clenched around him.

His vibranium hand moved again—between you now—thumb dragging down to rub you slow, firm. Perfect pressure.

“Fuck—”

“Shh, I got you,” he breathed, kissing your cheek, your jaw, his thumb never stopping. “Let me take care of you, baby. Just let go for me, yeah?”

You hissed through your teeth when he thrust deeper, thumb circling faster.

“I can feel it,” he whispered, hips snapping, breath hot against your ear. “You’re close. Come for me. Right now. Please.”

Your breath caught. Your legs shook. You grabbed the back of his neck and arched hard against him—

“Fuck, Bucky—”

"That's it—fuck, that's it, there you go—"

You shattered beneath him, tight and pulsing, and he didn’t stop moving, just kept fucking into you with a low groan, arms shaking, trying not to come too soon.

His hips kept driving into you, deep and slow, your walls still fluttering around him in the aftermath of your orgasm. His breath stuttered against your neck, jaw clenched so tight you could feel the tension in every part of him.

“Fuck, baby—” he gasped, voice rough, almost pained. “You feel so good when you come… fuckin’ squeezing me like that, shit—”

You didn’t say anything, just slid your hand up to grip his hair and tugged hard.

Bucky groaned, eyes fluttering shut, his cock twitching deep inside you. “Please,” he rasped. “Let me make you come again. Wanna feel it again. Wanna feel you break on me.”

You dragged your nails down his back, slow and deliberate, and his hips stuttered. “You’re so fucking greedy,” you muttered.

He nodded against your throat, lips brushing the skin there. “Yeah. For you. Always.”

His vibranium hand slid back between your legs without hesitation, thumb finding your clit like he was born for it. The pressure was perfect—firm, relentless—and the real hand tightened on your thigh, holding it high, spreading you wider, deeper.

"That's it," he whispered, watching your face now, eyes desperate. "C’mon, doll. Give me another. Want it so bad—"

You grabbed his jaw, forced his gaze to stay locked on yours. "Make me," you ordered.

Bucky let out a strangled sound that was half-moan, half-growl, and then he was grinding into you harder, thumb never letting up, hips moving with exact, perfect control. "I will," he swore, voice shaking. "I'll fucking wreck you if you let me. I’ll make you come so hard you forget your own name. Please let me."

You didn't reply, just held his stare, teeth digging into your bottom lip when the pressure started to climb again. Fast. Too fast.

"God, you’re perfect," he groaned, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheekbone, your jaw. "So fucking perfect like this, underneath me, letting me take care of you—fuck—please come for me, baby, please—"

You gasped, head tipping back as your second orgasm slammed through you, sudden and brutal, making your whole body tense, your back arch up off the mattress.

Bucky’s eyes rolled back. “Oh, fuck—yes, yes, baby, just like that—goddamn—”

You were still pulsing around him when he finally let go, hips snapping hard one last time before he buried himself deep and groaned, loud and raw, like it was being torn out of him.

“Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, voice breaking, whole body shaking as he came inside you, hands gripping you like he’d fall apart otherwise.

You were both breathless, sweat-slick and trembling, tangled together like the only thing anchoring either of you was the other.

He finally slumped over you, chest heaving, lips brushing your collarbone.

"Apology accepted?" he mumbled against your skin.

You didn’t answer.

He lifted his head slightly, blinking blearily down at you. "...Still mad?"

You grabbed his chin again, hard, and kissed him—slow, rough, deep. You bit his bottom lip on the way out, and he whimpered into your mouth. Then you exhaled and muttered against his mouth, “I’m thinking about it.”

Bucky grinned like he’d just won the goddamn lottery. “I can work with that.”

---

You stared into the kitchen cabinet, mentally checking off your list. Tea, honey, cough drops, ibuprofen…

Yelena leaned against the counter beside you, squinting suspiciously at the pile of items already gathered on the countertop. "Are you building a chemical bomb?" she asked dryly.

You slowly turned your head toward her, giving her an utterly blank look. Yelena met your gaze, unblinking. After a long pause, you finally spoke. "Barnes is sick," you said flatly.

Yelena blinked once, then snorted. "Sick? He sneezed. Like, twice."

"Three times," you corrected evenly. "And he coughed."

She raised an eyebrow skeptically. "It's called allergies."

You ignored her, calmly collecting your armful of tea, medicine, and honey. "He's sick."

Across the room, John glanced up from the couch. "Did Barnes actually get hurt or something?"

"No," Ava said blandly from her chair. "He has a slight sniffle. Now Y/N thinks he's dying."

"He's not dying," you replied calmly, pausing at the hallway. "He's sick. There's a difference."

Alexei chuckled loudly from his seat. "You take good care, Y/N. Barnes very delicate."

Bob smiled gently. "Should we check on him later?"

You stared blankly at him. "Absolutely not." With that, you vanished down the hallway, arms still full.

---

You nudged the bedroom door open carefully, stepping inside to find Bucky sitting on the bed, looking perfectly fine aside from slightly messy hair. He glanced up, eyebrows lifting at the pile of items you were carrying. "What's all this?"

"You're sick," you announced flatly, placing everything neatly on the bedside table.

Bucky blinked, clearly confused. "I coughed like twice, doll."

"Three times," you corrected again, placing your palm gently against his forehead. He smiled faintly, rolling his eyes, but leaned into your touch anyway.

"You feel a little warm," you murmured, carefully pulling your hand away.

He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm literally fine."

You gave him an unimpressed stare. "You're taking medicine. And drinking tea."

Bucky chuckled quietly. "Or what, you'll force-feed me?"

You gave him another slow, steady look. "Yes."

He smiled softly, clearly amused but deciding not to push it. "Fine."

You poured him a cup of tea, stirring honey into it calmly before handing it to him. Bucky took a sip, shaking his head with faint amusement. "You know," he began lightly, "you're kinda cute when you're fussing."

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Drink your tea, Barnes."

He smiled warmly, leaning back comfortably against the pillows. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

You sat carefully beside him, arms crossed, watching until he drank at least half the tea. After a long silence, he glanced at you with a slight smirk. "You gonna keep staring at me like that?"

"Yes," you replied evenly.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head again. "I'm really okay, doll."

You ignored him, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair off his forehead gently. "Just shut up and let me take care of you."

Bucky sighed, but his eyes softened. "Alright. But I'm really not that sick."

"Shut up," you repeated calmly.

He laughed quietly, but settled back further into the pillows, clearly deciding to humor you for now.

Satisfied, you reached over to the bedside table, calmly handing him two ibuprofen. He took them without protest, eyes crinkling in quiet amusement. "Anything else, nurse?" he teased gently.

You gave him another steady stare. "Sleep."

He chuckled softly, obediently closing his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

You watched carefully until his breathing evened out, the tension in your shoulders finally easing slightly. Quietly, you reached out, carefully brushing your fingers along his cheek. "You're an idiot," you murmured softly.

He didn't respond, already drifting peacefully.

You sighed gently, settling back comfortably against the pillows beside him, silently watching over him anyway.

---

The kitchen was alive with quiet morning chaos. Yelena sat perched on the counter, lazily peeling an orange. Alexei and Bob were at the table, hunched over a puzzle like it was a high-level mission. John nursed a black coffee with an expression like he hated being alive, and Ava scrolled through her tablet, earbuds in.

You were standing near the stove, sipping from your mug and keeping mostly to yourself, as usual.

Bucky breezed in behind you, freshly showered, hair still a little damp. He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured softly, “Love you, sweetheart.”

You didn’t look at him, just gave a neutral hum, calm and flat. “Don’t forget your knife. You left it on the bathroom sink.”

He smirked faintly, unfazed. “I got it.”

He gave your waist a soft squeeze and slipped out without another word. A beat of silence passed before Yelena narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger toward you dramatically. “You never say it back.” You didn’t respond, and just took another sip of your coffee. “No, seriously,” she said, sliding off the counter and walking closer. “He says it, like, all the time. And you just… ignore it. Or change the subject. Or give him directions about weapons.”

“Bucky knows how I feel,” you said flatly.

“That’s not the point,” she insisted. “You don’t say it back.”

Ava looked up from her tablet. “She’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘I love you.’”

Bob blinked slowly, clearly distressed. “You don’t love Bucky?”

“She does,” Alexei said cheerfully. “She just shows it by keeping him alive. Very romantic.”

John chuckled, voice dry. “I’m just impressed Barnes doesn’t seem to care.”

“Or notice,” Ava added, raising an eyebrow.

Yelena smirked suddenly, eyes lighting up with a spark of mischief. “Let’s make a bet.”

Everyone perked up immediately.

“Go on,” John said warily.

Yelena grinned, turning toward you. “You start acting like him. All clingy and affectionate. Tell him you love him, kiss him on the cheek, hold his hand, all that. We’ll see how long it takes before he notices you’re doing it on purpose.”

You stared at her blankly. “That’s stupid.”

“Which means you’re doing it,” she replied smugly. “Everyone in?”

Bob raised his hand nervously. “I think Bucky will be happy. He might cry.”

“Two days,” Ava said, stretching. “He notices in two days.”

“Five,” Alexei guessed. “He notices in five.”

John shook his head. “Nah, he doesn’t notice at all. Guy’s completely blind to affection. He’ll just think she’s finally caved.”

Yelena looked at you expectantly. “Well?”

You sighed, finished your coffee, and set the mug down. “Fine.”

Ava blinked. “Wait. Really?”

