bitterreid - Tumblr blog

bitterreid · 12 days ago

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hey I am so not okay.......... the way you write Clark is so <////3333 and the way you use the poem!!!!! so,,,,,

mystery of love

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader summary: clark is light in ways the world doesn’t always notice. he makes breakfast for dinner, reads to you when you’re sick, peels oranges like his mom used to, and sunbathes on the fire escape like a houseplant that loves way too hard. he doesn’t say “i love you” until the light is just right and you’re wrapped up in him like a second skin, but he shows it every day in the way he stays. inspired by the orange poem by wendy cope. (or alternatively: 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it) listen to the playlist here. word count: 11.1 k. oops. i swear this was only supposed to be 8k words but unfortunately, i'm insane. content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, established relationship, piv sex, character study, dom/sub undertones, switching (reader and clark take turns domming/subbing), marking kink, hair pulling, big soft men who are whipped for you, soft but kind of unhinged sex, size kink (clark picks up the reader/pins them down), nipple play, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), outdoor sex (sex against a tree), face riding, public sex, use of pet names, tooth-rotting fluff, my love letter to midwest summers!

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes.

Well, that's the joke, anyway.

You’ve said it so many times now it might as well be printed on a T-shirt. My Boyfriend Is Solar-Powered! in Comic Sans. Or maybe Papyrus. Whatever will annoy him the most. Haven't really decided yet.

It started out as a throwaway line, one of those things you kind of just say when you’re half-awake and fully-annoyed because he’s hogging the sunny spot in the kitchen again like a smug, six-foot-four housecat with insane shoulders and even more insane bedhead.

But the first time you said it—like, actually really said it—he was standing by the window, shirtless, holding his coffee in that chipped blue mug that says "My Son's a Smallville Elementary Grad!" and somehow survived a farm, a college dorm, three apartments, and a move cross-country.

The light was doing that thing it loves to do in the morning, all golden and warm and syrupy, catching on his collarbones and the slope of his neck like he was painted by fucking Michelangelo. He had one hip braced against the counter, the other leg crooked, like someone told him to look as unintentionally hot as possible while waiting for the kettle filled with your guys' tea to boil.

You blinked at him, still clutching your own mug and not yet caffeinated enough to regulate your mouth, and said, “Do you ever feel like… like a plant?”

He raised an eyebrow. Blew on his coffee. You can see the way his breath fogs up slightly, that super breath of his doing just enough to cool down his coffee to the perfect temperature. “That a dig?”

“No. It’s just. You—" You waved vaguely in his direction. "Well, you just kinda look like you’re charging.”

That got a huff of a laugh. “What, like a phone?”

“No,” you said, and grinned into your mug. “Like I said, a plant. Like you're photosynthesizing.”

After that, it became a thing.

He always smiled when you said it. Looked down at himself, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “I mean,” he’d say, “you’re not wrong.” Or: “Someone’s gotta keep the plants company, y'know?"

But he never corrects you. Never laughs it off like it’s ridiculous.

Because it isn’t.

You’ve seen the truth of it, slow and subtle and layered in all the small things. The way he’s just a smidge lighter on his feet after a sunny day, how he runs warmer, more golden, like someone turned the saturation up to a hundred. The way his voice softens, deeper, when he’s been in the sun too long. The way the shadows under his eyes seem less sharp after just an afternoon spent lying on the roof, pretending he’s napping when you both know he’s just... breathing.

And the bruises. That’s the part he thinks you don’t see.

You do.

They heal so much faster when he’s been drenched in the sun. You’ve watched the inky blackish-purple fade to this sickly yellow in the span of a couple hours and tried really, really hard not to stare.

You’ve said nothing when he limped into bed one night after a particularly difficult battle and rolled out of it the next morning like absolutely nothing had even happened. Sometimes he winces and pretends it’s nothing. Sometimes he… forgets to pretend.

And still, you never say that’s not normal out loud, even though it’s not. Because he isn’t. Not in the way that matters. Not in the ways that make you love him.

You love him like a long exhale. Like a secret that’s safe with you. Like the song you play on repeat in the car, the one you never get sick of, even though it makes your throat tighten every time.

Sometimes it’s peaceful, like when your ribs finally uncages and let someone else in for the first time in your life. But sometimes, sometimes it's just so fucking devastating.

Because he’s Clark. And Superman. And most importantly, he's yours.

And it feels too big. Too fragile. Like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to keep him safe, but you also want to keep him. The real him. The him that leaves you sticky notes that say “eat something, please” and walks around humming old Mighty Crabjoys songs and insists you don’t have to fold my socks, seriously, who folds socks?

But you lie awake sometimes watching him breathe, thinking to yourself, How do I love someone that belongs to the world?

And the answer is: you just do. One day at a time. One morning at a time. One sunlit moment in the kitchen at a time.

That Monday morning, it’s the same as always.

You pad into the living room half-asleep, dragging your feet and wearing one of his T-shirts that hits you mid-thigh. He’s already up, standing barefoot by the window, coffee in hand, arms folded loosely across his chest like he’s holding himself together in case he gets pulled apart again later.

Pause in the doorway. Watch him for a second. The way the light pools around his ankles. The way his shoulders lift, just barely, when he hears your steps.

He doesn’t turn.

“Guess what,” you say.

He smiles, small and crooked. “Hmm?”

You cross the room. Slide your arms around his waist from behind and press your face between his shoulder blades, where the sun’s been warming him for at least half an hour.

“You’re glowing again,” you murmur. “Must be that high-potency sunlight. You hogging the sun again?”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You caught me.”

“You’re a danger to local crops,” you whisper. Feel the goosebumps rising underneath his skin. “The corn’s jealous.”

“Oh no. Not the corn.” He turns a little, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are so fucking blue at that moment. “Should I apologize to the corn?”

“Absolutely. It’s your fault they can’t compete. You're literally the reason why Iowa's GDP is going down.”

He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ll draft a formal statement for them later.”

You stay like that for a minute. Him holding you. You pressing your nose into the slope of his back, breathing him in—sunshine and laundry and that faint green note that’s uniquely Clark. Like basil, or clean leaves. Like something still growing.

And you think: This is the part he doesn’t say out loud.

This is how he tells you.

Not with words. Not yet.

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes. And maybe it’s not the kind of love you can pin down, or explain, or protect. But it’s real. It’s alive.

And you love him.

And he, quietly, completely, loves you back.

(He hasn’t said it yet. But you don’t really need the words to know.)

Clark shows you he loves you in ways so small, they’d be easy to miss if you didn’t know how to look for them.

But you do. You catch them in those quiet little corners of the day.

The way he folds down the corner of your book before you can reach for a receipt or a pen. The way he touches your wrist, not yanking, just there, when you step into the street without looking. The way he makes a soft sound of protest—ahem, maybe more like politely exasperated—when you try to carry six grocery bags at once like you, too, are invincible.

And then there’s the orange.

You’re curled into the couch, one of his sweatshirts swallowed over your knees, watching—but not really, to be honest—some long-winded documentary about volcanoes or Icelandic horses or some other quietly majestic subject that definitely feels at odds with your mood. The narrator has this super calm, soothing British lilt and the lighting is very National Geographic: all muted blues and wide drone shots and crashing waves. You haven’t really spoken in close to at least half an hour.

