violetstark3000

[violetstark3000]

This is my favorite fan fic probably ever!

to whom it may concern  

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent  word count: 18k Summary:  You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.  notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.

Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.

A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.

And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.

Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.

You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”

He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”

Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.

You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.

You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.

He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.

“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.

He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.

“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”

You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.

Except… it’s not.

Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”

You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”

He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.

And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.

You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.

You flinch. “You good?”

“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”

Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.

You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.

You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.

You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.

It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.

He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.

You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.

Just in case.

-

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.

By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.

But this time, the note reads:

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”

You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand. 

You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.

And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.

You stare for a second too long.

He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.

Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.

You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all.  So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it? 

You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.

You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.

You don’t say anything.

-

Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.

“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”

You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.

“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”

The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”

Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”

Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.

You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.

Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.

Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.

You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.

-

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

-

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

-

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

-

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

-

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

-

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

-

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.” 

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

-

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

-

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

-

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

-

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

-

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

-

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

-

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

-

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

-

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

-

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 

Then you go.

-

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

-

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait. 

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

-

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

-

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

-

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

-

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

-

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

-

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

-

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

-

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

-

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

-

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

-

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

-

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

-

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

-

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

-

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

-

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

-

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

-

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

-

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know. 

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

-

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

-

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

tags:  @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

[violetstark3000]

Floor 23, Sequel: Jealousy in the Air

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Word Count: ~4,300 Warnings: Slow-burn jealousy, possessiveness, mild angst, flirting, teasing, emotionally charged dialogue, subtle pining, mutual tension, light humor Summary: After Tony’s party, things between Bucky and Y/N feel different. Not quite friends. Not quite more. When flirtations start happening on both sides, it’s clear — neither of them is ready to admit how much they actually care. But that doesn’t stop the tension from building.

The morning sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Avengers Tower’s 23rd floor, painting everything gold and warm, but the air between you and Bucky was anything but warm.

Tony’s party was over, and while everyone else had moved on, the aftermath lingered. Subtle looks, half-smiles, awkward silences — things neither of you wanted to address but couldn’t ignore.

You sat on the edge of the sofa, absently flipping through a magazine, though your eyes were mostly on Bucky, who stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the city wake up.

“Why are you staring?” you finally asked, breaking the silence.

He turned slowly, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not staring,” he corrected. “Just… observing.”

You raised an eyebrow, setting the magazine aside. “Observing who?”

His gaze dipped to the floor before meeting yours, steady and unreadable. “You.”

You felt a familiar heat rise in your cheeks. “I’m not exactly hard to watch.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “but you’re hard to forget.”

You chuckled, though it was brittle. “Stop.”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, but then his eyes narrowed slightly. “You were talking to him a other night. The guy with the laugh.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, you noticed?”

“Noticed? I practically saw sparks.”

You scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “He was just being friendly.”

“Friendly?” Bucky repeated, voice low. “You say that like it’s harmless.”

You crossed your arms, matching his tone. “I could say the same about you and that woman who kept asking questions all night.”

He smirked, obviously enjoying this little game. “Her name was Maria. And she wasn’t asking questions — she was flirting.”

You bit your lip, pretending to be unaffected, but your heart skipped.

“So, what?” you said, standing now, pacing the length of the room. “We’re keeping score now?”

“Not score,” Bucky said, voice softening, “just… noticing.”

Noticing how tight your jaw got, how your eyes flickered when he mentioned Maria. Noticing the way his own breath hitched slightly when you recalled your conversation with the guy at the party.

It was jealousy — raw, unspoken, undeniable.

You stopped pacing and looked at him, eyes searching. “Are you jealous, Barnes?”

He chuckled — a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room. “Am I?”

You bit back a smile. “You don’t have to pretend.”

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Neither do you.”

The day dragged on, filled with stolen glances and half-hearted attempts to act normal. You found yourself watching Bucky from the kitchen doorway as he worked on some old tech Tony had left behind. The way his brow furrowed in concentration. The slight twitch of his mouth when he smiled at the device behaving as expected.

Your phone buzzed — a message from Wanda: “We should all grab dinner later. And Y/N, bring Bucky.”

You bit your lip, reading it again. Bring Bucky. Not “you both come.” Just... bring.

You glanced at Bucky, who was now standing near the balcony, looking out over the city with that stoic expression. You typed a quick reply to Wanda and slipped your phone into your pocket.

When Bucky caught your eye, you shrugged. “Dinner. With the team.”

He nodded. “Sounds good.”

But you could see it — the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. The way his shoulders squared.

The subtle game of “I care more than I let on” was still playing.

That evening, the group dinner was lively as usual — jokes flying, music in the background, a little too much wine. You and Bucky managed to sit near each other, though neither of you said much at first.

Midway through the meal, you noticed Natasha lean over to Bucky and whisper something with a sly grin. Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, sharp and unreadable.

You caught Natasha’s gaze, and she winked.

Later, when you asked Bucky about it quietly as you refilled your glass, he just smirked and said, “Natasha thinks you’re trouble.”

You felt your cheeks flush. “She might be right.”

Bucky leaned closer. “Trouble is my specialty.”

After dinner, you and Bucky found yourselves alone on the rooftop terrace, the city lights twinkling below like a thousand stars. The cool night air wrapped around you, but you didn’t move away from the warmth of Bucky’s side.

“Why do you care so much?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged, though the slight curve of his lips betrayed him. “Because I don’t like the idea of someone else seeing what I see.”

You laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “Maybe. But I’m also yours.”

Your heart caught.

“Yours?” you echoed.

His hand brushed yours — light, tentative.

“Only if you’ll have me,” he added.

You didn’t hesitate.

The tension that had been simmering all day finally broke in the soft glow of the rooftop lights. Bucky pulled you close, lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and full of everything you’d been holding back.

No words were needed. Just the quiet understanding that neither of you wanted to share this — this feeling, this closeness — with anyone else.

Not yet.

[violetstark3000]

What Are You So Afraid Of, Darling?

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x Fem!Reader Word Count: ~3,700 Warnings: Flirty power play, intense eye contact, lingering touches, emotional tension, vaguely suggestive scenes, Loki being a menace in silk shirts, emotionally complicated reader, implied shared history Summary: Loki’s been testing your patience all day. That’s what he does. Pushes buttons. Gets under your skin. But tonight, he corners you in the quiet of the library, voice like sin, and asks a question you’re not ready to answer. You could walk away. But Loki smells like danger — and you’ve always had a weakness for the fall.

It always starts with the smirk.

That signature, insufferable, slow-as-molasses I-know-something-you-don’t expression stretched across his lips as he leans against the kitchen counter like he owns the place.

You’re not sure if it’s worse when he’s talking — or when he’s just watching.

Right now, it’s the latter.

You’re trying to drink your tea. He’s trying to ruin your day.

“Is that my mug?” he asks, one brow lifted.

You don’t look up. “You don’t own anything, Loki.”

“Oh, but I do,” he says, stepping closer. “Possibly more than you realize.”

Your jaw tightens. You sip slowly. “You’re in a mood.”

He’s always in a mood.

You run into him again later in the library — because of course he’d follow you. He’s draped on the sofa like some bored prince, all green silk and sharp angles. A book you doubt he’s reading is open in his lap. His eyes are on you.

“Come to scold me?” he asks lazily.