You shrugged, walking toward the hallway. “If I’m going to make all of you shut up, might as well commit.”

“Try smiling too!” Yelena called after you. “For extra shock value!”

You raised a hand behind you without turning around, a middle finger casually extended. The group collectively laughed. Bob looked equal parts excited and nervous. Alexei was already drawing a tally chart on the whiteboard for the bet.

John muttered into his coffee. “This is gonna be weird.”

Yelena just grinned wickedly. “This is gonna be fun.”

---

It was a few hours later, mid-afternoon, and the team was scattered throughout the Watchtower common area again—some half-working, some definitely not. You wandered in casually, phone in hand, and spotted Bucky at the kitchen island, assembling what looked like a very questionable sandwich.

You approached quietly, standing beside him. He glanced at you with a small smile, clearly not expecting much more than a grunt or maybe a snide comment. Instead, you reached up, cupped his face with both hands, and leaned in to press a soft, deliberate kiss to his cheek.

“I love you,” you said casually, voice light.

Bucky froze mid–bread placement. His eyes flicked toward you, brows pulled in slightly. “…You okay?”

“I’m great,” you replied smoothly, brushing your fingers across his jaw like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You look handsome today.”

He blinked. Hard. “…Okay,” he said slowly. “Thanks?”

You smiled—actually smiled—and gave his arm a light squeeze before walking off toward the couch without another word.

Across the room, Yelena choked on her water, coughing violently into her sleeve, John’s head whipped around like he’d just heard a gunshot, Ava paused mid-scroll, Bob audibly gasped, and Alexei muttered something about “strange wind today.”

Bucky watched you sit down, still looking faintly baffled. He shook it off, returning to his sandwich. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “She’s just in a weird mood.”

Behind him, Yelena was already marking one line under the Day 1 tally chart.

---

It was later that evening, just after dinner, and the team had migrated to the common room. Bucky was sprawled on the couch, legs up, lazily flipping through a worn paperback. You sat nearby, feet propped on the coffee table, arms crossed, as usual.

Ava was in the corner with her headphones. Bob and Alexei were locked in another intense round of chess, and John was pretending not to watch over their shoulders. Yelena was watching you with the intensity of a predator tracking prey.

You waited a few seconds before casually getting up and walking toward Bucky. He glanced up, half-expecting you to make some dry comment about his book or the state of his posture. Instead, you leaned over and gently tugged the book from his hands, closing it without a word. He sat up, confused, and before he could ask what you were doing, you slid right onto his lap.

Everyone froze.

Even Alexei abandoned his chessboard.

Bucky blinked, completely thrown off. “Uh… hi?”

You rested your arm around his shoulder, pressed a kiss to his temple, then said calmly, “Missed you today.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, like his brain was rebooting. “We were literally together for most of the afternoon.”

You shrugged. “Still.”

He stared at you, clearly processing. “Are you… feeling okay?”

“I’m perfect,” you replied, voice soft.

Then, just to twist the knife, you tangled your fingers with his and laced them together on his lap—just like he always does to you when he’s being annoying and affectionate. Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly, head tilting. “…Okay, now I know something’s up.”

You blinked at him innocently. “I can’t love my husband?”

“I mean, yeah, but—” he cut off, squinting. “Since when do you say stuff like that?”

“Since now,” you said smoothly.

Yelena snorted from the armchair, trying—and failing—to disguise it as a cough. Ava slowly raised a single eyebrow. Bob was practically vibrating. Alexei whispered, “plot twist.”

Bucky looked between you and the rest of the room, clearly sensing something was going on but not quite sure what. “Right,” he muttered. “This is fine. Totally normal.”

You leaned in again, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “Love you, baby.”

Bucky stared at you like you had just declared war on gravity. “…I’m calling Sam,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly, settled back in his lap like you belonged there—which, to be fair, you did—and glanced toward Yelena.

She was holding up two fingers silently.

You gave her a barely-there smirk. Let the games continue.

---

It was later that night. Most of the lights in the Watchtower had been dimmed, and the common area was washed in the soft blue glow of the TV no one was really watching. You were curled up next to Bucky on the couch—next to, not just near, which was already suspicious.

You let your head rest lightly on his shoulder, fingers brushing his knee in a slow rhythm, and then leaned in, lips brushing just below his ear. “You look tired, baby,” you said quietly. “You want me to wash your hair for you later?”

Bucky turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed.

You stared back, innocent. “I’m gonna take a shower,” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just dropped another bomb. You stood up, kissed his forehead, and walked out of the room without another word.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he stood up, stretched once, turned to face the rest of the room, and said, flatly, “okay. Who poisoned her?”

The team froze.

“Or brainwashed her,” he added, pointing. “Walker?”

John looked offended. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Then who’s trying to body-swap her?” Bucky continued, not missing a beat. “Because that—” he gestured down the hall where you’d just disappeared— “is not my wife.”

Alexei opened his mouth.

Bucky held up a hand. “Nope. I love her. I love her. I love every sarcastic, terrifying, emotionally unavailable part of her. I didn’t fall in love with someone who calls me baby and offers to wash my hair on a Wednesday night.”

Yelena clapped a hand over her mouth.

Ava cracked first. “Okay, okay—it was a bet!”

John groaned. “Goddammit, Ava.”

“I knew it,” Bucky said, exasperated but mostly amused, rubbing his face. “How long did you think it’d take me to notice?”

“Minimum was two days,” Yelena muttered.

“I said five,” Alexei chimed in proudly.

Bob raised his hand. “I said never. Sorry.”

Bucky held out his hand. “Pay up.”

“What?” John frowned.

“You all lost,” Bucky said, already deadpan and halfway to smirking. “I noticed before two days. And I know there was money involved.”

Yelena groaned but reached into her pocket. “Ugh, fine.”

One by one, they all handed him bills. Bob looked like he didn’t want to participate, but even he dug out a few crumpled notes. Bucky accepted the pile without flinching.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.

---

You were finishing brushing your teeth when you heard the soft knock—followed by the door cracking open.

Bucky stepped inside, holding a wad of folded bills in one hand. “I figured out the bet,” he said, calm as ever. “Apparently I’m very observant.” You raised a brow, clearly unbothered. He tossed the cash on the bathroom counter. “So I’m taking you to Coney Island tomorrow.”

You blinked.

His lips tugged up in a soft smile as he leaned casually against the doorframe. “And you’re not allowed to act weird and lovey the whole time, because that’s my thing. You just get to stand there looking scary while I win you plushies.”

You stared at him for a beat, then rolled your eyes. “Fine.”

He grinned. “Love you, sweetheart.”

You smirked slightly. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

He winked. “Too late.”

---

The next morning, the team was gathered in the kitchen, half-asleep. Bucky strolled in like he hadn’t just robbed them all the night before, casually sliding his arm around your waist as you stood beside the fridge. “Morning,” he said brightly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You were wearing a dark green sundress. Soft, strappy, flowy. And silent. Every head turned. The room collectively froze.

John choked on his coffee. “Is that—?”

“—a dress?” Yelena finished, blinking rapidly.

You adjusted the strap without looking up. “Yeah. Problem?”

“No,” Ava said slowly. “It’s just… unexpected.”

“Looks good,” Bob offered kindly, eyes wide.

Alexei raised his mug. “Color of war. I approve.”

Bucky, grinning like he’d won the lottery, clapped his hands once. “Alright, team. While we—” he gestured between you and himself, “—are off having a very well-earned day at Coney Island, you are going to clean the tower.”

John immediately protested. “Wait, what?”

“Team bonding,” Bucky said cheerfully. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re serious?” Ava asked, eyebrows raised.

“Deadly.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “Walker, Bob, Alexei—kitchen duty. Dishwasher, floor, counters. Top to bottom.”

“Not fair,” John grumbled, grabbing a sponge.

“Yelena, Ava,” Bucky continued, turning to them with a smirk. “You’ve got windows. Inside and out.”

Yelena squinted. “All the windows?”

“Every single one,” you said blankly, sipping your coffee.

“Cool,” Ava muttered. “This is abuse.”

“You’ll live,” Bucky said, already guiding you toward the door. “Don’t forget the hallway floors!”

---

An hour later, Yelena and Ava were upstairs with a bucket of water and zero motivation, grumbling as they passed through the hallway. Eventually, Yelena slowed in front of your door. She looked around. “No one’s watching,” she said, grabbing the handle.

“We’re supposed to be cleaning,” Ava said halfheartedly, but followed her in anyway. What they found stopped them in their tracks. “...What the hell,” Ava whispered.

The room was soft. Soft. Candles on the shelves. Warm fairy lights draped above the bed. Throw pillows. A fuzzy blanket folded perfectly at the end of the mattress. It was like a Pinterest board collided with a bookstore in fall.

And the photos—there were dozens. On the desk, taped to the wall, propped on dressers. One of them caught Ava’s eye first.

It was a wedding photo.

You were in a massive princess-style gown. Glittering skirt. Sweetheart neckline. Hair done up. Bucky in a black tux, smiling down at you with the softest look imaginable.

Behind you both?

Every single Avenger.

Yelena squinted at it. “...That’s real.”

“I thought she was joking,” Ava whispered. “That night with the vodka. I thought she was messing with us.”

“Same,” Yelena muttered. “She said it with a straight face. I figured it was sarcasm.”

Ava leaned in closer. “She looks... happy.”

Yelena looked at her. “She looks terrifying.”

“That is her happy,” Ava clarified.