Clark doesn’t push. Never does.

He just lets you sit in it, whatever it is, as long as you need to.

But eventually, he nudges your ankle with his socked foot, like a hello, and when you glance up, he’s setting something on the coffee table with a kind of shy precision.

An orange.

Already peeled.

Not just peeled. Sectioned. Arranged.

It’s kind of ridiculous, how careful it is. No torn rind, no mangled wedges. The peel’s just laid out like a ribbon, one continuous spiral that speaks of time and gentleness and someone who took this seriously. Each segment is placed on a napkin, still glistening with juice, like a little offering.

You blink at it.

Then at him.

He’s pretending to watch the TV, but his body betrays him. His shoulders just slightly angled toward you, eyes flicking sideways like he’s checking the weather.

“I didn’t know if you were hungry,” he says after a beat. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say more. “But it’s one of the sweet ones.”

Your throat does something stupid. You reach for a slice and hold it for a second, too long, then pop it into your mouth.

It’s still cold from the fridge. Bright, juicy, perfect. Like summer broke through the haze in your chest.

You make a noise you don’t mean to. Something between surprise and relief.

Clark shifts, trying to look casual, but you catch that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted one,” he says, still mostly facing the TV, his face painted in blue. “But you looked kind of… I don’t know. Stuck. So I figured I’d just do it.”

“You peeled it for me?”

He finally looks over at you, eyebrows lifted. “Well, yeah.”

And somehow that—that—is what catches in your chest. Not the orange, not the care. The way he says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he did. Like there’s a whole world of things he would do just for you without even needing to be asked.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But that's kind of the point.”

You don’t say anything for a minute. Just reach for another slice.

When you bite into it, something in you loosens. Maybe it’s the juice. Maybe it’s the tenderness.

Clark, watching out of the corner of his eye, shifts a little closer and says, voice low, “When I was a kid, my ma used to 'em for me.”

You glance over. He’s staring at the documentary again, but the way he says it, it’s not for the Icelandic horses on the screen.

“She knew I hated the sticky part,” he goes on. “Didn’t like having all that juice on my fingers. So she’d do it before school. Wrap ‘em up in plastic, tuck ‘em in the corner of my lunchbox next to whatever sandwich she made that day. Tuna on Fridays. Always with too much mayo.”

You smile, just a little. “You were a picky eater?”

“Not picky,” he says defensively. “Just—just particular. I didn’t like when my food touched.”

“Mhm.”

“I was seven!”

You laugh, and he finally looks at you, sheepish and warm.

“She used to write little notes sometimes too,” he adds. “On the napkin. Stuff like ‘remember your science quiz’ or ‘you’re stronger than you think.’” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes that was enough.”

You watch him as he says it, and you think, Of course. Of course you grew up like that. With kindness taught into you like table manners. With love folded into your lunchboxes.

“And now,” you say, voice subtle, “you’re the one peeling oranges for someone else.”

He shrugs again. “Only for you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he says. “Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything.”

You press a slice into his hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He pauses, then leans forward and bites it from your fingers, playful but gentle. A little juice escapes down the corner of his mouth. He licks it away without breaking eye contact.

It shouldn’t make your heart ache. But it does.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For the orange?”

“For the orange. And the napkin. And, you know. The general care and keeping of me.”

He smiles at that. Tilts his head toward you until your shoulders brush.“Well,” he says, “you’re pretty high-maintenance. Comes with the territory.”

You scoff, gently ebow him. “I am not.”

He raises his brows. “Okay. Yesterday, you made me reheat the tea because it was two degrees below your ideal sipping temperature.”

“That’s not high-maintenance. That’s just me having standards.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, bumping your knee with his. “And your standards include expertly peeled fruit on Tuesdays, apparently.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “I just mean…” You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding too serious, too much. You chew your lip, watching the way the light hits his profile. “I hope,” you say softly, almost to yourself, “you never stop doing that.”

He leans his head against the back of the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “What, feeding you citrus?”

You huff out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he says, simple and sure, like the truth it is:

“I won’t.”

You don’t even really remember texting him. You think you might’ve. Maybe. Who knows.

In the middle of your 2 a.m. sick delirium, burning up and freezing at the same time, with every single cell in your body screaming and staging some sort of mutiny, you vaguely remember opening your phone with bleary eyes and typing something half-coherent.

A string of emojis. A sad face, a skull, a wilted flower. Vomit emoji. You might’ve hit send. You might’ve just passed out mid-thought.

Either way, Clark’s there when you come to.

He’s on the floor beside your bed, cross-legged, slouched a little in that way he always is when he’s trying to make himself smaller than he actually is. He’s doing this thing he does similar to when he's reading out his first drafts—voice low and even, a little scratchy like he hasn’t used it much today, or maybe just because it’s the middle of the night and the Metropolis is quiet for once and so is he.

You blink, once, twice, groggily, and he doesn’t even look up as he says:

“…and then I told Jimmy that if he was going to hide in the cafeteria instead of facing Eve, he should at least clean up after his brooding, because no one wants to sit next to a scone that’s been glared at for thirty minutes."

That's when you make a sound—half a groan, half a breath—and he glances up.

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Hey. You’re awake.”

God, you swear your head's a pressure cooker. Your throat feels like someone lined it with sandpaper and regret. You’re pretty sure you’re covered in sweat, and not in a sexy, cinematic way, but more in a swampy, bedraggled, my skin might never be clean again kind of way.

And yet here he is, reading from what you now realize is his work notebook.

Not even a novel. Just… Clark, narrating his week.

“God,” you croak. “I think I’m dying.”

Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he’s checking for tremors. “You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure.”

“You Googled my flu?”

“Yeah. Also called my dad.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course you did.”

“He said tea, soup, and don't try to touch your toes.”

You blink at him slowly. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“I didn’t think you would. But he insisted.”

He presses a glass of water into your hand. Holds it there, actually, like you might forget what to do with it. You sip slowly, mostly because he’s watching you with the intensity of someone monitoring the nuclear launch codes. His hand stays curved behind your back the whole time, steady and warm, his thumb sweeping once over your shoulderblade.

“Still tastes like shit,” you mutter, grimacing.

“That’s just your fever lying to you,” he says. “Give it time. I brought supplies.”

Which is how, ten minutes later, you’re propped up like a limp marionette with three pillows, wearing one of his hoodies, while Clark, bless him, is rumbling around in your kitchen making the world’s most dramatic instant ramen.

He hums while he works, something mellow and vaguely twangy—something that sounds like wide-open spaces and Sunday mornings and the kind of radio stations that only exist halfway between here and Kansas.

When he brings the bowl back, he sits on the edge of the bed and feeds you, spoon by spoon, blowing on each bite first like he thinks you might scald your tongue.

You watch him through a fever-glazed blur. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What bit?”

“The Florence Nightingale… Florence Kent thing.”

He grins, bashful. “It’s not a bit. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Your stomach flips. It has nothing to do with the soup.

“And also,” he adds, “I brought a book, thought you might like something to listen to in the background.”

You blink at him.