“No,” you reply, refusing to bite. “Just came to find peace and quiet. Clearly I was mistaken.”

He smirks. “You wound me.”

You roll your eyes, walking toward the shelves.

His voice follows. “You know you fascinate me, don’t you?”

You pause. “I’m not interested in playing your games.”

“Who said I was playing?”

You turn slowly, arms crossed. “Then what is this, Loki?”

He stands. Moves toward you with deliberate slowness, like a predator who knows the prey won’t run — not really.

“This,” he says, stepping into your space, “is curiosity. Tension. Hunger. And possibly something more dangerous.”

You exhale slowly. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet you stay.”

The air is thick. His fingers brush your wrist as he takes the book from your hand, setting it on the table like it never mattered.

His voice dips low, dangerous and beautiful. “You flinch when I’m close, but you never step away.”

Your breath catches.

“You hate how I make you feel,” he murmurs. “But you crave it.”

You say nothing.

His fingers trail up your arm, barely there.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, soft now.

You should.

You don’t.

His lips hover just beside yours. He doesn’t kiss you — not yet. Just breathes you in. Lets the silence grow thick with want.

“You think I’m a liar,” he whispers. “You think I seduce for fun.”

“Don’t you?”

His smile is razor-sharp. “Oh, darling. If this was just for fun, we wouldn’t still be talking.”

You clench your fists at your sides.

“I think you’re scared,” he adds.

“Of what?”

“Of what would happen if you let me have you. Really have you. Body, mind, soul.”

You whisper, “You don’t believe in souls.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“I believe in yours.”

You could walk away. You really could.

But you don’t.

You lean forward instead. Let your fingers trace the hem of his shirt. Let him see the hesitation — and the hunger.

His lips barely graze yours. “You’re going to be the end of me.”

You whisper, “Then stop starting fires you don’t want to burn in.”

He grins. “But I do.”

It ends like this:

Loki’s hand curled around your neck, gentle but firm. His forehead resting against yours. The heat between you thick and pulsing.

He still doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, he whispers, “Next time, you’ll beg for it.”

You glare at him, trembling.

And you know he’s right.

[violetstark3000]

Only a God Could Make It This Complicated

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x Fem!Reader Word Count: ~3,800 Warnings: Steamy tension, emotionally confusing dynamics, friends-with-benefits, possessive Loki energy, sarcastic banter, late-night visits, intense eye contact, vague mentions of intimacy Summary: You and Loki have an arrangement. No strings. No emotions. Except… he keeps showing up uninvited. Sleeping in your bed. And calling you “darling” like it means more. You swore this would stay simple. But Loki has never done anything simply.

It starts, as most things with Loki do — with trouble.

Not real trouble. Not the kind that ends worlds (he’s already tried that). The quiet, velvet kind. The kind that sneaks in through your bedroom window at 2 a.m., smelling like rain and mischief and something you should absolutely resist.

“Again?” you murmur, not even looking up from your book.

His voice is low. Teasing. “Don’t act so surprised, darling.”

You sigh, dropping the book. “You know this wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I know,” he says, already shedding his coat. “But the bed’s warmer when you’re in it.”

You don’t know how it started. A shared glance after a mission. A too-long silence in the Tower elevator. A smirk across a briefing room table. The moment you gave in, it was like gravity. Inevitable. Inescapable.

Loki had offered one rule: No feelings.

You agreed too fast. Too sure of yourself.

That was six months ago.

Now he kisses your neck like it means something. Leaves notes on your pillow in runes you can’t read. Brings you tea you didn’t ask for. Sleeps curled around you like he belongs there.

And you still pretend it’s casual.

One night, after another round of heated silence and tangled sheets, you finally say it.

“This is starting to feel like more than a favor.”

Loki leans back on your pillows, shirtless, his chest rising with a slow breath.

“Is that a problem?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know.”

He looks at you like he already knows the ending. “Then perhaps we should make it more complicated.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not—”

But he kisses you before you can finish.

And you let him.

It’s not that Loki is gentle. He’s precise. He touches you like he knows your thoughts before you do. He teases, taunts, pulls away only to drag you closer again. Every look is a dare. Every kiss a game.

But it’s not the sex that’s dangerous.

It’s the mornings.

The way he lingers.

How he always asks, “Do you want me to go?”

And never leaves unless you say yes.

Which you never do.

One evening, Thor nearly catches him leaving your room.

“I was simply…checking the ventilation,” Loki says smoothly, adjusting his collar.

Thor blinks. “Your shirt is inside out.”

You slam the door before you have to explain.

“You’re making this difficult,” you whisper one night, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Darling,” he breathes, “I was born difficult.”

You kiss him like it’s the last time.

It never is.

[violetstark3000]

Don’t Tempt Me

Pairing: Bodyguard!Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader Word Count: ~4,800 Warnings: Language, slow burn, protective behavior, minor violence, simmering tension, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, reader in danger, touches of angst and comfort, eventual fluff Summary: As the daughter of a high-profile senator, you’ve had your share of bodyguards — but none like Steve Rogers. Stoic, handsome, frustratingly protective. When your safety is threatened, Steve moves in. You can’t stand him… until you can’t stay away.

Steve Rogers was a lot of things. Your bodyguard was not supposed to be one of them.

But when you opened your front door that Tuesday morning — hungover from a night of political schmoozing and press photos — there he was. Sunglasses, tailored suit, tight jaw.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said with a nod.

You blinked at him. “No. Absolutely not.”

Behind him, your father’s assistant gave you an apologetic shrug.

“Steve Rogers will be your personal security detail effective immediately,” she said. “Until the threat’s resolved.”

You scoffed. “I’m not under threat.”

Steve tilted his head slightly, like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear. “That’s not what the letter left on your car said.”

You clenched your jaw. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

He didn’t flinch. “Good. I’m not here to babysit.”

You hated him already.

—

The first week was torture.

He shadowed your every move. Didn’t say much. Sat in corners like a statue carved out of granite.

You tried ditching him once, sneaking out the back of a restaurant. He found you five minutes later — leaning against the wall, arms crossed, utterly unimpressed.

“You done?” he asked.

You were not.

—

You learned things about him in slivers.

That he didn’t drink coffee but always made sure your order was ready before you asked.

That he worked out like a demon every morning and read classic novels when he thought you weren’t looking.

That he always stood between you and the door. Without fail.

“You don’t blink,” you told him once.

He cracked half a smile. “I blink when you’re not looking.”

You didn’t expect the butterflies.

—

One night, you had a panic attack. Quiet, sudden.

You didn’t even know he was still awake until he sat beside you on the couch, close but not too close.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed you a glass of water. Kept his hand on your back until your breath slowed.

You looked up at him with damp lashes and whispered, “Why are you nice to me?”

His voice was low. “Because someone should be.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

—

The threats escalated. Someone followed your car. A brick came through the window of your father’s campaign office.

Steve didn’t flinch. He started sleeping on your couch.

You pretended not to care.

He pretended you weren’t the most dangerous part of this job.

—

Then came the gala.

You wore a deep red dress that made your skin glow.

Steve nearly tripped when you stepped into the room.

You smirked. “Eyes up, Captain.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured.

That was the first time he touched you on purpose — his hand at the small of your back all night.

Your skin still burned.

—

You were ambushed in the parking garage. He fought off two guys with his bare hands. Got a cut across his ribs.