Another photo—smaller, older. You and Bucky in front of a bridge, clearly in Brooklyn. You’re sitting on the hood of a car, his arm around you, your hand in his.

“Okay,” Yelena said slowly. “Maybe they are gross and in love.”

Ava crossed her arms, glancing around the room again. “It’s weird.”

Yelena pointed at the bat-cat plush. “That’s new. Barnes must’ve caved at some carnival.”

John stuck his head in the doorway. “Barnes doesn’t spend twenty bucks on stuffed animals.”

Alexei ambled in behind him. “Looks handmade. Maybe he stole it?”

Bob picked it up carefully. “Glow-in-the-dark eyes. Cool.” He flipped the tag. “No price.”

“Great,” Yelena muttered. “Mystery doll.” Her gaze shifted to the sketches pinned above the desk. “And when did Y/N start a fashion line?”

Ava touched one of the mission-gear designs. “These are good.”

John lifted the sundress sketch. “That’s the one she wore this morning.”

Alexei whistled. “She makes her own combat suits and dresses? Multitasking queen.”

Bob set the plush down. “So… she sews in secret?”

“Explains the needles I keep finding,” Ava said.

Yelena tapped a separate drawing—sleek black tac-suit with red accents. “This would look sick on me.”

John smirked. “Ask nicely. Maybe she’ll let you borrow it—after she murders us for trespassing.”

Ava grabbed the plush again, squinting. “Something’s off. Bucky didn’t buy this.”

“Then who did?” Bob asked.

Alexei snapped his fingers. “Secret admirer!”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Barnes would’ve burned the tower down.”

Ava flipped the plush over. A tiny embroidered ‘PP’ sat under one wing. “Initials?”

“Pepper Potts?” Bob offered.

“Pepper sends Stark-tech, not plushies,” Yelena said.

John stepped back. “Whatever. Let’s bail before they get back.”

"Wait!" Yelena said, holding up a smudged notebook she'd grabbed from beside the desk. "This has more."

Ava narrowed her eyes. "Y/N’s sketchbook?"

Bob immediately looked nervous. "We probably shouldn’t—"

Yelena already had it open, flipping through. "Too late."

John crossed his arms. "What is it? More dresses?"

Yelena tilted the notebook to show the page. "That's me."

They all leaned in. Sure enough, a detailed sketch of Yelena in a tactical outfit took up the left page. Black vest, reinforced pants, sleek holsters, high boots. The right page had her in a fitted trench coat and wide-legged pants, stylish but still practical, with sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Notes were scribbled in the margins. Fabric types. Zipper placements. A few faint stars.

Ava leaned closer. "Wait. That's me."

The next set of pages showed Ava in two variations—one combat-ready with a reworked SHIELD-style jacket and lightweight gear, and the other in an oversized blazer and boots, holding a coffee cup with a scowl on her face. Both were captioned lightly in small, precise handwriting. Ava: structured / minimalist. Mood: constantly annoyed.

John let out a soft laugh. "She got that right."

Yelena turned the page again. "Oh my God."

Bob blinked. "What?"

"Alexei," she said, holding it up. "In a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts."

Alexei grinned proudly. "Is good look. Classic."

The next page had him again, this time in reinforced armor, but with a faint note at the top: He’s gonna ignore the weight distribution anyway, so make it fun.

"She thinks I do not notice that note," Alexei said, squinting. "I do."

John reached over. "Let me see mine."

Yelena handed him the sketchbook. He raised an eyebrow at the drawing. "Okay… that’s me. Tactical, obviously. And this—" he pointed to the opposite page, "—is a hoodie and cargo pants?"

Ava peered over his shoulder. "With dog tags. And fingerless gloves. What are you, a streetwear catalog?" John rolled his eyes but kept flipping.

Bob found his own sketch and blinked. "Oh."

It was soft. Literally. A cable-knit cardigan, dark jeans, and boots with his hair swept back. He looked like a grad student. The caption read: Bob: cozy nerd. Bookstore vibes. May cry if yelled at (true).

Ava smiled. "Okay, that’s accurate."

"There's one of each of us," Yelena said, still flipping. "She’s made outfits for all of us. Combat and civilian."

Alexei was nodding along, thoroughly impressed. "She is team mom. Team mom with knives."

Bob looked at the sketches taped to the wall again. "Some of these match the ones in the book."

Yelena paused on a new page. "Okay. This one’s blank, but it has my name at the top."

Ava leaned over. "‘Yelena – formal.’ She’s planning something."

John frowned. "Like what? A gala mission?"

"God, I hope not," Yelena muttered. "I’ll set something on fire."

Alexei was still examining the walls. "She never shows us this. All this time, she hides it like secret spy craft."

"Because she doesn’t want us in her business," Bob said quietly.

Yelena shut the notebook, careful now, and set it back exactly where she found it. "We should go."

"No shit," John muttered. He headed for the door.

Ava glanced around one more time. "The wedding dress wasn’t a joke."

"Nope," Yelena said, deadpan. "Princess gown. Confirmed."

They filed out, one by one, back into the hallway. Bob looked guilty, Alexei looked proud, and John looked vaguely stressed. Yelena closed the door behind them with a soft click.

John sighed. "Alright. We say nothing."

"Nothing," Ava agreed.

Bob nodded quickly. "Absolutely nothing."

Alexei shrugged. "I say she should make me suit for next barbecue."

Yelena elbowed him. "Shut up, Dad."

They started walking, quiet for a beat. Then Yelena muttered, "still not over the dress."

Ava shook her head. "I think I need a drink."

i've actually been writing a few other oneshots for this series- i've even wrote a oneshot about you and bucky first meeting (also a fix-it for civil war... it's also 20k+ words and will be split into two parts but that's besides the point)

anyways, i don't really know what to call the series/masterlist - should it just be electric touch or something else? on ao3 i have it listed as grumpy x sunshine as a placeholder, but i don't really like it. if you have any ideas, please, please, please let me know! and if you want to see any scenarios post/pre-thunderbolts you can send in an ask!

[pearcheol]

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

“i don’t know how to be the one you take home.”

pairing: brian o’conner x actuallyawkward!reader

tw: angst, heavy themes of insecurity and anxiety, jealousy… brian calling reader ‘baby’ a lot, brian learning that his actions mean nothing if he won’t back it up with his words.

from the beginning, you were unsure of your place within the toretto family. an okay driver, an even more okay mechanic. jesse was the one to make everyone laugh, and no one could quite resist the twinkle in mia’s eyes whenever she asked for a favor. everyone had their niche— except you. even when you were a kid, it felt like you were just a placeholder in the clique. a back-up of a back-up, someone with no real purpose. you know it isn’t fair to be so critical of yourself, yet you do it anyway. ramble, realize, retreat, repeat.

it worsens once brian comes into town. he’s the kind of handsome that makes old ladies swoon; a teenage girl’s airport crush. what sucks the most? brian is… nice. he helps wash up after family dinner, and has no issue taking any kind of shit from vince or dom. brian blends in perfectly within the group, and you’re jealous.

why? why couldn’t you be like him? leon seems to be your only solace. ‘everyone has their own thing, kid. who else could hold down the fort like you?’ you know that’s supposed to cheer you up, but it doesn’t do the trick. who wants to be known as the bystander anyway? stuck between a rock and a hard place, you don’t know how to move forward, or if you should even move forward at all.

it’s another family dinner. you’re stuck with the dishes, while everyone else settles in the living room for some beat cop movie. you’d gone quiet during mealtime, out of the ordinary for everyone yet no one mentioned it. if they even noticed. lost in a sea of your thoughts, you don’t notice how long you’ve been scrubbing at a dish, or how brian creeps into the kitchen. “damn, i think it’s clean, baby. here, why don’t you wash and i’ll dry, deal?” he laughs, and you can feel your heart stutter. sure, you’re friends with brian, but if you can avoid it, you don’t let yourself be alone with him. it’ll either end with you hopelessly in love, or so envious of his effortless existence that you want to stab someone.

you nod, passing off him the dish and continuing to scour at the dinner plates like they personally offended you. it’s not much, but it’s honest work. brian, who is trained to notice every display of body language, takes note. you always seemed to act like this when he’s around. it’s as if you’re performing for everyone, but especially him. his shoulder nudges at yours, “hey. you okay? you seem… off.”

there’s a brief pause. you didn’t expect anyone to call you out, certainly not brian. your lips turn upward in a slight smile, then you shake your head. “yeah, ‘m fine. just tired.” your voice doesn’t carry how it normally would— the lack of excitement is palpable. brian might not be your best friend, but he does know you. you’re always up to move the conversation forward if no one’s making the effort, and you have this kind of confidence that allows you to keep a joke going for far too long. brian shifted, gently taking the plate away from your wet hands and placing it to the side.

his eyes are magnetic, a feat you can’t ignore or pull yourself apart from. “c’mon, baby. i’m pretty but i’m not dumb. what’s goin’ on?” brian asked. you want to give in; to slump against the sink and let your hidden insecurities overflow into reality. it’s not a bad idea, considering that brian seems genuinely concerned. but, what would that make you? you’re already the kind of person who can’t shut up, so why would you add anxiety and jealousy into an officially fucked-up equation? you smile again, and it looks slightly more authentic this time around. you jab at his chest with your finger, “b, don’t worry about it. i promise that i’m fine.” the pair of you relapse into washing and drying again, conversation falling flat. still, brian doesn’t buy your reassurance, even if he doesn’t say anything else.