“I figured I’d read to you once the soup’s done. Unless you’d rather I make more toast. I could do toast. Or try. I mean, it’s technically one of the few things I can’t mess up.”

You take the spoon from his hand. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Sit down before you vibrate out of your flannel.”

He obeys instantly, because Clark is nothing if not obedient when you sound just a tiny bit bossy and ill. You laugh a little. Then cough a lot.

When you stop hacking, there’s a glass of water in your hand again, and he's looking at you like he’s trying to mentally calculate your temperature based soely off your pupil dilation. You wave him off until he settles down again, until his work stories blur into white noise and you feel yourself drifting.

Later, when the room is dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp, and your fever’s burning lower, no longer trying to boil you alive but still leaving your limbs really heavy and wrung-out—you stir, blink groggily, and find him exactly where he’s been all day: back on the floor, this time leaning against the bed frame like he’s trying to become one with the carpet.

There's a book in his hands.

You squint. “Is that… Star Wars?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Just flips a page, calm and unbothered, like this is a completely normal Wednesday night activity. “Yeah. From a Certain Point of View. It’s like… like—little side stories. People on the edges of the main stuff. Background characters getting the spotlight. I thought you might like it.”

You blink slowly. “You’re reading me Star Wars fanfiction.”

Clark glances up, grinning. “Not fanfiction. It’s licensed content.”

“Clark.”

“It’s from Jimmy.”

“Clark.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, it’s kind of sanctioned fanfic. But it’s good. There's one from the point of view of Obi-Wan’s ghost and it made me emotional.”

You try to snort, but it comes out more like a croak. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the person who cried over an R2-D2 Lego set last Christmas.”

“That was a very moving gift and you know it.”

Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. “I just thought it might be nice. Something familiar. It’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.”

You look at him—really look at him—glasses askew, hair flattened on one side from the couch pillow, sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest like it was never meant to fit a man built like a brick wall—and feel that weird, awful feeling twist in your chest again.

The one that always comes when he’s like this. Sweet and earnest and just slightly off-center in a way that makes your whole life feel gentler.

“Thank you,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sincere.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”

Then, after a beat:

“I was gonna read the one about the cantina bartender next. He has some very strong feelings about the music.”

“. . . Okay yeah, you're weird.”

“Exactly.”

He closes the book for a moment and reaches for your hand under the blanket. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and firm and callused at the knuckles. He squeezes gently.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “The taking-care-of-people thing. Not like my dad was. He used to bring orange Jell-O and put those cold cloths on my head when I got sick. He'd sit with me and hum old country songs like that could fix it. And sometimes, it kinda did.”

You squeeze his fingers back. He looks at your joined hands like they’re something fragile.

“I don’t really even know all the right things,” he continues. “But I’m gonna stay right here until you feel good again.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. Your heart does, too, but in a different way.

“Clark,” you whisper. “You’re doing perfect.”

He gives you this look—hazy and overwhelmed, like maybe he needed to hear that more than he thought. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool and steady and grounding.

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

He reads until your breathing evens out again, then switches to humming—barely there, just a thread of melody tracing the shape of the room. He doesn’t move from his place beside your bed.

You don’t think he even blinks when you stir, reaching a hand out for his. He’s just there.

So you dream of a cantina bartender with strong feelings about the music. Of a man with dark hair and horrendous posture and the kindest eyes in the galaxy, carrying soup and picture books and the whole weight of your heart like it’s not heavy at all.

It was supposed to be a date.

Like, a real date. One with proper shoes and napkins that aren’t made of recycled drive-thru material. A night where neither of you had to sprint, lie, cover for the other, or show up late with leaves in your hair because someone, cough, got caught helping rescue a tour boat from sinking off the coast of Maine.

Just dinner. Just one Thursday evening. A normal, honest-to-god, pre-planned, mildly fancy dinner.

You’d even made a reservation at that Italian place ou guys have been meaning to try.

Clark had combed his curls with what looked like actual intent and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top, then unbuttoned one (just one) like he’d read about the concept of casual in a book. You caught him practicing his posture in the hallway mirror before you left.

“Do I look like I own a belt?” he’d asked.

“You do own a belt.”

“Right, but do I look like I believe in it?”

You had rolled your eyes. He’d kissed your forehead. You’d both agreed, silently and aloud and silently again: This time, it’s gonna stick.

Just dinner.

Just you and him.

Just—

The sky, it turns out, had other ideas.

You’re only two blocks from the restaurant, your heels clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. He’s saying something about dessert—about how he’s never actually had crème brûlée and how suspicious he is of any food that requires a blowtorch—and you’re about to tell him that he’s a coward and has terrible, horrible opinions when he—

Flinches.

Just slightly. A twitch, more than anything. Like someone tugged on the collar of his shirt from behind.

You stop. Narrow your eyes.

“Kent.”

He stills, then winces, and it’s over. The wind picks up just enough to ruffle his jacket and toss a strand of your hair across your lip.

“Baby,” you say, dragging out the vowels like you’re preparing to scold a dog who’s eyeing the Thanksgiving turkey.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know. I know. I just—there’s something happening in Hob’s Bay. I think it’s Parasite again.”

“Parasite?” you repeat, like that somehow makes it better. “The guy who eats energy and punches holes through cement walls like graham crackers?”

Clark winces again, guilt washing across his face like rain.

“I can take you home first,” he says quickly. “I’ll be fast. Twenty minutes. Tops.”

“You said that last time,” you remind him.

“Yes, but this time I mean it with—” he pauses, trying to sell it, “—I mean it. I've got improved time management skills. I’ve been working on it, I swear. I downloaded a calendar app.”

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I even color-coded it!”

You cross your arms. “Clark.”

“I swear on my mom’s ceramic cow collection.”

“…The one on the microwave?”

“She dusts them twice a week.”

You sigh, but you’re already unhooking your arm from his. He’s practically vibrating now, trying to stand still. There’s a flash of green in the far-off clouds.

“I liked this dress,” you say.

“I love that dress,” he says, almost reverent. “I’m gonna come back and ruin it for you in much better ways.”

A beat. He realizes how that sounded. “I mean, like—because of pasta sauce. And maybe dancing? gosh, I’m terrible at this—”

You laugh despite yourself. Even as the first drops of rain start to hit your shoulders. “Go, Kansas.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the other. His hands linger against your face a half-second too long, his thumbs warm even through the chill.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, quiet now. “Promise.”

Then he’s gone.

“I know,” you reply to no one in particular, because you do.

You spend the next hour curled on the couch in the dress you never got to wear properly, the hem slightly damp from the rain and your eyeliner gently betraying you. The news cycles through static, then footage of Clark shielding a crowd with a dented bus stop sign like it’s a riot shield, eyes glowing faintly, shoulders squared. Calm. Measured. Still gentle, even in a fight. You eat a sleeve of saltines out of spite.

He texts you twice:

CLARKY <3: STILL FIGHTING THE SLIME GUY. HE’S YELLING ABOUT “THE SYSTEM” SO I THINK THIS IS POLITICALLY MOTIVATED. CLARKY <3: ALMOST DONE. PLEASE DON’T FALL ASLEEP. I OWE YOU SO MUCH CREME BRUILALAE 🍨

You don’t reply. He needs to focus. But you do leave the kitchen light on.