You drove him home in his own car. Forced him onto the couch.

He winced as you patched him up. “This is supposed to be my job.”

“Well, you suck at staying unstabbed.”

He laughed, then hissed.

You placed a hand over his. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

His eyes met yours, blue and full of something that made your chest ache.

“You terrify me,” he said.

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because if I lose you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

You kissed him.

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting years.

—

You didn’t sleep much that night. But neither of you regretted it.

In the morning, he made you coffee.

You told him to stop being perfect.

He said it was too late.

—

[violetstark3000]

Some Kind of Heaven

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word Count: ~4,700 Warnings: Emotional intimacy, slight angst, mentions of violence, slow burn tension, soft!Matt, Catholic guilt™️, post-mission injuries, mutual pining, bed sharing, shirtless comfort, vulnerability, and one (1) very intense almost-kiss. Summary: You’ve been patching Matt up for years, but when he shows up at your apartment bleeding and broken, the tension between you can’t hide behind bandages anymore. There’s only one bed. And too many secrets.

It starts the way it always does—with blood on your doorstep.

You barely get the chain lock off before Matt Murdock is stumbling through your apartment door, his suit torn, his lip split, a gash blooming across his ribs like a crimson flower. He’s panting. Not from fear. From effort.

You grab his arm, gently. “Jesus, Matt.”

He laughs dryly. “Wrong guy.”

You don’t have time to scold him, even though you want to. You help him to the couch, already reaching for the first aid kit you keep permanently stocked beneath your kitchen sink. It's become muscle memory by now.

He doesn’t flinch when you clean the wound. But he does when your fingers linger too long on his side.

“How many this time?” you ask, voice soft. You’re kneeling beside him, eyes cast up like a prayer.

“Three guys. Alley off 44th.”

“Did they deserve it?”

He huffs. “One of them shot me.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

—

Matt has been coming to you like this for years. You aren’t sure why it started. A favor for Foggy, maybe. A quiet pull neither of you are ready to name. But it never stopped. He brings the pain, and you bring the hands that put him back together.

He’s shirtless now, your kitchen towel pressed against his wound as you thread a needle.

He doesn’t make a sound as you stitch him up.

“You could go to a hospital, you know.”

“Too many questions.”

“You mean too many consequences.”

His silence says everything.

—

He should leave. He always does. But tonight he stays.

He’s pale. Exhausted. His suit lies in a pile on the bathroom floor, soaked in blood and rain. You hand him your favorite hoodie—soft, oversized, black.

He wears it without argument.

“You’re sleeping here,” you say, like there’s a choice.

His brow lifts slightly. “There’s only one bed.”

You shrug. “You’re blind. It’s not like you’ll see anything.”

He smiles. “I’ll try not to compromise your honor.”

You roll your eyes but your cheeks are warm.

—

You wake up to the weight of his arm around your waist.

You don’t move.

The city hums outside, distant and soft, but all you hear is his breathing—slow, steady, safe.

You never talk about what happens in the quiet.

But God, you wish you could.

—

It happens slowly, like gravity.

You fall into his orbit without realizing. He stays longer each time. He asks about your day. He brings coffee. You fix the holes in his shirt without being asked.

He teaches you how to hold a staff properly. You bandage his knuckles. He tells you about his father. You tell him about the time you got suspended in high school for fighting someone who said justice was a myth.

He smiled at that.

“You’d have made a good lawyer.”

“I’d rather be useful.”

“You are,” he says, softly. “You’re the reason I make it home at all.”

—

One night, after a particularly close call, you tell him he can’t keep doing this.

“I can’t lose you,” you whisper, voice raw.

He cups your cheek, his hand trembling. “I don’t deserve you worrying about me.”

You press your forehead to his. “Too late.”

—

There’s only one moment you come close to crossing the line.

You’re sitting on your fire escape, legs swinging, sharing whiskey from a flask he brought. He’s got a new scar on his jaw. Your fingers trace it gently, without thinking.

His breath hitches.

“Y/N,” he says, voice like gravel, “if you don’t stop touching me like that, I’m going to forget why I’ve spent so long pretending I don’t want this.”

You freeze. Your heart pounds.

“Then stop pretending.”

He leans in. So slow it hurts.

And then pulls away.

“Not yet.”

Your throat tightens. “Why?”

“Because the second I kiss you, I won’t stop.”

—

You let him leave that night.

But he comes back the next.

And the one after that.

And you’re still waiting for him to be ready.

You think he’s waiting for you too.

[violetstark3000]

Moonlight in My Kitchen🌙

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Neighbor!Reader Trope: Domestic fluff | Found family | Cooking at midnight Warnings: Soft!Bucky, fluff, emotional intimacy, comfort themes, insomnia, cooking mishaps, cuddles, no powers AU Word Count: ~4,200 words

The shrill scream of the smoke alarm ripped through the quiet of your small apartment just past two in the morning. You bolted upright in bed, eyes wide and heart racing, instantly annoyed but also vaguely amused. The acrid scent of burnt something hung in the air. You rubbed at your face, muttering, “I’m not burning the place down, I swear.”

A muffled knock came through the thin wall that separated your apartment from Bucky’s. You recognized that steady, slow rhythm instantly, like a quiet heartbeat.

“Smelled like smoke,” his voice came, rough and low.

When you opened the door, there he was—shirtless, tousled hair falling in messy strands over his forehead, eyes still heavy with sleep but alert and concerned.

You handed him a plate with two charred slices of toast��the remnants of your failed attempt at midnight snack redemption. “Want some?”

He chuckled softly, the sound rough like gravel but warm. “I don’t know how you survive in this kitchen.”

“You mean how I manage to almost not burn down the building?” you teased, stepping aside to let him in.

He shrugged, stepping inside, the familiar scent of him wrapping around you like a comfort blanket. You’d gotten used to these late-night visits, these quiet moments where the world slowed to a gentle hum.

Midnight soon became your shared ritual.

Burnt grilled cheese sandwiches, overcooked pasta tossed hastily with store-bought sauce, and laughter echoing against the cramped walls of your kitchen.

You’d play your favorite songs—Fleetwood Mac, old rock tunes, something to drown out the silence—and you danced in mismatched socks, spinning like no one was watching.

Bucky peeled carrots at the counter with quiet patience, fingers steady and sure, the way you’d never thought you’d see him—soft, grounded, almost content.

At night, you learned things about him you hadn’t dared ask before: the long restless nights, the war that haunted his dreams, the weight of the past he carried silently.

And he learned your stories—tales of your mother’s laugh, your messy apartment, your dreams and fears that you never said aloud.

You shared simple moments: the clink of glasses, the hum of the fridge, the way your fingers brushed as you reached for the salt together.

He started spending more nights on your couch than not.

Sometimes he’d fall asleep as you read, head resting on your shoulder, breaths slow and steady like he was finally finding peace.

One morning, the golden light spilled across your living room, and you woke to find his arms wrapped tight around you, fingers threading gently through your hair.

“You okay?” you whispered, breath warm against his skin.

He opened his eyes slowly, looking at you with something like gratitude shining in his gaze. “Better now.”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with something new, something tender.

The days blurred into a steady rhythm.

Work, meals, shared nights filled with quiet conversation and soft music.

You started cooking more—simple things, mostly—but Bucky always insisted on helping, his presence soothing the chaos of your life.