from that point forward, brian made it his mission to seek you out any chance he had. whether it was crowding beside you on the already full couch, or keeping by your side whenever the group attended a car show. his hands linger even after he’s moved away from you, and he’s the first one to be on his feet if you break away from the group. ‘i think bri’s got a little crush on you! seriously, he doesn’t take his eyes off of you.’ you want to reprimand mia when she mentions it to you, her voice hushed as brian and dom move around the kitchen. it isn’t true, you know it can’t be.

you can’t exactly shake brian off. and before you know it, you find yourself leaning into it. it’s a bad decision, yet you can’t find anything in you that will help you stop. every car show, you pull up in his car— shuffling out of the passenger seat like you really shouldn’t even be sitting there. brian doesn’t care, because he will round the car and immediately sling an arm around your torso; practically gluing you to his side. more often than not, brian crashes at your place when he’s ’too tired’ to drive back to harry’s shop. he lounges on your bed like he’s meant to be in it, and you stay up even later because you’re too invested in the conversation to stop. ‘alright, i’m goin’ to bed. g’night, baby. come and get me if you can’t sleep.’ brian whispered, pecking your cheek swiftly and exiting before you can even react.

this weird, almost domestic limbo lasts for months. everyone thinks that you’re secretly dating, to which dom will make the comment of how you’re not very good at hiding it. it’s not dating, or really anything, if you’re honest with yourself. brian just… gravitates towards you, for some odd reason. this confounds you, and brian seems like he doesn’t even notice. maybe he just doesn’t care.

you remember when the limbo broke. some house party that one of dom’s high school buddies had— bodies packed in tight like sardines. the loud music overwhelms you, and it’s the same for the ménage of empty solo cups and various little baggies of white residue. when you step out on the back porch for some air, flirty giggles cloud your hearing. “you’re not taken, are you? because everyone thinks you and that friend of yours are, like, a thing.” the voice slurs, obviously feminine and potently drunk. there’s a twinge of empathy for her, you wouldn’t want someone to traipse into a trap of someone who’s taken.

you don’t expect to hear brian’s voice. he stuttered a bit, “can’t a guy be touchy anymore? nah, we’re not together. why? you wanna be like a thing with me?”

stupid. so fuckin’ stupid. you knew it was too good to be real. you let this happen. digging your nails into your palms, you inhale sharply. all that work you’d done with brian over the past few months vanished. every time he saw you, he’d make you repeat affirmations to yourself. ‘i belong here.’ ‘i have friends who love me.’ ‘i am not a burden.’ it was never romantic, you know that now. sure, you thought it wouldn’t happen, but there always was this spark of hope that kept you going. that maybe, maybe it would. you were wrong.

brian can’t remember what happened at the house party. all he knows is that he found someone who looks a lot like you, and then it blurs. but, brian notices the distance you’ve created between the two of you. your apartment is no longer a free invitation, and you shut him down each time he asks to stay the night. instead of piling in next to him on the couch, you sprawl out on the floor next to leon. he’s brushed off whenever he offers to help with the dishes. brian just doesn’t know why.

it was late. brian offered to take you home again, and you relent. you’ll have to erase the tallies on a whiteboard in your kitchen— promptly titled ‘days without giving in.’ so much for that! there just seemed to be a glint of hopelessness in his blue eyes that struck at your heart, like he was one rejection away from giving up entirely. to put it plain, you felt bad.

the car ride was silent, save for the low humming of the engine and the radio playing softly. you don’t expect brian to walk you to your door, yet he does. just as you’re about to unlock the front door, brian latched onto your wrist. you can’t look at him, not now. he’s almost breathless, “baby… what’s goin’ on? you don’t let me sleep over anymore and you barely even talk to me. is your anxiety still bothering you? because we can work on it like we used to.” you keep quiet, working with your non-dominant hand to unlock the door and finally escape him. brian huffed, why weren’t you saying something? saying anything?

after fumbling with your keys, you enter the apartment and brian is quick on your heels to find out what the fuck is going on. “y/n. ‘m serious, baby. what’s goin’ on in that head of yours? something’s killing you and i can fuckin’ see it.” his voice is rougher now, less patient and more determined to figure you out. the thing is? you don’t even really know what’s up with you. were you upset about what he did at the party because you liked him? or was it jealousy that he was able to connect with someone like that and you couldn’t? maybe an uneven mix of both— probably 60/40 instead of 50/50.

it takes a moment or two before you break. shoulders start to tremble, and you can feel your grip on reality slip. “i don’t know, brian. i don’t know! this is just the way i am, okay? ‘m self-conscious and awkward, a-and i can’t keep up with you.” you cry, palming at your eyes as if they weren’t welling with tears. brian immediately pulled you close to his chest, murmuring sweet nothings that you can’t decipher. it’s not like it matters. brian o’conner wouldn’t be yours. that’s what matters most.

once your shoulders aren’t so unsteady and the sobs aren’t so strong, brian pulls back to study you. you have this look in your eyes, like you’re torn between two different places. “baby, you don’t have to keep up with anyone. it doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to act. you’re you, and that’s what i want to see.” there it is. ‘if you don’t know how to act.’ how does he not see it? how can he not understand that you’re not trying to keep up with anyone except for him?

you inch away from him slowly, arms crossed over your chest like a defense mechanism. “being me isn’t enough. clearly not for you. cause you seem to want everyone else. and… i don’t know how to be the one you take home.” your voice carries through the silence of your apartment. it’s deafening. brian freezes.

sure, he did all those things for you because you’re a friend, but… brian didn’t know that it felt different for you. it’s not like he didn’t sometimes picture what a relationship would look like. brian just isn’t cut out for romance, and he thought you weren’t either. when he doesn’t say anything, you scoff. “you know what? go home, brian. this whole thing was stupid and i don’t why i even bothered. just lock the door on your way out.” you snapped at him. brian can’t remember if you’ve done that before. you’ve never done it to him, at least.

watching as brian sulks out of your apartment, you slam the door and throw your head back. why’d you let yourself do this in the first place? his skyline revs, and you can hear it speed away. once brian is for sure gone, you pat into the kitchen and stare at the whiteboard on your fridge. the tallies return it, taunting you for failing. and you? you just wipe it away.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

ac speaks!

okay so i love f&f so i had to do this🫣 but i love it so let me know what you think!! also thank yall so much for all of the love and support!! it means the absolute world to me🫶🏼

[pearcheol]

— Always been a storm

Summary: You sneak into LexCorp alone, again, and Clark has to save you, bandage you up, and remind you he’s not going anywhere.

͏𝒘 — Clark Kent & Journalist! Reader ⟢ ( 2k ) proofread. established relationship. fluff.

You should’ve listened to Clark.

You know that, like it’s muscle memory. The same way you know the back stairwell at the Daily Planet creaks on the fourth step, or that Lois is still stealing your pens and lying about it. You knew it before the glass cut your arm, before the alarm tripped. Before the first guard called for backup and you realized again, you’d pushed too far, gone in too deep, and now you’re facing it alone.

Waiting has never been your strong suit.

“I’ll be quick,” you’d told yourself. You always say that. LexCorp was practically dead after hours, just the hum from the lower floors and a lazy security rotation. You had a tip, a burner phone, and a fake ID clipped to your jacket. But you didn’t have a plan for what to do if someone spotted you.

Now there’s a gash on your upper arm from broken glass, your phone’s somewhere between the lab and the elevator shaft, and two armed guards are looking for you, while you’re crouched in the shadows, behind a desk.

You press your palm to the bleeding wound. It’s not deep, not lethal, but enough to sting like hell and remind you that Clark is going to kill you for this.

Or worse, look at you like a kicked puppy.

That soft, hollowed-out expression. Like he’s not angry, just scared. Like he’s already seeing the headline: “Local Journalist Killed in Break-In Gone Wrong”. And honestly, you’re starting to see it too, but nothing can satiate your curiosity.

There’s a metallic click somewhere in the distance, then heavy footsteps.

You try to move, but your shoe snags on the wiring from whatever prototype Lex was hiding back here, and the noise echoes louder than you thought it would. Someone’s yelling now. A flashlight beams through the dark room, thankfully not on you. You curse under your breath and get to your feet, stumbling down a hallway with no plan other than to run.

When you’re almost to the door a voice shouts, “She’s over here!”—the air pressure changes in a way you’re all too familiar with.

And then, across the room— Crash.

One of the side walls collapses in on itself, sending the a few guards flying backwards. You stay hidden behind the desk just as a red cape swirls into view.

Clark.

His eyes are glowing faintly with heat, not firing, but threatening. His whole body hums with restraint, like he’s one breath from tearing the place down.

You hurt?” he calls, not turning his head, not taking his eyes off some of the guards as they scramble to flee.

You rise slowly. “Just a scratch.”

He turns, when he sees the blood that faint glow in his eyes fades instantly.

His voice drops. “Jesus.”

You force a smile, trying to play it off. “Took you long enough.”

His head whips toward you, sharp. You regret the joke before you’ve finished saying it.

“I was in Alaska,” he says, not yelling, but a little exasperated. “You didn’t even call.”

“I was going to,” you say quickly. “I thought I had more time.”

Clark’s already crossing the room, eyes on your arm. “You always think that.”

His hand wraps gently around your wrist. His thumb brushes the skin just above the band of your watch. His fingers are warm and strong.

“I had it under control,” you say, quieter now.

He meets your eyes. “No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

You open your mouth to argue, but there’s no fight in you tonight. Not with the way he’s looking at you.