It's past ten when he gets back. He lands with a whisper on your fire escape—so quiet it takes you a second to realize he’s there. You’re already in pajamas at this point.

He taps gently on the window.

When you slide it open, he’s dripping. Suit ripped at the collar. A graze on his temple that’s already healing. Mud on his boots. Eyes wide and sheepish and a little desperate.

“You’re late,” you say.

“The Italian place was closed,” he says, holding up a crumpled brown paper bag like an offering. "But I brought dumplings?"

Your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Fucking saltines. He smiles, relieved.

“They’re from that place you like,” he adds quickly. “The one with the crab rangoon that makes you make weird noises.”

You cross your arms. “You think you can just bribe me with steamed buns and flattery?”

“Yes?” he tries.

“…You’re not wrong.”

You step back to let him in. He shrugs off the cape, moving slower than usual. His shoulders dip lower. His steps drag a little. The exhaustion sits in him like weight.

“Sit down,” you say.

“I can—”

“Clark. Couch. Now.”

He obeys without question, settling into the cushions like a man unraveling. You grab a towel and a hoodie from your room—one of his—and toss both at him. Then you disappear into the kitchen.

After a beat, he calls after you: “I missed you, by the way.”

You don’t answer right away. Just finish plating the takeout, dividing the dumplings and the sticky rice and the rangoon with practiced ease. Your apartment smells like warm ginger and garlic. Familiar. Safe.

When you bring the food over, you find him curled sideways on the couch, legs too long, towel around his shoulders like a cape. He grins when he sees the plates.

“You forgive me?” he asks, hopeful.

You hand him a rangoon. “Chew before you talk.”

He does. Then says, with a mouthful of crab: “I really did want it to be a normal night.”

You look at him. At the tired, good man who flew across the city to keep someone else’s world from breaking. At the one who brought you dumplings and rainwater and apologies on the roof of his tongue.

“I know,” you say.

He finishes chewing, then leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice curling around the edges. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You snort. “You say that now that I’m in fleece pants with soup stains.”

“I stand by it,” he murmurs. “Always.”

You let him curl around you then, dinner plates on the coffee table, reruns of I Love Lucy playing low in the background. He eats with one arm around your waist. You steal his dumplings when he’s not looking.

Later, when you’re both too full and too warm and too tired to move, he says it again.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You already are.”

He hums, pleased but tired, and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Still wish I hadn’t missed dinner. Not the food. Just—being there. With you.”

There’s a smear of sauce near his mouth when you glance over him. He’s so unbelievably warm around the edges like this—like the fight’s finally bled out of him and he’s just Clark again. Your Clark.

“You always say that,” you murmur.

“Because I always mean it.”

You reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He goes quiet. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The kind that hums with the weight of something unspoken, blooming slow between you. Then, without moving your hand, you ask, “You gonna let me kiss you now, or are you still trying to be polite?”

That gets a smile. A real one. A little crooked, a little shy.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “You always could.”

So you lean in.

The kiss starts off like a warning.

Your mouth brushes his—brief, firm, no room for questions, not really—and then again, slower this time. He makes a noise, deep in his chest, something caught between relief and surrender.

When your fingers slide into his hair, he tilts into it instinctively. His hands stay right where they are, just one at your waist, one braced uselessly on the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself not to move unless you ask him to.

He huffs something like a laugh when you pull back for a breath. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

You smile. “Flatterer.”

His hand on your waist shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. Not rough. Not needy. Just—anchoring. Your knees bracket his hips and you kiss him again, open-mouthed this time, licking into his mouth like you’re starved and this is your first taste of real food.

And Clark lets you.

He lets you kiss him with all the frustration of the ruined date and the tension of waiting and the affection that’s been building in your chest for weeks, maybe months. He meets you where you are—mouth pliant, eyes closed, his breathing slowly unraveling under your hands.

“You always come back like this,” you whisper, teeth grazing his jaw. “All apologies and those puppy dog blue eyes and your make-up take-out. Like I wouldn’t crawl across glass to have you.”

He exhales, sharp and shaky, like your words hit a nerve. His hands tense slightly at your thighs, just for a second, then relax again. He doesn’t try to flip you, doesn’t shift to take control. Just looks at you.

“I mean it,” you murmur, kissing just under his ear. “You come in, wrecked and kind and too damn good, and I’m supposed to what? Sit next to you like my skin isn’t trying to crawl off my bones just to get to yours?”

Clark swallows. “You—” His voice is rough, halting. “You can have me.”

He says it so quietly you almost miss it.

“You already do,” he adds. “You don’t have to prove anything. You—”

Your mouth is on his before he can finish. You kiss him like you’re trying to breathe him in, to memorize the way his ribs rise under your hands. His lips part on a gasp, and you take it as invitation. He lets you tilt his head back even further, lets you set the rhythm—his hands gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only things that can possibly ground him.

You pull back, just enough to see his face. His hair’s still damp, starting to curl at the edges, his cheeks flushed. His glasses are askew, so you reach up, slow, deliberate, and slide them off. Set them gently on the side table. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

"Stand up," you say, and he does, wordless, chest rising fast under the hoodie. He's got the towel instead of the cape draped around his shoulders, like he's still half in hero mode. You take that off.

Your fingers go to the hem of the hoodie next, lifting it slow. He raises his arms obediently, eyes half-lidded, focused. He’s still in the bottom half of the suit, and your breath catches—because even now, even like this, he wears it like a second skin.

But you want the man. Not the symbol.

“Off,” you say, fingers brushing the slick, faintly scorched fabric of the suit’s torso. “I want you, not him.”

He nods. It’s so damn slight, like he’s not so sure his voice will work. His hands go to the hidden seams and he peels the suit down, exposing inch after inch of bare skin beneath—toned and marked from the night, faint purple bruises already turning gold where his healing has started. You trail your fingers and follow him down, down, down his sternum, then lower, across his ribs.

The suit hits the floor in a gentle whisper. Boots, too. The cape’s already been discarded—somewhere between the fire escape and your front door—and now he’s just standing there in front of you, bare and breathless and completely yours.

“Come closer,” you say. "It's my turn."

He goes to help you, but you stop him. Eyebrows raised. "Eyes up here. I'll do it myself."

Clark watches you the whole time, not rushing, not leading. His expression open, undone. His bottom lip's caught between his teeth, eyes trained on every single one of your painstaking actions. Peeling your shirt off, your ratty fleece pants, your bra, all of it. He's enjoying this way more than he should, those eyes of his glinting in the light, but that's the intoxicating part of it.

When you're done, he finally speaks up, voice reduced to a hush. Wills himself to look away from your body and just look into your eyes. "How do you want me?"

You hum, turning on your feet, pretending to think it over. Really, it's just an excuse to have him look at your bare body. Tempt him a little bit. It drives him insane. Still, he doesn't break eye contact.

"I think," you purse your lips. "I want you underneath me tonight."

He nods. Serious. "Of course."

You lead him back to the bedroom slowly. Not because he needs help walking, but because there’s something in you that just wants to savor the walk. He lets you guide him backward, his legs bumping against the edge of the bed.

He sits.

Then waits.

Clark just looks so… perfect like this.