You found yourself laughing more, the weight of your past lifting a little each day.

He began to open up more, letting you see the cracks beneath the hardened exterior.

One evening, you sat side-by-side on your worn couch, a blanket tossed over your legs, sipping cheap takeout coffee.

He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with careful fingers.

“I never thought I’d have a place like this,” he murmured.

You squeezed his hand gently. “Neither did I.”

The silence between you was easy, comfortable—full of promises unspoken but understood.

Weeks passed, and with them came small but profound moments: stolen kisses in the kitchen, shared jokes over burnt toast, quiet support during sleepless nights.

You realized you’d fallen for him—not the soldier, not the man haunted by his past, but the quiet, patient soul who peeled carrots at midnight and held you close when the world felt heavy.

One rainy night, thunder rolling softly outside, you found yourself curled against him on the couch.

His hand traced lazy circles on your back, his breath warm against your hair.

“You’re home,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes, feeling the truth of that word in your chest.

Home.

And finally, you knew you belonged somewhere.

[violetstark3000]

No Saints in Brooklyn

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Tattoo Artist!Reader Trope: Grumpy x grumpier | Dark-ish modern AU Warnings: Explicit smut, angst + intimacy, dom/sub themes, dirty talk, smoking, trauma mentions, use of protection, heavy language, strong language, soft aftercare Word Count: ~4,700 words

The first time Bucky walked into your tattoo shop, you barely registered how his presence filled the cramped room—not just physically, but something deeper. There was an energy about him, a kind of weary strength that made your fingers tremble just slightly as you wiped down your station.

The faded scar on his shoulder caught your eye more than once. You recognized it as more than just a wound—it was a map of battles fought and losses carried. You didn’t ask about it, not yet.

He stood awkwardly, arms crossed, waiting for you to say something.

“I’m [Y/N],” you offered, wiping the last smudge of ink from your forearm.

His dark eyes softened for a moment. “Bucky,” he said simply.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

He nodded. “I want the haloed saint,” he repeated, eyes flicking to the half-finished piece hanging on the wall.

“It’s a work in progress,” you said, grabbing a fresh sheet of tracing paper. “You sure you want something unfinished?”

He shrugged. “Fits me.”

You bit back a smile.

Over the next few days, he came back to watch you work, sometimes silently, sometimes with small questions about needles, inks, and pain.

“You’ve got steady hands,” he said one afternoon, voice quieter than usual.

“Only when I’m focused,” you replied, your heart skipping as his gaze lingered longer than it should.

One night, after closing, he stayed late. Rain pounded the windows as you both smoked on the cracked stoop outside.

He told you about the war—fragments, carefully chosen words. The Winter Soldier, the missions, the things he wished he could forget.

You listened, letting the smoke and silence wrap around you like a cocoon.

Then, when the rain softened, he invited you to sit in his truck.

You didn’t hesitate.

His hands were rough but careful as they slid over your thighs, fingers curling just enough to claim. Your lips met his with a hunger that surprised even you—an unspoken understanding that this was more than just a late-night fling.

When he kissed you, it was with a fierce tenderness that made your knees weak. You traced the scars on his body, as if by touching you could heal.

He murmured against your skin, “You’re different.”

“Yeah?” you breathed, heart pounding.

“Not like the others.”

You smiled, soft and genuine.

The nights became your sanctuary.

In the quiet dark of his apartment, you touched him in ways words couldn’t reach. You traced the map of his scars, memorizing every line, every faded mark.

He kissed you like he was afraid to break you, but you felt nothing but safety.

One night, you caught him staring as you sipped whiskey, watching the way the amber light danced across your skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low.

You laughed, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

One evening, he came to you bleeding, a fresh cut slicing his forearm. Without hesitation, you grabbed your kit, hands steady despite the pounding of your heart.

You stitched him up, your fingers trembling when they brushed his skin. He watched you, pain and something softer in his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

But you did.

Because for once, you wanted to be the one who saved him.

Afterward, tangled in sheets, sweat and whiskey mingling, you whispered the truth you’d been hiding.

“We’re fucked up.”

He smiled, dark and knowing. “But you’re the best kind of fucked up.”

Weeks later, you sat behind your station, preparing your inks when he walked in, a question in his eyes.

“Can I get a tattoo?”

You nodded, not quite believing you’d ever be the one to mark him.

As you worked, your hands steady and sure, you inked a single word on his ribs: Enough.

The letters were your handwriting—rough, imperfect, but real.

When he saw it in the mirror, a flicker of something like hope warmed his gaze.

The first time you kissed properly, it was after hours, the shop bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights. You sat on the edge of the tattoo chair, legs crossed, and he stood close—too close. His breath was warm against your neck, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

“You okay?” you asked softly, heart racing.

He nodded, voice rough. “I want you.”

Your pulse quickened.

You leaned up, lips brushing his, and then crashing together in a desperate kiss. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. You melted against him, hips pressing forward, feeling his body heat against your own.

His hands roamed over your skin, tracing the lines of your tattoos like a lover rediscovering an old song.

You tugged his henley over his head, revealing skin marked by scars and muscle that felt solid beneath your fingers.

He groaned low in your throat when you slid your hands over his chest, moving slowly, reverently.

You stood, pulling him down with you until your bodies pressed against the worn leather chair.

He kissed a path down your jaw to your collarbone, teeth grazing softly, sending fire shooting through your veins.

Your hands fumbled with his belt, fingers trembling with desire and anticipation.

He shifted, lips hot against your neck, hands ghosting beneath your shirt.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured.

You swallowed, voice thick. “You.”

He smiled darkly.

The night unfolded like a wildfire—heated, urgent, and tender all at once.

His hands were rough and gentle, tracing every inch of your body. His mouth worshipped your skin, lips and tongue exploring, marking.

You shivered under his touch, breath hitching as he pressed closer.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, teasing, exploring.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick with need.

You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him up for a fierce kiss.

You led him to the backroom, the small space where you kept your tattoo supplies. The scent of antiseptic mixed with the musk of desire.

He pushed you gently against the wall, lips crushing yours.

His hands found your waist, pulling you tight.

You shivered, skin tingling beneath his touch.

His fingers slipped beneath your shirt, trailing fire down your spine.

You gasped as he dipped lower, lips brushing your ribs where the word Enough was freshly inked.

“I want you,” he whispered, voice rough.

You nodded, heart pounding.

He lifted you, carrying you to the couch, setting you down with care.

Your hands roamed over his body, memorizing the scars, the muscles, the warmth.

He kissed you slow and deep, fingers tracing your curves.

You shivered with need, pulling his shirt off.

He groaned, pressing his body against yours.

Clothes shed slowly, reverently.

His skin was warm, breath hitching as your hands explored.

When he finally entered you, the world shrank to just your bodies.

Slow, steady, electric.

Every touch, every movement, every whispered word built a crescendo of sensation.

You cried out, arms wrapped tight around him.

He held you close, kissing your temple.

Afterward, tangled in sheets, sweat cooling on skin, he whispered your name like a prayer.

Days bled into weeks.

Your bond deepened beyond flesh and pain.

You found peace in each other’s arms.

He found strength in your hands.

And for once, you both believed you were enough.