He shrugs off his cape and drapes it over your shoulders without a word. Smooths it into place like he’s done it before.

“You said you’d wait for me,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“You promised.”

You nod, jaw tight. “I know.”

And when you finally look at him, he doesn’t look like Superman. He looks like Clark. The one who leaves handwritten notes on your desk when he knows you’re having a bad week. The one who folds your laundry wrong but insists on doing it anyway. The one who proof reads your writing three times before print, even when he’s running on no sleep and six hours behind on his own work.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” you say. “I figured I’d be in and out.”

He swallows hard. “I’d rather take a bullet than get that call.”

You blink. “Clark—”

“I mean it.” His voice doesn’t crack, but it’s close. “You don’t get it. Every time you run off without telling me, every time I hear a siren and don’t know where you are, I have to pretend I’m not already imagining the worst.”

You want to say something, but you don’t know what.

He reaches out and brushes a thumb gently over your cheekbone. “Why do you keep doing this?”

You exhale. “Because if I don’t, who will? The people need to know what Lex is doing down here. And I don’t have heat vision, Clark. I don’t have super-hearing or a team of intergalactic allies. I’ve got a notepad and a byline and a little bit of nerve. That’s it.”

His brows draw in, not angry, almost heartbroken.

“You’re braver than me.” he murmurs.

You snort, dry. “You literally just busted through a concrete wall.”

“I did that with backup, with powers. You do this alone, with nothing.”

“That’s not true,” you say, barely audible. “I’ve got you.”

Clark stares at you, like you’ve just said something painful.

Then he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tight around you, tucking your head under his chin. His heart beats steady and solid against your ear.

You don’t say anything for a while.

Then, “I love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” he says, quiet and certain. “But if you sneak into LexCorp again, I’m welding the fire escape shut.”

You snort. “Bet you say that to all the girls you pull out of near-death situations.”

He leans back just far enough to look at you, deadpan. “Only you.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He flies you home just before sunrise, and when he sets you down on the fire escape outside your apartment. Your blood is still dried on your sleeve, making the fabric stick to your arm.

The cape slides off your shoulders the second you finally step inside. You’re still clutching it like a blanket when Clark gently tugs it away and tosses it over the arm of the couch.

“Sit,” he says, already turning toward the hallway.

“Clark, I’m fine—”

“You’re bleeding,” he calls back. “And limping. Don’t make me carry you.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” you mutter, sitting on the couch anyway.

He reappears a few seconds later, first-aid kit tucked under his arm, sleeves rolled up, and a very specific look on his face: half “concerned boyfriend,” half “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You lift your arm as he kneels in front of you and carefully pushes the fabric of your sleeve back. His fingers hesitate for a second before they touch you, like he’s scared he might hurt you.

You break the silence first. “You’re mad at me.”

He doesn’t look up. “No, I’m—” He exhales. “I’m worried about you. I hate being late.”

“You weren’t late. You showed up exactly when I needed you.”

He peels the gauze open, voice soft but edged with something strained. “You were supposed to wait.”

That makes you frown, even if it hurts a little. “You do realize I wasn’t trying to get caught.”

He glances up at you now, eyebrows lifted. “You broke into a restricted research wing of LexCorp by yourself. What did you think was gonna happen? They’d give you a guided tour?”

“I thought I’d be in and out before anyone noticed,” you mumble, wincing as he dabs at the cut.

Clark gives you a look. “You thought Lex Luthor wouldn’t have cameras.”

You don’t answer.

“Clark,” you sigh, quieter. “You know I have to chase the story.”

“You don’t have to chase it straight into a security lockdown,” he says, voice low. “You’re brilliant. You’re stubborn. You find leads no one else does. But if something had happened to you tonight—if I hadn’t gotten there in time…”

You don’t say anything. Because you don’t like the way he says “hadn’t gotten there in time.” Like it was close, like the idea really did sit heavy in his chest until he got you home safe.

He clears his throat. “There’s only so much you can hide behind jokes and adrenaline, you know.”

“Is that your subtle way of calling me emotionally avoidant?”

“I’m saying I love you,” he says, like it’s that simple, it always is with him.

You frown, guilt weighing heavy on your chest. “Clark.”

“I know who you are. I know you’re going to keep doing this. I’m not asking you to stop.” He wraps the gauze around your arm slowly, carefully. “I just need you to trust me enough to call next time, or to wait for me.”

Your voice drops to something raw. “What if you’re in another country again?”

“Then tell me and i’ll come back.” His hands still on your arm, steady and warm.

You study his face, how tired he looks up close. Not physically, but something else. The weight of caring about you too much.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, softly.

“You didn’t,” he says automatically, then shakes his head. “You did. Of course you did. But you also… you always scare me. That’s what loving you is like.”

You swallow thickly. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” he says gently.

“I’m not,” you agree. “But I will let you finish playing nurse if it’ll make you feel better.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath. “You think this makes me feel better?”

“You love fussing over me.”

“I do,” he says again, more firmly this time. “Bandages and all.”

When he’s done, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. He just kneels there, thumb brushing across your knuckles. That look in his eyes again, like he’s memorizing you, just in case.

You squeeze his hand. “You staying tonight?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You lean forward and press your forehead to his, letting your eyes fall closed. “You’re the only reason I’m still breathing, you know that?”

“No,” he says softly. “You are.”

You let the moment stretch out. Long and quiet. The kind of silence that only exists when two people trust each other not to break it.

Then, eventually, Clark gets up and scoops you into his arms like it’s second nature, which it is. You pretend to protest, but your head falls onto his shoulder anyway, and your fingers curl into the back of his shirt.

“Bed,” he says firmly. “Then sleep. Then tomorrow, you’re giving me every detail of that LexCorp tip.”

You smile into his neck. “What happened to ‘never doing that again’?”

“I know better,” he mutters, brushing his lips against your temple. “You’ll never stop chasing danger.”

“And you’ll never stop saving me.”

“That’s the deal.”

A/N — HELLO !!!!! it’s been awhile, thank you so much for reading if you got this far and expect more Clark fics soon because I am obsessed with him rn.

[pearcheol]

finally watched superman… my life is fulfilled

[pearcheol]

i started a conrad x steven ff but since i’ve never watched the show i stopped after two sentences because idk how to introduce the dialogue since i’ve never watched the show… i juste saw an edit of the two of them on tiktok and was sold

[pearcheol]

⋆.ೃ࿔ 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋 ᝰ Smoke's been gone on business, him and Stack out making shady deals and God knows what else. You’ve been home waiting for his return, trying to keep your hands busy and your anxiety at bay, but when he finally comes home, with blood dripping down his torso, all that waiting boils over into worry.

𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮… Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻… SFW ᝰ fluff + angst, non-canon, fem!reader, envisioned as black!reader while writing, pregnancy [second trimester], mom!reader x dad!Smoke, soft!Smoke, established relationship [married couple], use of derogatory word [cracker], implied anxiety & worry, depictions of injury, southern/country dialect used. implied southern/country accent. 1930’s time period.

𝑫𝑼𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵… 2.8k words

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑺 𝑭𝑹𝑶𝑴 𝑾𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹… Wanted to write something fluffy/angsty for Smoke since I recently posted smut for him and I came up with this idea. As always feel free to comment and reblog, I love reading y’all reactions! I hope you enjoy!!

𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑺… Sinners M.List ・Sinners Taglist ・Main M.list

The house has settled for the night, there’s cicadas hiding in the trees, the hum of distant frogs buzzing in the air, and the gentle creak of the old floorboards beneath your feet as you move throughout your home. The house has been quiet all day since Smoke isn’t here for his voice to bounce off the walls and his shoes tapping against the floor.

Him and his brother are out on a “business” trip doing God knows what. Smoke doesn’t like involving you in his dealings, not wanting those type of things to spill into your marriage but sometimes you force him to tell you things and when you don’t feel like going back and forth with him, you ask Stack, bribing him for information with a warm pie or whatever he’s in the mood for.

These trips never have a set amount of time they’ll be gone, it could be a few days or a few weeks so you just wait for him to return to you. You’ve been trying to distract yourself all day, straightening up the house, folding the same blanket three times, and even baking a pound cake just to keep your hands busy. But now the night’s settled in, and you’re left with nothing but your thoughts.

You just finished up in the bathroom, wrapping up your hair for the night, and getting ready for your bed so you can get some sleep. You sit on the side of your bed, taking off your robe that’s tied loosely over your nightgown, your belly becoming rounder by the day as your pregnancy progresses. Your hand strokes over your stomach as you hum a little tune, reaching to turn off the lamp on your nightstand.

When you’re about to lay down and close your eyes, that’s when you hear it. The low growl of a car engine cutting through the quiet, tires rolling slow over the dirt road leading up to the house. You didn’t need to look out the window to know who it was. You can feel him, that familiar tug in your chest, the one that always stirs up inside you whenever he’s near.

A soft smile creeps onto your face as you slip on your slippers and tie your robe back on, stepping into the parlor room, turning on the lights so you can see in front of you without tripping over your feet. By the time you open the front door to greet Smoke, he’s already climbing up the porch steps, that same easy strut in his walk paired with his cold expression that doesn’t warm up until he’s in your presence.

You can tell something is off with him, you just can’t put your finger on it. His feet are moving a little slower than usual, and there’s a tightness in his jaw. Despite being a little curious you push those thoughts aside and welcome your husband back home. “How you be?” he says, his voice clearly tinged with exhaustion from travel but still tender enough for you to feel his love. “the baby been good to ya’?”