Hard, aching, weeping, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. Hands, those goddamn hands, politely by his sides. Does nothing but lay down on the mattress, just waiting for whatever you feel like doing to him. The knowing—the seeing, does more to you than you'd like to admit.

You crawl, slowly, over his body. Fingers skirting over the freckles of his body, the light dusting of hair across his torso, the goosebumps that rise there. Anything but pay attention to his cock that's begging for you, until you're close to straddling his face, hovering there.

A pause. Those baby blue eyes, the cause of so many of your little deaths. His lips, pink and wet as his tongue swipes over them. A hint of a smile. You brush a curl away from his forehead, fingers slow and thoughtful.

"Okay."

Once you give him the go-ahead, he's all instinct, steady hands pulling your thighs more snug over his shoulders with all of the skill and quiet confidence of a man who's been breaking you down and laying you out for a long time.

It's so easy—so easy to lose yourself in it. So easy when you're on top of the world.

Clark knows. You've genuinely never met a guy who enjoys eating someone out more than him. He knows all the ways to make your legs shake and your head vibrate out of its skull, all the little skills and patterns and consistencies to get you to cum within minutes, but from the way he takes his time, mouth roaming everywhere—your thighs, your legs, the back of your knees—

He means to torture you. Make you eat your words. But you're gonna have the last say tonight.

You squeeze your legs around his face, bringing his attention to you, all blue-eyed innocence glancing up to you. Little shit. "Hey," you will your voice into something vaguely commanding. "How many times do you think you can make me cum tonight?"

All you get is a lopsided smile. "As many times 's you want."

"Ball park?"

He strums his fingers along your thigh. Pretends to think about it. Looking up at the corner of his eyes like he's doing mental math. "How about we start with five or six and go from there?"

"Perfect. Delightful, Kent. Alright, procee—"

His arms tighten around your thighs, and that's all the warning you get before he dives right in, parting your lips with his tongue and tasting all that you've got to offer, and god, if that doesn't make the slick accumulate even more in between your thighs, gushing, eyes falling closed.

A trooper always, Clark's mouth is warm, forming into a smile. "Baby, you taste so good. Needed this."

There's desperation in it, the way he sucks on your clit, two fingers finding themselves rocking against your cunt so that you feel nothing but full, boundless pleasure. You're so wet that his digits are sliding effortlessly, even more so as he licks you through it.

All you can do is whimper and whine, hands coming to rest up against the headboard. "Clark, Clark, so good. Don't stop. Please."

The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, the way his mouth works against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension—the fucking strength of this man—the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.

Then his tongue sweeps hot across your clit, his two fingers curling inside you at the exact moment you squeeze. And fuck, you pulse hard and come until you've got nothing left to give, just a mantra of his name—"Clark, Clark, baby—"

He licks and sucks you through the aftershocks, shuddering through it all, and then it's back down to earth.

You fall down on the bed next to him, legs unable to hold you up. The only way to describe how you feel now is just—pure, fucking, boneless glee. And then you look over, and god, if that's not the best view in the world—Clark. The bottom of his face glistening, smiling in that stupid, boyish way of his, curls in his eyes and a twinkle there like he just won the lottery.

"What are you smiling about?"

Clark shakes his head, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling like it has the answers. "Oh, nothin'. Just happy."

This hunger, this love for him—you don't think it'll ever go away. You don't think you could ever get sick of it, you don't think you can ever get your fill of him. You're going to want him this badly for the rest of your life.

But before you could spiral down that terrifying staircase of thoughts, you're brought out your stupor with one large hand trailing up your thigh. Clark's shifted so that you're beneath him, world turned upside down. He's going back down for more.

"We've got at least four more to go, sweet girl. Made you a promise, remember?"

It’s honestly the quiet that gets you, at first.

That slow, rolling kind that doesn’t sit heavy so much as drape itself across everything like an old quilt. The kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. Space between sounds.

Not silence, never that, but it's more akin to a hush. A pause you didn’t know your life had been missing.

There are birds, sure. A lot of them, actually. There’s the wind, too, rattling through those wheat-colored fields, whistling past the house's warped slats like it’s trying to remember a song it used to know. But underneath it all is stillness.

A kind of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, now slowly, slowly letting out.

Smallville wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You’d pictured something more… stylized. Romanticized.

A little more soap opera meets Hallmark original—maybe some mysterious family feuds and charming small-town antics. Some lingering drama about a pie contest. You fully expected someone with an old-timey name to pour you coffee at the local diner you guys stopped at and mention she “hasn’t seen Clark Kent around these parts in a while.”

Instead, you got: rooster at 5:30. Floorboard in the kitchen that creaks like it’s about to file a complaint against you just for exisiting. A guest room that smells faintly like wood polish and wheat. You got Clark, elbow-deep in chicken feed at seven a.m., wearing a white t-shirt that’s hanging on by a thread but you're not complaining.

You’re house-sitting for the Kents while Jonathan and Martha are on a cruise—a cruise, of all things. Clark’s voice had been thick with disbelief when he told you.

“Can you believe my dad packed four Hawaiian shirts?” Then later, when they called from the boat to say they’d already made friends with a retired couple from Branson and signed up for salsa dancing classes, Clark had stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“They deserve it,” he says eventually, a little quiet. “They’ve never done anything like this. I hope they stay gone the full two weeks.”

You’d kissed his shoulder and said, “Selfishly, me too.”

Because being here, just the two of you, it’s not glamorous. But it feels like something. Something good.

One morning, early on, you found yourself squinting into the haze of a Kansas dawn, clutching a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt hope, and whispering, half to yourself, “Do… do the cows have names?”

Clark, already in his work boots and wrist-deep in a feed bag, turns like you’d just offered to marry him.

“Of course they do!" he says, smug. “That’s Millie.” He points at a big black-and-white cow with the expression of someone who’d once gone on Twitter and got traumatized. “She’s real skittish when it rains but loves, absolutely loves cantaloupe rinds. That one’s Donnie—he’s dramatic. Moooos like he’s dying if you’re even five minutes late.”

You blink at him. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” he says, patting Millie with the same affection he uses on your lower back when you cook dinner barefoot. It makes you snort. “Also, we don’t call it breakfast here. It’s ‘morning feed.’”

You stare. “This is so not the rural romance novel I signed up for.”

He grins, boyish and crooked. “Let me guess. Thought it’d be Days of Our Lives but make it cornfed?”

“Exactly. Where’s the murder mystery? The barn dance? The family rival who wears all linen and says ominous things like, ‘You’ll never take the south pasture from me, you bastard.’”

"You forget. It's the Midwest. We're not in the South," He scratches behind Donnie’s ear. “But there is a someone with drama kinda like that here. Name's Barb, I think,” he says. “She runs the Dairy Queen and once hit a deer with her truck and cried about it for a week.”

You pause. “…Okay. That’s actually kind of sad. But wholesome."

“See?”

The days fall into a rhythm, eventually.

You weed the garden (poorly). He fixes the gate (obscenely well). You help collect eggs and try not to let on that the chickens genuinely unsettle you. Clark, that menace, just laughs every single time one flaps in your general direction and you flinch like it’s going to demand your wallet and keys and job.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself washing strawberries at the sink while Clark scrubs paint off the porch railing—some old project Jonathan started and never finished.