[violetstark3000]

No Saints in Brooklyn

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Tattoo Artist!Reader Trope: Grumpy x grumpier | Dark-ish modern AU Warnings: Explicit smut, angst + intimacy, dom/sub themes, dirty talk, smoking, trauma mentions, use of protection, heavy language, strong language, soft aftercare Word Count: ~4,700 words

The first time Bucky walked into your tattoo shop, you barely registered how his presence filled the cramped room—not just physically, but something deeper. There was an energy about him, a kind of weary strength that made your fingers tremble just slightly as you wiped down your station.

The faded scar on his shoulder caught your eye more than once. You recognized it as more than just a wound—it was a map of battles fought and losses carried. You didn’t ask about it, not yet.

He stood awkwardly, arms crossed, waiting for you to say something.

“I’m [Y/N],” you offered, wiping the last smudge of ink from your forearm.

His dark eyes softened for a moment. “Bucky,” he said simply.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

He nodded. “I want the haloed saint,” he repeated, eyes flicking to the half-finished piece hanging on the wall.

“It’s a work in progress,” you said, grabbing a fresh sheet of tracing paper. “You sure you want something unfinished?”

He shrugged. “Fits me.”

You bit back a smile.

Over the next few days, he came back to watch you work, sometimes silently, sometimes with small questions about needles, inks, and pain.

“You’ve got steady hands,” he said one afternoon, voice quieter than usual.

“Only when I’m focused,” you replied, your heart skipping as his gaze lingered longer than it should.

One night, after closing, he stayed late. Rain pounded the windows as you both smoked on the cracked stoop outside.

He told you about the war—fragments, carefully chosen words. The Winter Soldier, the missions, the things he wished he could forget.

You listened, letting the smoke and silence wrap around you like a cocoon.

Then, when the rain softened, he invited you to sit in his truck.

You didn’t hesitate.

His hands were rough but careful as they slid over your thighs, fingers curling just enough to claim. Your lips met his with a hunger that surprised even you—an unspoken understanding that this was more than just a late-night fling.

When he kissed you, it was with a fierce tenderness that made your knees weak. You traced the scars on his body, as if by touching you could heal.

He murmured against your skin, “You’re different.”

“Yeah?” you breathed, heart pounding.

“Not like the others.”

You smiled, soft and genuine.

The nights became your sanctuary.

In the quiet dark of his apartment, you touched him in ways words couldn’t reach. You traced the map of his scars, memorizing every line, every faded mark.

He kissed you like he was afraid to break you, but you felt nothing but safety.

One night, you caught him staring as you sipped whiskey, watching the way the amber light danced across your skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low.

You laughed, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

One evening, he came to you bleeding, a fresh cut slicing his forearm. Without hesitation, you grabbed your kit, hands steady despite the pounding of your heart.

You stitched him up, your fingers trembling when they brushed his skin. He watched you, pain and something softer in his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

But you did.

Because for once, you wanted to be the one who saved him.

Afterward, tangled in sheets, sweat and whiskey mingling, you whispered the truth you’d been hiding.

“We’re fucked up.”

He smiled, dark and knowing. “But you’re the best kind of fucked up.”

Weeks later, you sat behind your station, preparing your inks when he walked in, a question in his eyes.

“Can I get a tattoo?”

You nodded, not quite believing you’d ever be the one to mark him.

As you worked, your hands steady and sure, you inked a single word on his ribs: Enough.

The letters were your handwriting—rough, imperfect, but real.

When he saw it in the mirror, a flicker of something like hope warmed his gaze.

The first time you kissed properly, it was after hours, the shop bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights. You sat on the edge of the tattoo chair, legs crossed, and he stood close—too close. His breath was warm against your neck, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

“You okay?” you asked softly, heart racing.

He nodded, voice rough. “I want you.”

Your pulse quickened.

You leaned up, lips brushing his, and then crashing together in a desperate kiss. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. You melted against him, hips pressing forward, feeling his body heat against your own.

His hands roamed over your skin, tracing the lines of your tattoos like a lover rediscovering an old song.

You tugged his henley over his head, revealing skin marked by scars and muscle that felt solid beneath your fingers.

He groaned low in your throat when you slid your hands over his chest, moving slowly, reverently.

You stood, pulling him down with you until your bodies pressed against the worn leather chair.

He kissed a path down your jaw to your collarbone, teeth grazing softly, sending fire shooting through your veins.

Your hands fumbled with his belt, fingers trembling with desire and anticipation.

He shifted, lips hot against your neck, hands ghosting beneath your shirt.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured.

You swallowed, voice thick. “You.”

He smiled darkly.

The night unfolded like a wildfire—heated, urgent, and tender all at once.

His hands were rough and gentle, tracing every inch of your body. His mouth worshipped your skin, lips and tongue exploring, marking.

You shivered under his touch, breath hitching as he pressed closer.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, teasing, exploring.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick with need.

You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him up for a fierce kiss.

You led him to the backroom, the small space where you kept your tattoo supplies. The scent of antiseptic mixed with the musk of desire.

He pushed you gently against the wall, lips crushing yours.

His hands found your waist, pulling you tight.

You shivered, skin tingling beneath his touch.

His fingers slipped beneath your shirt, trailing fire down your spine.

You gasped as he dipped lower, lips brushing your ribs where the word Enough was freshly inked.

“I want you,” he whispered, voice rough.

You nodded, heart pounding.

He lifted you, carrying you to the couch, setting you down with care.

Your hands roamed over his body, memorizing the scars, the muscles, the warmth.

He kissed you slow and deep, fingers tracing your curves.

You shivered with need, pulling his shirt off.

He groaned, pressing his body against yours.

Clothes shed slowly, reverently.

His skin was warm, breath hitching as your hands explored.

When he finally entered you, the world shrank to just your bodies.

Slow, steady, electric.

Every touch, every movement, every whispered word built a crescendo of sensation.

You cried out, arms wrapped tight around him.

He held you close, kissing your temple.

Afterward, tangled in sheets, sweat cooling on skin, he whispered your name like a prayer.

Days bled into weeks.

Your bond deepened beyond flesh and pain.

You found peace in each other’s arms.

He found strength in your hands.

And for once, you both believed you were enough.

[violetstark3000]

Worn-In Denim and Coffee Stains☕️

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x barista!Reader Trope: Strangers to slow burn | Coffee shop AU Word Count: ~4,300 Warnings: Fluff, awkward flirting, soft!Bucky, a little pining, no powers AU, mentions of PTSD, mentions of military past, comfort themes, reader wears big sweaters

Bucky Barnes is a man of routine.

Maybe more than that. Maybe routine is the only thing that feels safe after all the chaos. The fighting. The things he can’t erase but learns to live with every day.

So, when he walks into the same corner café every morning, it’s not just for the coffee. It’s because he knows someone there will smile at him like he’s a friend, like he’s not carrying the weight of a hundred lifetimes on his shoulders.

That someone is you.

The first morning Bucky walks in, he’s a little late. Not much, just a couple of minutes past his usual time — 7:45 instead of 7:43 — but to him, it might as well be a storm.

You’re behind the counter, with your oversized sweater hanging off your frame like you borrowed it from a much taller friend. Your nails are chipped black, like you rushed painting them the night before. A band-aid peeks out from your ring finger, fresh and bright against your skin. The name tag on your chest is handwritten in thick, uneven Sharpie letters: “Hi, I'm [Y/N]!”