You don’t answer at first, at least not with words. You just wrap your arms around him the second he’s close enough, squeezing him tight against you. He wraps you up in those big muscular arms, one hand slipping to your lower back and the other curling over your belly. His lips press against your forehead, making you light up at his act of affection. “The baby been quiet,” you murmur into his chest, “and now that you standin’ in front of me in one piece? I’m doin’ real good.”

He lets out a low chuckle, pulling back just enough to give you a proper kiss, slow and deep against his juicy lips, like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s been away. You melt into it, your hands holding the sides of his face until you pull back just enough to search his eyes, wanting to make sure he’s alright. “Did you and Stack take care of yourselves out there?”

Your hand rests lightly on his chest, fingers splayed out beneath the soft fabric of his wrinkled shirt. The moment you ask if he and Stack were okay, you feel his hand graze along the curve of your belly one last time before pulling back. “Yeah, we alright.” he says, voice smooth like molasses but just a little too fast, like he already had this rehearsed. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Even though his tone is calm and confident you know better. That’s the voice he uses when he doesn't want you poking around, when he’s trying to ease your mind without telling you the whole truth.

You know every version of Smoke’s tone of voice; when he’s lying, when he’s happy, when he’s horny, when he’s in pain and trying to hide it. This one? This is his lying tone.

Your brows knit a little, but you don’t push for any information just yet. Instead, you take another approach, slinging your arms around his body, sliding your hands under his suit jacket and feeling the fabric of his dress shirt. Your palms travel down his back, then across his sides, searching for any sort of injuries he could be trying to hide.

You almost think you aren’t going to find anything until you feel a wet and warm substance against your hand. Your hand jerks back and when you look down at your palm, there’s blood against your skin. “Elijah…”

He doesn’t answer at first, just presses his lips together like he already knows you’re about to start fussing at him. You reach forward and press your hand lightly over the stain again on the side of his torso, and this time, he flinches. “Elijah,” you say again, firmer this time. “you bleedin’.”

He sighs, like it’s just a minor inconvenience, not really thinking too much of it. “It’s jus’ a scratch, baby. I’m fine.” When it comes to things like this, it’s like pulling teeth to get Smoke to admit when he’s in pain. You know it’s rooted in him to worry about everyone else’s well being and not his own but you won’t let him, not while you’re still walking this earth.

“That ain’t jus’ a scratch.” You pull him inside the house and close the door behind him, dragging him throughout the house and stopping once you both get to the kitchen. “Take that jacket off and lemme patch it up.” Smoke is about to tell you that ain’t necessary, but once he sees the look in your eye, the stern look you give him when you aren’t in the mood to play tongue tug-a-war, he does what he’s told.

He shrugs out of the jacket slowly and the moment it slips from his shoulders, you see the ounces of blood that’s seeped through the white of his shirt, clinging to his side in a way that makes your stomach turn. “Sit down.” you murmur, pointing toward one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He does, but not before grunting as he lowers himself, one hand bracing against the table, the other hovering near the wound.

You grab the little tin box from the cabinet that holds everything you need to doctor him up: bandages, alcohol, and a needle and thread just in case he needs stitches. You set it on the table with a sharp thud, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of him. “Take yo’ shirt off.”

Smoke undoes the buttons slowly, flinching when the fabric peels away from his skin as he tries to take it off. Once the dress shirt is away, and he takes off his t-shirt, your eyes fall upon the wound. It’s stretched just along his ribs, dripping with blood and jagged like someone tried to cut him and only half-finished the job.

You wet a cloth and bend towards him, pressing it gently against the wound. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. “What happened?” you ask quietly but with a stern tone, not looking up since you’re trying to focus on the wound. “And don’t give me some half-assed reason you jus’ made up in yo’ head. I wanna hear what really happened.”

Smoke leans back in the chair, his eyes flick up to the ceiling, then down at you as you doctor him up, your belly brushing his knee each time you shift closer to get a better angle at his wound. For a moment, you think he might lie again. Might smooth it over like he always does. But he must see the way your mouth’s set tight paired with the heat in your eyes, because this time he honestly answers your question.

“Man we went to handle,” he starts, voice a little raspier than before. “was s’posed to be alone. Told Stack I ain’t trust it, but you know him, runnin’ his mouth as usual, sayin’ it’d be quick money.”

You keep pressing the warm cloth to the cut, dabbing carefully and gently, though inside you’re ready to chew Stack out for putting your husband in a dangerous situation.

Smoke winces, trying to pretend he isn’t in pain but continues telling the story. “The man had two crackers waitin’ out back. Soon as we got ‘im cornered, they come rushin’ in. One of ‘em got lucky, sliced me while I was tryin’ to handle the other.” He grumbles at that, wishing he had you light him a cigarette before you started working on him. “Stack damn near lost his mind when he saw me all cut up, shot both of ‘em in the leg ‘fore I could even blink.”

You look up at him then, eyes soft but your voice is sharp, shaking your head at how Smoke and Stack allow themselves to be in these compromising positions. “And you didn’t think maybe you shoulda got that looked at before draggin’ yourself in here bleedin’ all over my floors?”

“Ain’t trustin’ no backroad doctor to touch me. Rather come home and let you fuss over me. You patch me up better than anybody.”

You scoff but your cheeks flush warm, hating how even all cut up, this man still makes you go soft for him. “Keep talkin’ sweet like that and I might let ya’ off the hook.” you mutter, rinsing the rag in the bowl and pressing it back firm enough to make him hiss again.

“Mm.” He grunts with his slightly jaw clenched. “Might be bleedin’, but I still know how to talk my wife. ‘Specially when she mad at me.”

You shake your head again, trying not to smile while your hands moves steady as you wipe away the last smear of blood. The gash isn’t pretty, but it’s clean now. It’s long but thankfully not deep enough for him to need stitches if you keep its wrapped tight.

You reach for the little bottle of alcohol next, needing to make sure it doesn’t get infected. Smoke sees it and narrows his eyes like a child about to get scolded, trying to brace himself for the upcoming sting.

“This gon’ burn somethin’ ugly.” He grumbles under his breath when he hear you say that, so low that you can’t catch all the words. But he sits there all the same, shoulders squared, breathing hard through his nose as you pour the alcohol straight into the cut.

He lets out a growl, hand gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles almost turn white .“Look at you,” you murmur, trying to soothe him and put his mind on something else as you blot the alcohol in with clean gauze. “Actin’ all tough out there, but the second you back in my house, you jus’ a big baby who can’t take a lil’ burn.”

He cracks the smallest smile through his gritted teeth, shaking his head at you calling him a baby. Even though he tries to deny it, when he gets around you he lets his walls down, allowing himself to be soft and gentle.

With you he doesn’t have to mean ole’ Smoke that everyone claims him to be, he can just be Elijah. “Only reason I’m sittin’ here lettin’ you torture me with that rag is ‘cause I love ya’. Anybody else woulda got they ass cussed out.”

You let out a small laugh, knowing that Smoke’s words are true, if it wasn’t you tending to his wounds he definitely would be cussing like a sailor to whoever’s trying to fix him up. When it’s finally clean, you coat it with a salve that Annie swears by and wrap it up snug with fresh bandages. Your fingers work fast and precise, practiced from all the little patch-jobs you’ve done on him over the years.

When you’re done, you lean back, hands resting on your round belly, looking him dead in his eyes. “You gotta be more careful out there, ya’ hear me?” you scold. “I ain’t let you knock me up just to end up raisin’ this baby by myself. Me and this little one need you comin’ back home in one piece. Every time.”

One of your greatest fears is that one day Smoke won’t come home, that someone will be at your door giving you the bad news that your husband has gone to be with the Lord before you could even tell him goodbye. You try not to worry yourself with what if’s but the image of him being in a casket before his time haunts you every time he walks out the front door.

Smoke’s eyes soften, knowing that the work he does makes you uneasy sometimes, especially at times like this where he comes home wounded. He dips his forehead to yours, wanting to ease your mind and let you know that you don’t have to worry about him. “Ain’t nothin’ out there worth more than what I got right here.” he murmurs. “Ain’t neva’ gon’ let nothin’ take me from you and this baby. You got my word on that.”

You swallow, fighting back the burn in your eyes, brushing your nose against his before pulling back, taking a sigh of relief. “Good,” you breathe, a tremble in your voice you can’t quite hide but you don’t let it stop you from bossing Smoke around. “Now, come to bed. You gon’ rest the next few days. Ain’t no runnin’ off behind Stack till you healed proper. You got that, Elijah?”

He doesn’t argue or rebuttal. He just leans forward slow, his brown dyes burning into yours like always when he looks at you. “Yes ma’am. Whateva’ you say, mama.” He presses a soft kiss on your forehead before standing up, putting his hand out so he can help you stand up since he knows it’s getting harder for you to do so on your own as your belly continuously swells.

You take his hand, letting him pull you up slow and careful. The weight of your belly shifts as you rise, and Smoke’s other hand instinctively moves to steady your back, like he always does now, a gentle but firm touch while he watches you like a hawk.

Once you’re on your feet, you don’t move right away. You stand there with him in the low kitchen light, your arms wrapped loosely around his middle, careful not to press against the bandages, your cheek resting against his chest. His heart beating steady beneath your ear, so strong you can hear each thump of his heart. “I missed you somethin’ awful.”