You glance up and he’s standing there in the sun, t-shirt stained, face flushed, humming some old country song under his breath, and your chest physically hurts from how much you love him.

“You wanna do something dumb?” you ask, voice louder than it needs to be, just to get his attention.

Clark looks up, squints against the light. “Always.”

It’s not fancy.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both in the back pasture, far enough from the house that it’s just you and the cows and the sound of summer in every direction.

There’s a plastic grocery bag between you full of things neither of you should technically call lunch. Two kinds of chips (barbecue for you, cheddar for him). A Diet Dr. Pepper, sweating in the heat. One sad gas station brownie. And a couple of oranges, wrapped carefully in plastic wrap.

You lift an eyebrow as you start to unpack. “You know we have actual food, right?”

He shrugs, pulling the chips open. “The grocery store’s like forty minutes away,” he says, like that explains everything. “Didn’t wanna leave you.”

Your mouth opens, ready to toss something casual back—something about sandwiches, or homemade pasta salad, or literally anything with protein—but then you see how gently he’d wrapped the oranges. How he packed napkins, remembered your favorite chips, brought two plastic forks for the brownie like it was a birthday cake.

So instead, you say, “...I like barbecue,” and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be.

He glances over, chin on his shoulder, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know.”

You eat like kids. Cross-legged on the blanket, crumbs everywhere, licking orange juice off your thumbs. You wipe your hands on your pants. He stretches out on his side, elbow propped, watching the clouds like they’re moving too slow. His knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away.

You think you feel a mosquito bite. You don’t really care anymore.

“I forgot what this feels like,” you say at one point, picking salt from the corners of your lips. “Just… doing nothing. On purpose.”

He hums. “It’s good for you. Stillness.”

“You sound like your mom.”

“She’s smarter than I am.”

“You said that last night when I told you to take a nap.”

“See? Pattern holds.”

You lean back on your elbows and look at him, really look. The way the light gets caught in his lashes. He’s watching you, too, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like the world could ask for him and he’d still choose to stay here, sweaty and dumb and mosquito-bitten and happy beside you.

He peels another orange with a practiced hand, splitting it down the middle and handing you the sweeter half.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Sometimes I miss this, y'know?” he says, around a bite of an orange.

You glance over.

“Not the chicken poop or the mosquito bites,” he adds, “but the...quiet. The not-having-to-be-everything-all-the-time. Out here, you’re just...you. You fix the fence. You make a mess. You listen to cicadas and complain about the humidity and your ma yells at you for tracking dirt inside.”

You tilt your head. “You ever think about staying? Settling down here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just plucks a blade of grass and spins it between his fingers.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I think—this is what shaped me. But it’s not all I am. The world’s loud, and it’s messy, and it needs things. But this…” He looks at you. “This is what I miss when I’m out there.”

You nod. Reduced to speechlessness, because it's so tender and perfect and so him that it hurts.

Clark finishes the orange. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, then on his jeans when that doesn’t do the trick. You lie back on the blanket with a quiet sigh, letting the sun press into your skin, the breeze lift the sweat at your temples.

It could’ve ended there. Could’ve been just a quiet kind of golden. But then you nudge his ankle with yours.

“Bet I could outrun you,” you say lazily, like you’re not poking a bear.

Clark huffs. Turns his head toward you, amused. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” you say, stretching. “You’ve been slacking. Porch paint and chicken duty’s got you soft.”

He squints at you. “You really wanna start this?”

“You said yourself, Kansas. Nothing to do out here but complain about the heat and cause a little trouble.”

He smiles slowly. The kind of smile that curls at the corners. Dangerous in the way only someone so gentle and kind can be.

“Alright then,” he says, sitting up. “You get a ten-second head start.”

Your eyes go wide. “Wait, really—”

“Nine,” he says, already grinning, already counting.

You scramble to your feet. “Oh my god, you are not serious—”

“Eight.”

You bolt.

The grass is taller in some spots and it catches at your ankles, slows you down. The air is thick with sun and the hum of everything living. You turn left, laughing, hair sticking to the back of your neck, and glance behind you just in time to see him loping after you, easy and unhurried, like he’s letting you win.

Which is worse. Infuriating. Fucking ass.

“KENT!” you shout over your shoulder. “I swear if you let me win I’m gonna trip myself just to spite you—”

“Then you better run faster!” he calls back, but he’s laughing too, bright and open and young in a way he doesn’t always let himself be in the city.

You make it halfway to the barn before he catches you, just a hand on your waist, barely a tug. You spin with the momentum and half-collapse against him, breathless, wheezing from the run and the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all.

“You cheated,” you gasp.

“I didn’t even use my powers.”

“That’s worse.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, both of you flushed and sweating and smiling like idiots.

“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice low. “But I know how you move.”

You roll your eyes, still catching your breath. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you wanna get kissed.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, quiet now.

Oh, if that doesn't make you wanna ruin him. When you lean in, he tastes like oranges and sweat and something warm you can’t name.

“You’re always holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “Let me have you.”

Clark’s breathing stutters.

“You have me,” he says, like it’s a promise. Like it’s been true since the first day you met.

Your teeth graze his lip, just enough to make him gasp. “Then act like it.”

Now that—that—does something to him.

His hands slip quickly under your sundress, palms mapping the curve of your back, hungry and greedy all at once. Your head tips back when his mouth finds your neck again, hot and open and just a little bit wild. His teeth scrape the spot just beneath your ear and your fingers clench in his curls, hard.

The bark digs into your shoulder blades. You can faintly feel the ground disappearing from under you. Grass sticks to the backs of your calves. The sky overhead is lazy and blue, clouds like pulled cotton, and none of it, absolutely none of it, matters.

Not the cows, not the heat, not the fact that you're pressed up against a pecan tree in the middle of a Kansas pasture—just this. Just him.

It doesn't take long for it to escalate.

You're not normally a fan of this—quickies, anyway, you'd rather take your time, break him down methodically, piece by piece, but you think you'd actually combust if you don't have him right there, right at that second. And damn it, you will.

You will.

Your hands scramble to wrench his shirt off, a mad dash to get as close to his skin as possible. He helps you, your pretty boy, your sweetheart, your sunshine—chuckling when the fabric inevitably gets caught between his head and shoulders.

"Clark—" you glare at him, not really annoyed with him but his stupid, stupid shirt. "Get it—please, get it off—"

"So impatient," He grins. He helps you anyway, giving you that final push to get the shirt off his head. And then ou're like a moth drawn to a flame, nipping at his skin, sucking little love bites that you know he adores into his chest. "Baby, sweetheart—"

"Sweetheart, baby—" You kiss his collarbone, hands going to undo his belt, the metal clinking from your actions. "Need you now."

Clark nods vigorously at that. "Yeah, yeah—okay."

He readjusts, free now from his belt, jeans dropping low, and he's scooping your thighs up so you're flush against the tree for leverage. The bark of the tree's rough and it'll leave some truly horrendous marks later, but he's pushing your dress up around your waist, cock situated and ready at your entrance.