You catch his eye and grin — not that fake smile people put on for customers, but the real one that crinkles the corners of your eyes and makes the entire room seem warmer.

“Morning,” you say, voice soft but with just enough cheer to cut through the hum of the espresso machine.

Bucky freezes for a second — forgets why he came in at all. Coffee? Yes. But also something else. Connection. Comfort. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Black coffee,” he finally says. “One sugar.”

You nod and get to work. You recommend the house roast, asking if he wants room for cream. When you hand over the cup, you doodle a tiny heart on the sleeve with your marker. Bucky stares at it all the way home, the cup still warm in his hands. The heart feels like an unspoken promise.

By the third morning, you know his order without asking. Black coffee, one sugar, minimal small talk.

But you still chatter.

About the weather. About a funny barista who tried to latte art a smiley face and ended up with a blob. About the new vinyl you bought for your record player. You don’t ask much about him, but your voice wraps around the space between you like a warm blanket.

And Bucky keeps coming back.

You hum classic rock when you’re cleaning the espresso machine. The soundtrack of your life spills into the air — Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles. You tap your foot, swaying ever so slightly, even though there’s no one watching.

On slow days, you scribble on napkins — doodles, song lyrics, little jokes for yourself. One napkin has a cat wearing sunglasses. Another reads, You are enough. Bucky spots them sometimes, curious enough to peek but respectful enough not to pry.

Every Thursday, you wear a different band tee. Bucky notices because one morning he catches himself wondering what you’ll wear next week — Nirvana? The Clash? A faded Pink Floyd? He doesn’t know why this sticks with him, but it does.

Day five arrives, and you finally break the rhythm.

“What’s your name?” you ask, leaning casually against the counter, chin in your hand.

Bucky looks up, startled like you caught him thinking too hard.

“Bucky,” he says quietly, eyes flicking away.

“Well, Bucky,” you grin, playful but gentle, “welcome to your new addiction.”

You mean the coffee. He knows you do. But despite himself, he flushes — like he’s been caught falling for more than just caffeine.

The days roll on, slow and sweet.

You start saving the best muffin for him — banana nut, with no raisins. You know from his brief, almost shy comment that he hates raisins.

One afternoon, the register screen flickers and freezes. Bucky, without a word, pulls out a tiny toolkit from his bag and starts fiddling with it. You watch, impressed.

“You’re like a wizard,” you say.

He smirks, a small curl at the corner of his mouth. “Just a guy who’s fixed worse.”

A rainy morning finds you standing outside, drenched despite the umbrella in your hand. Bucky arrives, offering his own umbrella with a sticky note taped to the handle: Don’t argue.

You take it, silent, but the corners of your mouth twitch.

He doesn’t say a word as you duck inside the shop, warm coffee and soft light waiting.

That night, Bucky dreams of you.

Your laugh, bright and honest, echoing through the quiet of his apartment.

Your voice, saying his name like it belongs to you — not a stranger or a soldier, but just Bucky.

One evening, you invite him to sit after a long shift. The shop is closed, the air thick with the smell of coffee and cleaning supplies. You’re tired, cheeks flushed from the rush, but he doesn’t say no.

He pulls up a chair and listens as you rant about a customer who insisted oat milk belonged in black coffee. You split a muffin in silence, crumbs falling onto the table like little promises.

When it’s time to close, he offers to help. You let him.

The silence between you is not awkward. It’s familiar. Like the first deep breath after holding it for too long.

He starts writing again.

Not the grand, sweeping prose he once dreamed of. Small notes in a battered Moleskine he keeps tucked in the jacket he never takes off.

Details you wouldn’t expect him to notice: the exact green of your eyes, the way your voice rises when the milk steamer spits, the warmth of your hands moving through the ritual of coffee-making.

He writes your name. Over and over.

The first time he touches your hand, it’s accidental.

You both reach for the same coffee pot. His fingers brush yours. The contact is electric, like static in the air before a storm.

You look up, meeting his eyes. Slow. Soft. A little surprised.

“Next time,” you whisper, “bring me coffee. And maybe stay.”

He nods.

Next time, he does.

Two cups in his hands. Yours has a little heart drawn on the sleeve.

You sit together at the window seat, morning sun casting golden light across your faces. His knee brushes yours. Neither of you pulls away.

“I never liked mornings until now,” he says quietly.

You sip your coffee, smiling like it means everything.

Because maybe it does.

The weeks that follow are full of quiet rituals.

He’s there before the sun rises. You’re the first voice he hears — soft, steady, real.

You watch him learn to smile again, slow but sure.

You watch him start to let go.

And you realize, without quite meaning to, that you’ve found your own routine — one that involves worn-in denim, chipped nails, coffee stains, and the man who carries his scars like badges of survival.

Because sometimes, routine isn’t just about safety.

Sometimes it’s about home.

[violetstark3000]

Don't Touch My Hoodie 👕

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (College AU) Word count: ~4,500+ (will expand further with smut scenes) Summary: Between late-night ramen, hoodie theft, mutual pining, and thin walls, things spiral into something more intimate than either of you were ready for. But he's Peter Parker. And you're exactly what he didn't know he needed. Warnings: Roommates-to-lovers, mutual pining, hoodie theft, fluff + banter, eventual smut, mentions of stress/anxiety, light angst, strong language, use of protection

A/N: I love a sunshine reader also never written for peter before sooo lmk how it goes...

The first time you met Peter Parker, he was wearing the hoodie.

Gray, oversized, soft-looking. Sleeves chewed at the cuffs. His hair was messy and he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. Probably hadn’t.

He blinked when you opened the door. “You’re the new roommate?”

“Yep,” you chirped, brushing past him and into the apartment. “Hope you don’t mind sunlight. Or Taylor Swift.”

Peter’s groan was immediate. “God help me.”

It took one week for the hoodie to become the most contested item in the apartment.

“You don’t even ask anymore,” he grumbled, arms crossed as you waltzed into the kitchen wearing it over your tank top and pajama shorts.

You sipped your coffee, grinning. “You’re not using it. I’m emotionally attached.”

“It’s my hoodie.”

You shrugged. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Parker.”

Peter tried not to notice how it looked on you. Or how his heart beat faster when you pulled the sleeves over your hands and yawned.

He was failing.

Nights blurred into weeks. Peter stayed up too late. You brought him snacks. He fixed your printer. You braided his hair once on a dare. You ordered takeout. He paid.

You were sunshine. A little chaos. Loud in the mornings and tender at night.

Peter didn’t know what to do with someone like you.

You didn’t know he was Spider-Man. But you knew he got quiet when it rained, flinched when phones rang too loud, smiled a little when you hummed in the kitchen.

You knew him.

One night, the power went out.

You lit candles. He pulled out ramen.

You sat on the couch, knees touching.

“I like this,” you whispered. “When the world gets quiet. Just us.”

Peter stared at your mouth.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Me too.”

Your face was lit soft and golden. You were still wearing the hoodie.

He reached up. Tucked your hair behind your ear.

You didn’t pull away.

The kiss was slow. Uncertain. Your nose bumped his. His hands trembled. But your smile was steady. You kissed him like he wasn’t fragile. Like he wasn’t broken.

“You sure?” he breathed.

“Peter,” you said, climbing into his lap, “I’ve been stealing your clothes for two months. I’m very sure.”

His laugh cracked open something warm in his chest.