He hums, his lips pressing into your hairline before leading you down the hallway. “I missed you more. Missed hearin’ your voice instead of Stack’s loud-ass complainin’ every five minutes.” Hearing that makes you laugh because you know how much those two love to bicker about any and everything.

You lace your fingers with his as you walk slowly down the hall, both of you moving in sync like you always do. Once in the bedroom, you help him out of the rest of his clothes, folding them neatly on the chair while he climbs under the covers in just his boxers.

You untie your robe, slip it off, and join him under the quilt, your back pressing against his chest as he curls his body around yours protectively. One arm slips beneath your pillow, the other drapes over your middle, his big hand resting on your belly.

His thumb rubs soft circles into your skin, feeling the little fluttering movements in your womb. “Baby movin’?” he asks, his voice low and thick, already sinking into that drowsy place that only comes when he knows you and the baby are doing well.

“Mhm,” you whisper, smiling weakly against the pillow. “started up soon as I laid down. They must know you back home.”

Smoke hums, pressing a slow kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “Baby, already got good sense.” he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep but still soft and tender. “Know they papa gon’ always come home.”

You don’t respond to him verbally, you just reach down and rest your hand on top of his that’s sprawled across your stomach, holding him close, anchoring both of you to this little slice of peace y’all have carved out of this rough world.

Feeling your husband's warm embrace against your frame, comforts your soul, helping you easily grow tired and your eyelids to grow heavy. “Goodnight, ‘lijah.” You whisper, falling deeper into his chest while a yawn passes through your lips.

Smoke kisses your neck, pulling you closer to him before resting his head on his pillow. “Night, baby.” And just like that, the Moore house is silent and fast asleep. Both of you feeling a sense of relief now that you’re wrapped in the other's arms again, safe and sound.

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 — @Yungblud423 @nostlicions @loveabledovee @secretisme4 @pinkkycherrish @bl3ssyn @shamansha @queenofklonnie22 @rios-st4rs @Secretlifeofpreshap @bxrbie1 @t-wylia @bendoverboo18 @milesf4vg1rl @secret89sblog @gabbysbl0gg @li-da-savage @minyara-kun @st4rrdrexm @rose-bliss @sajoi @plan3tch1ld @queenofklonnie22 @n-ae-vis

— all rights reserved ©𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐙𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘. all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate, repost repost on other platforms (ex. AO3 or Wattpad) nor recommend on tiktok any of the works seen here.

[pearcheol]

TOO EARLY | steve h.

summary : in which Steve & Y/N’s typical summer morning gets interrupted

warnings : a little suggestive, but nothing crazy! Also use of curse words.

pairing : steve harrington x Henderson!reader

notes : first fic, it’s a little short I’m sorry, hope it’s fine! Set in the first episode of season three, right before Dustin gets a surprise from his friends. Also, in this Steve and reader hides their situationship from Dustin - I’m thinking it happened in the month that Dustin was away at summer camp.

if you guys happened to enjoy this, make sure to give it a like, and reblog, let me know what you liked about it - share your thoughts! It would mean the world! ❤️

Hawkins, Indiana is surprisingly warm in the summer. The sun is already up and nagging down at 8:47 a.m.

The soft glow of the morning shines through the filtered curtains, painting strips across the tangled bedsheet.

The window is cracked just a tad, letting in the scent of heat and the hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower.

Y/N, barely covered, sits on top of Steve’s naked stomach, kissing down until she meets his lips. Her fingers lazily trace his jaw, pulling him closer—if that’s even possible.

Slow and heated, this is how they’ve started every morning this summer. Just the two of them, like no one else exists.

Steve’s hand slides down her bare back, gripping her hips and making her rock against him. He smiles into the kiss.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK—loud knocking from the front door suddenly interrupts them, ruining the moment

They freeze against each other.

Steve’s face snaps toward the door, and Y/N lifts her head, glancing toward it with a puzzled expression.

Steve squints at the clock hanging beside Y/N’s multiple Cyndi Lauper and Dolly Parton posters.

“Thought we had half an hour..?”

“Yeah… me too,” Y/N replies, turning her head back to Steve’s.

A beat of silence passes. They look at each other, sharing a silent agreement to ignore whoever’s at the door.

Outside, a familiar group of teenagers stands on the front porch, the wood creaking beneath them as the summer heat radiates around them.

Mike, arms crossed (with Eleven’s arm wrapped around his), sighs in annoyance. “Thought you said she was home.”

“She’s supposed to be,” Max mutters, looking at Lucas like he should know more.

Max steps forward, knocks harder, and nearly yells, “HELLOOO?!”

Inside the heated bedroom, Y/N groans and rolls off Steve. She slides her hands across her face. “Whoever’s out there is not going away.”

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his disheveled morning hair. He looks over at her, offering a comforting look.

“Look, it’s probably just Mormons—they’re aggressive this time of year.”

Y/N shoots him a look and pushes his side with her leg. “Steve.”

“I’m going, I’m going…”

He stands up, still half-naked, grabs a shirt, and decides on boxers and confidence rather than bothering with jeans.

He heads toward the front door, opens it—and—

“Woah.” He blinks at the group of teenagers he once babysat. “What the hell are you shitheads doing here?”

Mike doesn’t miss a beat with his usual attitude. “Better question—what the hell are you doing here?”

“This early in the morning at Y/N’s?” Will chimes in, surprising even himself.

“Your best friend’s sister?” Lucas says, sighing at the sight of Steve.

“Woah, Dustin’s not my best friend—” Steve tries to defend himself.

“And why are you in your underwear?” Max grins at him.

He’s busted. A deer in headlights. Or rather, a half-dressed man at his best friend’s sister’s house. At 8:52 a.m.

Steve opens his mouth, but no words come out—just air and sheer panic.

Before he can scrape together any of his dignity, the teenagers push past him, marching straight into the house.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Steve spins around, waving his arms like that’ll stop them. “Dustin’s not even here for like, another half hour!”

Ignored.

Y/N steps into the hallway, now wrapped in one of Steve’s shirts that falls mid-thigh, covering just enough.

She freezes in shock at the herd of teenagers inside her house.

“Shit.”

Max turns around, arms folded, giving her a look. “You forgot.”

Steve whips his head around to face Y/N, half-naked and half-mortified, silently begging her to say something—anything—that’ll explain this.

Y/N sighs. “I totally forgot.”

Steve looks around at everyone, baffled. “What?!”

Y/N grabs his arm, turning to the teens. “Alright, you set it up—do your thing. But if you tell Dustin—”

“We’re dead,” they all finish in unison.

She pauses, realizing she’s used that threat way too much, but just nods and mutters, “Yeah.”

Steve, still confused, follows her back into the bedroom.

Y/N cracks the window fully open and begins rummaging around the room for her clothes.

“Baby,” Steve says, watching from the bed, “what’s happening?”

She looks up at him, smiling. “They planned to surprise Dustin. So they wanted to come early and set it up or something.”

His eyes wander down her now-exposed body, clearly distracted.

She catches on, slaps him with a shirt.

“Ow—alright,” he chuckles, rubbing the spot where she hit him.

She smiles and leans down to kiss him. “So I should probably head out,” he mumbles against her lips.

She nods, now pulling on her own clothes.

“Will you come by Scoops later?” he asks, hopping into his jeans.

She turns from her closet, pretending to think. “Only if there’s free ice cream.”

He laughs, watching her fondly. Steve Harrington is down bad—not that he ever meant to be. Who falls for their best friend’s kid sister? Only Steve, apparently.

“You got it,” he says with a grin. “Robin’ll be there too.”

He gets up from the bed, sliding his hands around her waist from behind.

Y/N smiles, leaning into him.

“Oh yeah… I really like her,” she murmurs, turning to face him.

Steve beams. “Yeah, you two are getting along great. Starting to feel like the third wheel.”

Y/N chuckles, rolling her eyes—when suddenly, a high-pitched, almost-girl scream echoes through the house.

“What the—” Steve starts, pulling a face.

“YYYY/NNNN!” Dustin screams at the top of his lungs.

“Shit,” Steve mutters. “Shit, shit—”

“He’s gonna run in here any second.”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he continues, scrambling around the room, grabbing his stuff, and dashing to the window.

“I’ll see you later, handsome,” Y/N says, blowing him a kiss as he climbs out.

“Bye!” he yells back, just before tripping over a book and falling straight out the window.

[pearcheol]

overdue

steve harrington x f!reader | 1.2k

you come home from a short trip away. steve picks you up.

established relationship, fluff, flirting, mention of sex, kissing

a/n: well, well, well. we're back, baby. short and sweet and rusty as hell. let me know what you think. mwah!

__

"Oh my god," Steve moans. "That's so good."

"Jesus," you mutter.

"Seriously," he continues. "Holy shit."

His hand presses into your spine and you swear he smells you.

"Can you calm down?" you say into his shoulder. "I'm just hugging you."

"But you were gone forever," he whines. "Have some sympathy."

It was actually just a week, but he sounds so genuinely relieved that you let it go. You try to pull away just enough to look at him better, but his arm is tight around your shoulders like he's somehow glued you together. Like you're a missing piece back where you belong.

"Steve," you say. "It's too hot for this."

You mostly mean it. The bus stop is at the edge of town on some dusty road, the sun beating down on both of you. You're both dressed for it in t-shirts and shorts, but you can feel the sweat beading at your hairline, dripping down your back.

"Yeah, okay," Steve says. He does not move.

God, you missed him. You breathe together, chests rising and falling in tandem like there is suddenly more air available now that you're together. He smells like summer -- cologne and sunshine, laundry soap and sweat. Like Steve. Like home.