A breath. A look between you. And then he sinks you down, no prep, no foreplay, just him and the burn of taking all of him bare.

You make an embarrassing noise when he bottoms out, yelping and wrapping your arms around his neck. Clark slows down, pressing kisses on your forehead and muttering small little praises. "You're doing so good. You feel amazing, baby, you just let me know when, I'll wait—"

Fuck, that turns you on more than it should've. You clench around him, mouth parting in a quiet moan. "Now, I'm ready now. Move, Kent."

His hand hitches your leg up higher for a better angle, and—yeah, if that's not the hottest thing in the world. The tenderness mixed with the way you know he's about to utterly destroy you. He rolls his hips, once, twice, until he sets a punishing rhythm.

He moves, hard and deep inside of you, always a stretch widthwise. Always feels like a rearrangement. Every single vein, every twitch, every agonizing inch as he gets to work fucking you like your life depends on it.

And the tree shakes—it fucking shakes, leaves falling all around you—when his pace gets punishing and relentless. All you can do is take it, legs shivering and hands scrambling to hold on to something, anything.

The strap of your dress has fallen down your shoulder at this point, and Clark takes the opportunity to wrap his hot mouth around your exposed nipple, eyes falling closed. "Tastes like heaven."

"Clark—" You shudder, his ruts turning more and more shallow. "Need more, I need—need help, please—"

He nods against your skin, letting go of your nipple with one wet pop. A hand skirts down between you, wordless, and rubs hard circles against your clit, never twisting, just a constant, almost vibrating pressure that wrenches more desperate gasps out of you.

You love him.

It hits you the hardest at that moment, when he grins and you can feel those tell-tale signs of your orgasm shuddering closer, so impossibly close that it makes your knees weak. Like your body can’t hold the thought anymore.

Months of this, this agonizing need to tell him, to show him. And suddenly it’s all you can feel—this pressure behind your teeth, this wild, unspooling thing clawing to get out. You didn’t plan on it. You don't meant to. But it’s already there, clawing its way up your throat with a kind of ferocity that feels unstoppable.

You pull back a breath. Just enough to get the words free. Try to get lucid fast.

“I—”

But then his hand’s on your cheek.

Soft. Certain.

“Wait,” he says, and it’s gentle, but firm enough to stop you.

You freeze, stunned. Like someone hit pause on your entire brain.

“W–W–What?” you whisper, barely breathing. His pace doesn't break. Still pounding into you like he doesn't see right through you. His eyes flicker between yours—quiet, careful, like he sees exactly where you were going. Like he caught the words mid-flight.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not like this, baby. Not while I'm—not against a tree.”

“I don't—I don't mind,” you whine.

He laughs under his breath. "No.”

You must've pouted, must've frowned, or… or something, because Clark's expression goes soft. He tugs you closer, hips going deeper this time until your head falls back, like an apology.

You're so close, so goddamn close, and fuck, if he's not determined to make it up to you. Focus redirected to the sole goal of making you finish harder than you ever have before. Another broken moan slips out of you.

And you're still overtaken by this need to say something, something to encapsulate this feeling inside of you. So instead, you say the next best thing, “You’re mine,” you say, fierce and true and sure.

Clark nods. “Yours,” he echoes, like it’s gospel.

You come around him like that, muscles wound up tight, him working himself into you faster—faster, until he pulses inside you. It's all warmth, his shoulders shaking like a leaf, you holding onto him like the old tire swing on a tree. Chests heaving. Sweat pooling underneath your knees. But he doesn't let go.

He pulls back just a tad, just enough to rest his head against the crook of your neck. His curls tickle your skin, just slightly. "Hold me tighter?"

You're still quivering, traitorous legs twitching, but you do. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze until he sighs, relaxed and spent and all the things that you let go unsaid.

The cows, thankfully, have the decency not to interrupt.

He’s on the fire escape again.

You don’t see him at first—just the corner of his shirt sleeve through the window screen, fluttering gently in the breeze like a flag someone planted in a place they want to stay.

You step closer.

And there he is.

Sitting on the metal grate, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked against the warm steel, one arm draped loosely over the railing like he forgot the rest of the world exists. His head's tilted back against the sun, eyes closed, face subdued in that way it only gets when no one’s watching.

Or maybe just when you are.

His shirt—some washed-out old thing from Central Kansas A&M—is rumpled and crooked on his frame like he pulled it out of the laundry basket and shrugged it on without thinking. One sleeve's shoved all the way to his elbow, exposing the freckles on his forearm.

You’re barefoot, cradling a sweating glass of lemonade in your palm, still in sleep shorts and one of his too-big sweaters again. You hadn’t meant to come looking for him. You just woke up and felt the space beside you was empty, not in a sad way, just… hollow. Cool.

You followed the pull of it until it led you here.

He doesn’t move when you open the window. Doesn’t speak. But his eyes blink open, lashes catching the light. He looks at you, and that alone does something to your insides.

It’s the kind of look that hits low and blooms slow.

Not a spark, but a sunrise.

His smile when he sees you is small. A little crooked, like maybe he’s not so sure it’s okay to be this happy about something so simple.

Like you just standing there, sleepy and squinting and probably still with pillow creases and hints of drool on your cheek, is his favorite part of this whole Saturday.

He lifts a hand and stretches it toward you.

Palm up.

Fingertips flexing.

“C’mere,” he says, voice warm from disuse. “It’s nice.”

You don’t hesitate.

You climb carefully, your lemonade forgotten on the windowsill, and ease down between his legs. The fire escape creaks beneath you but holds. Of course it does. He shifts to make room for you like he already knew exactly how this would fit—your back against his chest, his knees bracketing yours, arms folding around you like second nature.

And you just sit like that, folded into him.

His chin hooks over your shoulder. His breath brushes your neck. One of his hands rests against your stomach, just above the hem of your sweater, warm through the fabric. The other finds your thigh, fingers drumming lazily against the denim there.

And you breathe. In and out. Slowly. Like maybe you forgot how before this.

“You been out here long?” you murmur.

He shrugs behind you. “I dunno. Long enough, maybe.”

You lean back into him, let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Get what you needed?”

There’s a long pause. Not like he’s unsure, just like he’s letting the quiet fill in some blanks first.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I did.”

You let the silence stretch after that. It’s not awkward. It’s just… Clark.

Which is to say: it’s safe.

The sunlight spills golden across the alley, catching in the curls at his temple. Today, he smells like clean cotton and cedar and whatever fancy soap he borrowed from your shower. His skin's warm.

You rest your hand over his where it sits on your stomach. His thumb traces a lazy circle just under your ribs, like he’s mapping out the shape of you in his mind.

“I used to sit like this back home,” he says after a while, voice soft. “Not on a fire escape, obviously. We had a roof. And a swing. My dad always left it out a little too long, so in the summer it was warm to the touch by the time I got to it.”

You hum, eyes slipping closed.

“He used to say it was good for me. Sunlight. Said I always looked like a weed after a storm when I stayed inside too long. Pale and strung out and grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” you smile, turning your face a little to glance at him. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Pouty little farm boy, hair sticking up, refusing to eat my vegetables unless they were corn.”

“Let me guess,” you say. “Martha snuck green beans into casseroles when you weren’t looking.”