You kissed him again. Deeper this time. Slow, but wanting. He responded with a soft groan against your lips, fingers gripping your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t.

Your hands slid under his hoodie, pushing it up until he helped you yank it off. You kissed along his jaw, feeling the stubble, the heat, the tension in his breath.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, forehead to yours. “You have no idea.”

You smiled, fingers trailing down his chest. “I have some idea.”

He lifted you easily, carried you to his room. His sheets smelled like detergent and cedar. You crawled back onto them, pulling him with you.

Clothes were shed slowly. Carefully. Every touch was soft. Reverent. Peter paused often — checking in, looking at you like you were already the most important thing in his life.

When he finally moved above you, he was shaking slightly.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he said.

You cupped his cheek. “Then don’t. Just be here. With me.”

He nodded, kissed you like he meant it, and slid inside you with a gasp.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t loud. It was full of whispered names, tangled fingers, and soft gasps. His mouth stayed on your neck, your shoulder, your lips.

When you came, he held you close. When he followed, he groaned your name like a prayer.

Afterward, you lay tangled in the sheets, legs intertwined.

Peter traced lazy shapes on your thigh. “You still emotionally attached to the hoodie?”

You laughed, breathless. “I’m emotionally attached to the owner now.”

Peter pulled you tighter. “Good. Because you’re not getting rid of me.”

You grinned into his chest. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[violetstark3000]

A Terrible First Date (But He Makes It Better)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word count: ~3,800 Summary: You agreed to a date because Wanda insisted you should “get out more.” It’s a disaster — your date is rude, belittling, and forgets your name. You leave early, shaken and mad at yourself… and end up knocking on Bucky’s door at Avengers Tower. He sees right through you — and stays up all night making you feel whole again. Warnings: Bad date (verbal put-downs), soft!bucky, comfort fic, emotional support cuddles, protective energy, fluff, found family mentions A/N: Inspired by everyone who’s ever come home from a date and cried into leftover fries. felt. i see you.

It was supposed to be harmless.

Wanda said the guy worked in tech. Smart. Tall. Not a supervillain. Those were apparently your only requirements these days.

But fifteen minutes into the date and you knew it was a mistake.

He interrupted you. Twice. Called you "sweetheart" in that condescending way that felt like an insult dressed in syrup. Asked if you were really an Avenger or just Tony's coffee runner.

You gave it another twenty minutes, sipping your drink and watching the clock. Then he called you by the wrong name.

You left.

No dramatic exit. No confrontation. Just a quiet slip of your bag over your shoulder and a muttered excuse as you headed out into the cold.

Your breath fogged the air as you stood outside the restaurant, hands trembling slightly. Part from the wind. Part from embarrassment. Mostly from the quiet shame that crept up your spine like static.

You weren’t crying. Not really. Just blinking more than usual.

The tower was twenty blocks away. And you didn’t want to go home to your empty room. Not tonight.

You barely knocked before the door opened.

Bucky was in a hoodie, hair tied back, barefoot, eyes soft.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you.

Then he stepped aside.

You walked in.

And it wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind you that your shoulders finally dropped.

“Didn’t go great, huh?” he said quietly.

You let out a shaky breath. “He forgot my name, Buck.”

He didn’t say anything. Just walked over, picked up the blanket from the couch, and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Wanda owes me a bottle of wine,” you muttered, collapsing onto the couch.

Bucky sat beside you, close but not touching. Not until you leaned in first.

Then his arm was around your shoulders.

And suddenly, your face was buried in his chest and the quiet sob you’d been holding back slipped out before you could stop it.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But Bucky was warm. Solid. Familiar.

When you blinked awake, the lights were low and his hand was still tracing small circles on your back.

“Did I drool on you?” you asked, voice rough.

He chuckled. “Only a little.”

You looked up at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes — not pity. Never pity. Just... care.

Real, quiet care.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said. “You never do.”

You felt your throat tighten. “I just wanted to feel... wanted. Even for a night.”

His hand stilled.

“You are,” he said. Voice barely a whisper. “Every damn day.”

Your breath caught. The room felt still.

“Bucky...”

He met your eyes. “I know. You don’t have to say anything. Just... stay. You don’t have to be alone tonight.”

So you stayed. In his arms. In the quiet.

And somewhere in the middle of the night, when the tower was asleep and the world outside felt far away, he kissed your forehead and held you a little tighter.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

You were wanted.

[violetstark3000]

Trickster’s Day Off😈

Pairing: Loki x Reader (Y/N) Word count: ~3,500 words Warnings: Fluff, slow burn, light humor, mild language, some playful teasing Summary: Loki’s latest scheme to “relax” lands him rooming with Y/N, who’s equal parts sharp, sarcastic, and unbothered by Asgardian mischief. As they navigate the chaos of Avengers Tower together, their teasing quickly spirals into something neither expected. Can the God of Mischief learn how to be soft without losing his edge?

A/N: Thought id try something new lmk what you all think 🤷‍♀️

When Loki showed up at Avengers Tower claiming he was “on a much-needed break” from Asgard, no one quite believed him. Least of all Y/N, who’d been assigned as his unofficial roommate — because apparently, “the God of Mischief needs someone to keep him in check.”

Which was hilarious, if a little terrifying.

From day one, Loki made it clear he’d prefer schemes to chores, illusions to mundane chores, and grand speeches over small talk. But Y/N was stubbornly unamused by magic tricks and sarcastically unimpressed by his Asgardian flair.

“Honestly,” Y/N said one morning, flipping her hair as Loki conjured a miniature serpent to impress her, “if you spent half as much time helping as you do showing off, you might actually get along with the team.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. “And deprive myself of the delightful torture of your company?”

Y/N smirked. “Exactly.”

Their days in the tower settled into a strange rhythm — Loki lounging on the windowsill, reading ancient texts or sulking when Thor ate all the snacks; Y/N juggling training, tech troubleshooting, and keeping Loki grounded when his “pranks” almost blew out the main power grid.

But beneath the sarcasm and bickering, there was a growing understanding — and maybe even something warmer.

One rainy afternoon, when the team was scattered across missions or meetings, Y/N found Loki sitting quietly on the balcony, looking less like a god and more like someone just… tired.

“You okay?” she asked, sitting down beside him.

Loki shrugged, voice soft. “Even a god gets weary.”

Y/N nodded, offering her jacket. “Then let’s be weary together. No schemes, no tricks. Just… this.”

And in that quiet moment, surrounded by the distant hum of the city and the faint scent of rain, something shifted between them — a spark that was less mischief and more… possibility.

___________________________________________________________

If you want the full chapter-by-chapter detailed story or more scenes with Loki and Y/N, just say the word! :)

[violetstark3000]

AHHH omg so good!!

★ group grocery run

[violetstark3000]

“Shhh, you can take it” Bucky cooed in a tauntingly sweet tone, his warm hands softly rubbing your trembling thighs. he couldn’t help but smirk as he looked down on your trembling form, you arching your spine into such a delicious curvature, face stuffed into the sheets ; muffling your loud cries and moans.

“Shit- shit, s-so deep- bucky -” you’re mewling out, bringing your hand back to try to push at his abdomen that was pressed against the plush skin of your ass. But he’s quickly grabbing your wrist and pulling you up, your other arm quickly moving to help hold you up before you fall on your face.