But, seriously. It's hot. And you can hug all you want in the shitty air conditioning of your apartment.

You pinch his side.

"Hey!" he yelps, squirming out of your hold like you were the one keeping him there. "Christ, fine."

You laugh, pulling your shirt from your back as he bends for your bags and takes them to his trunk. It's the perfect moment to admire him -- long legs in his shorts, the golden hairs on his thighs gleaming in the sunlight. His shirt is an old one from high school, stretched tight across his biceps and chest.

"You're cute," you tell him. He snorts.

"You're ogling me," he says, hands on his hips. "Let's talk about you in those shorts --"

"Oogle? Who even says that --"

"-- I mean, it's like you're wearing them just to remind me how deprived I've been this week --"

"-- couldn't find a smaller t-shirt if you tried --"

"-- cute, she says, cute, like you're not standing there practically glowing --"

"-- too hot for car sex --"

" -- wait, what did you say?" he asks, a flush working its way up his neck.

You shrug, arms crossed like it'll hold in your laugh. God, it's fun, being in love with Steve.

"Nothing," you reply, tugging open the car door, ready to get in.

"Hey, wait," he says, like you're going somewhere and leaving him behind.

You can't stop a fond smile at his genuine hurry. "What?"

Steve rounds the BMW, crowding you against the door and shutting it in the process. His hand palms your hip, fingers slipping under the hem of your top. A shiver travels up your spine in spite of the sweat dripping down it.

"Okay, so no car sex," he concedes. "Too hot."

You hum and press a hand to his chest and feel his heart. A little fast, even after all this time.

"Can I at least kiss you?" he asks, managing to sound like a man dying of thirst. The bus stop is really and truly deserted but for the two of you and Steve's car, but you can't help giving him a hard time.

"You can't wait until we get home?" you tease.

He leans in and your eyes flutter closed of their own accord.

"Nope," he whispers, nose dragging down your cheek. His lips ghost over yours and you're nodding and then he's kissing you.

It's not as desperate as you expected. Steve kisses you like he has all the time in the world. He opens you slowly, paying attention to your bottom lip until you sigh into it and let him in. You lean back on his car, the metal hot through your shirt, and drag a hand through his hair. All talk of getting out of the heat is forgotten as your blood ignites, every point of contact between you a live wire.

He licks into your mouth and you tug his hair, swallowing his groan. The hand on your hip squeezes once, twice, before he pulls away.

You're both panting, and he looks at you with blown pupils and a wide grin.

"Okay," he says, voice hoarse. "We can go home now."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him. He tugs you into his chest and opens the passenger door, holding your hand as you get in like you're some fancy girl getting into a limo.

"Damn right," he laughs, jogging around the car to slide into the driver's seat.

The engine hums underneath you and Steve cranks the air, still grinning. He peels away from the curb with a glance over his shoulder and rests his hand on your bare thigh.

"Tell me what I missed," you say, eyes on him as he drives.

"Nothing," Steve says, happily. "Not a damn thing."

You called him once while you were away, but it was quick. Just a reminder that he'd pick you up, that he missed you, that he loved you.

"There has to be some story you can tell me," you try. "How are the kids?"

Hardly kids anymore, but still. Sometimes it feel like you'll be young forever, starry-eyed and adventurous. Being in love with Steve makes you feel that way.

"Hell if I know," he says, smirking. "Sick of me, probably. All I've been doing is waiting around for you to come back."

"That's probably not as romantic as you think it is," you say, though you think it is very romantic. "It sounds like you need some hobbies, Steve."

He scoffs. "I have hobbies," he says. "They're just all more fun with you there."

This guy, you think. "You are unbelievable," you tell him.

Farm roads turn into small-town streets full of houses and then familiar storefronts.

Steve pulls the car to a stop at a red light, the intersection deserted. Too hot for anyone to be out and about, it seems. You're already looking at him so you see when he turns to look at you, eyes bright.

"What?" you ask.

He shakes his head. "I just missed you," he says simply.

You tangle your fingers with his on your thigh.

Steve is a lot of things. Headstrong, stubborn, impatient. He hates doing laundry and takes his moods out on the bathroom with cleaning supplies or with a long run. He has horrible taste in music and never reads the books you recommend to him.

But he tells you how he feels when he feels it. He helps you pack for a week away from him and picks you up at the bus stop when you return. He waits for you. He shows up. He loves you.

"I missed you, Steve," you say.

The moment stretches between you and you could sit here forever. But the light turns green and he sees it out of the corner of his eye.

"You just missed ogling me," he says, like the little shit he is, and squeezes your hand.

You roll your eyes at him and he laughs and drives through the intersection in the direction of your apartment.

Maybe going away is worth it so you can come home.

[pearcheol]

𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good. 

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next. 

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.” 

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.” 

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.” 

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him. 

The photos of him online don’t do him justice. 

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.” 

“You– you’re real help.” 

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?” 

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.” 

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently. 

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.” 

“You are?” 

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.” 

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…” 

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm. 

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.” 

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.” 

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.” 

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse. 

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.” 

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.” 

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy. 

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet. 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.” 

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.” 

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.” 

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.” 

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.” 

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.” 

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.” 

“Please?” 

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return. 

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it. 

“I’m sick of working already,” you say. 

“Then let’s go home.” 

“Clark. I’m being conversational.” 

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy. 

“Have you been working out?” 

“Can you stop?” 

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day. 

— 

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here. 

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all. 

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” 

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?” 

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?” 

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.” 

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid. 

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why of course not?” 

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison. 

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt. 

“You seem a little flustered, is all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.” 

“You’ve never met a metahuman?” 

“No, never.” 

“We’re just like everybody else.” 

You laugh. 

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?” 

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap. 

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,” 

“Why is he looking for his father?” 

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.” 

“You can borrow my copy.” 

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?” 

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.” 

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility. 

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply. 

“Sure. Well, take your time.” 

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be. 

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge. 

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back. 

“Hey.” 

You lift your head. 

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.” 

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.” 

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel. 

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask. 

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.” 

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?” 

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.” 

“You do?” 

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands. 

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say. 

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?” 

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?” 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.” 

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.” 

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.” 

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.” 

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do. 

“Not that cold,” you murmur. 

“I never realised you were such a liar.” 

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.” 

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands. 

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby. 

“Fuck,” you complain. 

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?” 

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag. 

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.” 

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?” 

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?” 

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.” 

“You cook.” 

You blink. “You googled me?” 

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.” 

“Is that true?” 

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him. 

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun. 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you. 

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight. 

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it. 

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours. 

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.” 

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.” 

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.” 

“You aren’t heavy.” 

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!” 

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.” 

“That’s okay. I do.” 

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall. 

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.” 

You glance up to find him still staring at you. 

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say. 

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap. 

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.” 

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.” 

“You’re not making this any easier for me.” 

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms. 

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say. 

Superman presses his nose to your cheek. 

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you. 

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say. 

“What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“It’s leaking.” 

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket. 

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead. 

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.” 

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.” 

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path. 

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’. 

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased. 

“Adorable.” 

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease. 

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?” 

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together. 

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.” 

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.” 

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you. 

But you don’t know why. 

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again. 

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life. 

And lately. 

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth. 

Or that’s what he’d like to think. 

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome. 

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this. 

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins. 

The light goes out. 

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come. 

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth. 

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey. 

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke. 

The dark makes it hard to breathe. 

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast? 

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs 

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark? 

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you? 

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground. 

And Clark Kent is out there all alone. 

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on. 

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone. 

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust. 

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too. 

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly. 

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog. 

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise. 

“Ow!” 

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws. 

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.” 

Krypto nibbles his shoulder. 

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it. 

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them. 

“Krypto, stay.” 

Krypto tilts his white blurry head. 

“You’re not helping.” 

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air. 

Krypto stays down, for now. 

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?” 

He stops dead in the sky. 

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!” 

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe. 

He has to keep you safe. 

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked. 

To be good. 

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time. 

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain. 

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this. 

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit. 

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.” 

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.” 

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you. 

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.” 

“No,” you breathe. 

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.” 

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine. 

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head. 

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.” 

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in. 

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again. 

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work. 

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper. 

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw. 

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy. 

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret. 

He doesn’t rush you. 

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck. 

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly. 

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy. 

“But you know it all.” 

“I know you,” he agrees. 

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.” 

“Do you even remember?” he asks. 

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs. 

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.” 

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door. 

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?” 

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you. 

“I was awake for breakfast?” 

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.” 

You flush. “I’m fine.” 

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart. 

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!” 

“I don’t feel very hungry.” 

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.” 

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted. 

“Oh.” 

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions. 

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask. 

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.” 

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.” 

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.” 

He laughs wetly. 

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.” 

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel. 

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.” 

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.” 

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is. 

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand. 

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says. 

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.” 

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks. 

“You’re due some hazing.” 

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks. 

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.” 

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” 

Only a little. 

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman. 

And Superman? 

He’d been courting you. 

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously. 

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious. 

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.” 

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?” 

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly. 

“It was really going to be a kiss?” 

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises. 

“Prove it.” 

“What?” 

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“So kiss me.” 

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes. 

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff. 

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says. 

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously. 

Clark has repaid you in kind. 

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you? 

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know. 

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better. 

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp. 

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you. 

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?” 

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?” 

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.” 

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!