The lewd sounds of Bucky fucking into you from behind filled your shared room along with your pitiful moans and whines, your nails digging into the warm skin of his forearm as he held your arm behind your back. Bucky smirks as he stops his thrusts, a loud choked out moan escaping your lips at the feeling of him being balls deep inside of you.

Your eyes were clouded with pleasure and unshed tears as you tilted your head to look back at your boyfriend, and with just one look at your face he could see how stupidly cockdrunken you truly are as you cried out “t-too much!”

“Be my good fuckin’ girl and take it — yeahhh fuck yourself on ma cock” bucky trailed off into deep groan as your hips cant help but shake and twitch from him being so deep. You sniffle and drop your head between your shoulders, squeezing the sheets until your hand aches, the only thing on your mind was making bucky cum.

Bucky’s abs clenched and his hold on you tightens as he tilts his head back with a loud moan, enjoying the feeling of you fucking yourself back against him. The sound of skin slapping and your pretty moans n whimpers helps create a cocky smirk on his lips “Ngh-that’s ma girl”

🏷️ ⨟ @littlejoels @pixiebratz

[violetstark3000]

Accidental Dating🫠

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Y/N) Word count: ~3,200 words Warnings: Fluff, slow burn, humor, some awkwardness, light angst, no smut Summary: When a casual cover story snowballs into a full-blown fake relationship, Y/N and Bucky have to navigate the hilarious chaos of pretending to be a couple — only to discover their feelings aren’t so fake after all. Awkward dinners, accidental hand-holding, and the best kind of slow burn ensue.

A/N: Inspired by all those “fake dating” tropes I adore hope you guys like it!!

The problem started at exactly the wrong time — when Natasha cornered them in the common room with her signature “I’m not asking, I’m telling” tone.

“You two are terrible at subtlety,” she said flatly, arms crossed as she watched Y/N and Bucky sit too close on the couch, pretending to debate which pizza toppings were better. “Stop acting like you don’t know what everyone’s thinking.”

Y/N blinked, a slice of pepperoni halfway to her mouth. “We’re just friends?”

“Sure you are,” Natasha replied with a skeptical smirk. “Except you both have been spotted leaving meetings together, the way you keep disappearing during team dinners, and the way Bucky’s been — wait for it — protective.”

Bucky shot a glance at Y/N, who was doing her best impression of ‘I’m innocent’ but failing spectacularly.

“Fine,” Bucky muttered. “Fake dating it is.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled because, well, Natasha was terrifyingly effective. “We’ll play along. But just until this whole Stark tech briefing is over.”

At first, it was mostly harmless.

They showed up at meetings pretending to share inside jokes. Y/N made a point to lean into Bucky’s space, and he reluctantly let her, only occasionally rolling his eyes at how shameless she was. Wanda teased them endlessly from across the room, and Steve gave his trademark “Cap wave” approval every time he texted Bucky.

But pretending to be a couple had unexpected perks.

No one bothered to ask about Y/N’s past with Hydra anymore. The team’s protective radar seemed to dial down. Even Tony shot a wink their way that was equal parts approval and “don’t mess this up.”

One evening, after a late team dinner at the tower’s kitchen, things got uncomfortably real.

Y/N was supposed to drop a “casual” compliment on Bucky’s choice of jacket, but when she reached for his hand to emphasize her point, she froze. Bucky’s fingers twitched, hesitating before lacing with hers — naturally.

The room blurred for a second. Wanda was smirking knowingly nearby, Natasha was texting something cryptic, and Steve was quietly applauding the move from across the room.

“See?” Natasha said, grinning. “Not so fake, huh?”

The next few days were a mix of accidental touches, lingering glances, and half-hearted protests that “it’s just a cover.” But neither of them could ignore the way their hearts picked up speed when they caught each other watching during training, or how Bucky found himself waking up just a little earlier to make sure Y/N was okay.

One afternoon, while sitting side-by-side on the balcony overlooking the city, Bucky’s usual tough exterior cracked.

“You really don’t have to pretend with me,” he said softly, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.

She smiled, a little nervous but honest. “Neither do you.”

He looked at her then, eyes warm and steady, and for once, no words were needed.

Fake dating turned real wasn’t something either of them expected — but it was exactly what they needed.

[violetstark3000]

Doll, You’re Home 🎀

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Y/N) Word count: ~4,100 words Warnings: Fluff, slow burn, light angst, smut (explicit), swearing, some mentions of past trauma Summary: After years away, Y/N finally moves into Avengers Tower — and Bucky’s the first person she lets in. Between sarcastic banter and stolen glances, they navigate the subtle dance of old wounds, new beginnings, and undeniable attraction. But when late-night training sessions turn into something much hotter, neither of them can deny what’s been simmering beneath the surface.

A/N: i hope you guys like this its my first smut fic 🙈

The heavy door to Avengers Tower swung open before Y/N could even catch her breath. Boxes, duffel bags, and half a dozen awkward attempts at juggling her laptop, a tiny potted plant, and a giant coffee tumbler threatened to tip her balance.

“Need a hand?” came the familiar deep voice, smooth with that unmistakable Brooklyn drawl.

She looked up. Bucky Barnes was leaning against the doorframe, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, arms crossed but clearly ready to help.

“I’m fine,” Y/N said, but the laugh she let out wasn’t nearly as convincing as she wanted.

“Sure, you are,” he teased, stepping forward. “Looks like you’re hauling the Stark Industrial warehouse up here.”

Y/N grinned despite herself. “Well, you know, I like to make an impression.”

He took two of the boxes from her with ease and started up the stairs. “Come on, Stark’s daughter. Show me you can keep up.”

That was their first exchange — a perfect, natural mix of Bucky’s quiet strength and Y/N’s sarcastic charm. The way she rolled her eyes, how he watched her with something almost softer behind his guarded gaze.

Upstairs, on floor 23 — their shared domain — the rest of the team was waiting. Natasha was sprawled on the couch pretending to be bored; Wanda was flicking small sparks of red magic just for fun; Steve gave a solid thumbs-up from across the room; Thor, somehow, was munching on a Pop-Tart as usual.

No one had known Tony had a daughter until the announcement went public just a week ago, and Y/N’s arrival had been met with a surprising mix of shock and, well, a lot of “cool.”

“You really are Stark’s kid?” Natasha asked without looking up from her phone.

Y/N shot her a dry look. “Yeah, I’m the reason he’s grey. Sorry.”

“Fair,” Natasha said, smirking.

Wanda pulled her aside later that night, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s shoulder. “You’re doing great. And if you need backup, I’m here.”

Bucky stayed by Y/N’s side more than usual, helping her unpack, fixing the Wi-Fi, occasionally catching her eye with a quiet smile. It was small things — but in the chaos of Avengers Tower, small things were everything.

The nights became their own rhythm — workouts, sparring sessions, quiet talks. One night, after a particularly grueling training montage, Y/N wiped sweat from her brow, her heart racing not just from the workout. Bucky caught her hand, holding it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Doll,” he said softly, voice rough. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

And she didn’t.

When their lips met that night, it was slow, uncertain, but electric — a long overdue confession spoken without words.

The hours that followed were detailed and tender, their bodies learning each other’s stories, soft gasps and whispered promises filling the room.

Morning light found them tangled in each other’s arms, the world outside fading to white noise.

Y/N was home.

Bucky was hers.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.