He makes a pleased noise. “Bingo. Said it was her secret weapon for keeping me out of trouble.”

“That and the swing?”

“That and the swing.”

You settle again, your cheek to his shoulder, the metal warm beneath your thighs. You wonder if this is what he felt like, back then—sitting outside in the golden quiet, the weight of the sky pressing gentle on his shoulders, like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him.

And it is.

But it would’ve been, anyway.

You twist slightly, enough to catch the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He’s not glowing. Not exactly. But something in him is bright.

And you—you love him so goddamn fiercely in that moment it feels like your ribs might crack from the inside. Like your heart is blooming against them, stubborn and wild and wholly his.

You lace your fingers with his where they’re still resting against your chest. His grip tightens. Not possessive. Just… sure.

He’s quiet a long time.

Then, like he’s been trying to time it right: “I love you.”

Just that.

Just the words, tucked into your collarbone. No fanfare. No build. Just truth. It roots into you like sunlight in soil. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to get your lungs to work again. Your body. Everything else. Because it’s a simple sentence, but it feels like something tectonic and holy.

Eventually, you turn, slow and sure.

“I love you too.”

His head drops forward until his forehead presses to yours. You feel him exhale, shaky but smiling.

“I kept trying to find the right time,” he says. “I didn’t want it to feel like… I don’t know. A checkpoint. Like I had to say it because it was next on the list.”

You smile, thumb still brushing his skin. “So you went with the middle of the fire escape, during golden hour, while I’m in your hoodie and haven’t showered since last night?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Felt right.”

You sit like that for a while, sun on your skin, his breath on your neck. The world feels quieter with him this close. Still.

Eventually, when the light starts to dip low, painting the fire escape in rust and gold, you shift to get up.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His hands stay at your waist, his fingers patient where they rest at your sides. Anchoring you.

“You look good in this light,” you murmur. “Like—too good. It’s kind of rude, honestly.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Like you belong in it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something intimate and private in his eyes.

Then, “You’re not wrong.”

You tilt your head. “What, that you photosynthesize?”

But he just shakes his head, slow.

“No. Just… I think it’s you,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. “You make everything brighter.”

And it’s stupid, and it’s a little embarrassing, and you kiss him anyway. Because he’s warm and real and saying the kind of thing that would make anyone else roll their eyes—but with him, it just lands.

Tastes like the last light of the day and something sweet and earthy beneath it. Like coming home.

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #superman x reader #bitterecs #speechless

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bitterreid · 21 days ago

Text

I love him your honour!!!! </333

𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good.

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next.

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.”

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.”

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.”

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him.

The photos of him online don’t do him justice.

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.”

“You– you’re real help.”

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?”

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.”

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently.

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.”

“You are?”

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.”

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…”

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm.

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.”

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.”

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.”

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse.

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.”

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.”

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy.

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet.

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.”

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.”

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.”

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.”

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.”

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.”

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.”

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.”

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.”

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.”

“Please?”

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return.

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it.

“I’m sick of working already,” you say.

“Then let’s go home.”

“Clark. I’m being conversational.”

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy.

“Have you been working out?”

“Can you stop?”

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day.

—

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here.

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all.

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?”

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?”

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.”

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid.

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why of course not?”

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison.

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt.

“You seem a little flustered, is all.”

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.”

“You’ve never met a metahuman?”

“No, never.”

“We’re just like everybody else.”

You laugh.

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.”

“Sorry.”

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?”

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap.

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,”

“Why is he looking for his father?”

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.”

“You can borrow my copy.”

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?”

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.”

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility.

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply.

“Sure. Well, take your time.”

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be.

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge.

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back.

“Hey.”

You lift your head.

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry.

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.”

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.”

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel.

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask.

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.”

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?”

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.”

“You do?”

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands.

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say.

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?”

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?”

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.”

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.”

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.”

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.”

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.”

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do.

“Not that cold,” you murmur.

“I never realised you were such a liar.”

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.”

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands.

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby.

“Fuck,” you complain.

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?”

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag.

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.”

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?”

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?”

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.”

“You cook.”

You blink. “You googled me?”

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.”

“Is that true?”

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him.

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks.

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you.

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears.

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight.

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it.

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours.

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.”

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.”

“You aren’t heavy.”

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!”

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.”

“That’s okay. I do.”

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall.

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.”

You glance up to find him still staring at you.

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close.

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say.

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap.

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.”

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.”

“You’re not making this any easier for me.”

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms.

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say.

Superman presses his nose to your cheek.

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you.

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say.

“What’s wrong with the AC?”

“It’s leaking.”

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket.

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead.

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.”

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.”

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path.

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’.

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased.

“Adorable.”

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease.

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?”

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together.

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.”

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.”

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you.

But you don’t know why.

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again.

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life.

And lately.

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth.

Or that’s what he’d like to think.

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome.

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this.

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins.

The light goes out.

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come.

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth.

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey.

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke.

The dark makes it hard to breathe.

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast?

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark?

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you?

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground.

And Clark Kent is out there all alone.

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on.

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone.

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust.

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too.

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly.

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog.

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise.

“Ow!”

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws.

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.”

Krypto nibbles his shoulder.

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it.

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them.

“Krypto, stay.”

Krypto tilts his white blurry head.

“You’re not helping.”

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air.

Krypto stays down, for now.

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?”

He stops dead in the sky.

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!”

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe.

He has to keep you safe.

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked.

To be good.

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time.

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain.

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this.

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit.

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision.

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.”

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.”

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you.

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.”

“No,” you breathe.

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.”

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine.

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head.

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.”

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again.

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work.

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper.

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw.

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy.

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret.

He doesn’t rush you.

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck.

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly.

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy.

“But you know it all.”

“I know you,” he agrees.

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.”

“Do you even remember?” he asks.

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs.

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.”

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly.

“Yeah, I am.”

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door.

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?”

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you.

“I was awake for breakfast?”

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.”

You flush. “I’m fine.”

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart.

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!”

“I don’t feel very hungry.”

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.”

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted.

“Oh.”

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions.

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask.

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.”

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.”

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.”

He laughs wetly.

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.”

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel.

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.”

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers.

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.”

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is.

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand.

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally.

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says.

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.”

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks.

“You’re due some hazing.”

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks.

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.”

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”

Only a little.

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman.

And Superman?

He’d been courting you.

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously.

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious.

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.”

“Sorry?”

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.”

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?”

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly.

“It was really going to be a kiss?”

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises.

“Prove it.”

“What?”

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?”

“You know I do.”

“So kiss me.”

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes.

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff.

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says.

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously.

Clark has repaid you in kind.

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you?

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know.

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better.

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp.

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you.

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?”

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?”

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.”

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!

#clark kent x reader #bitterrecs

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bitterreid · 21 days ago

Text

hello??? MASTERWORK

touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you.

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is.

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name.

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.

Truly.

You're just trying to get clean.

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow.

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly.

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair.

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

The banana bread.

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

#yes I have been dragged into the clark Kent fandom #no I am not sorry for it #bitterrecs #clark kent #clark kent smut #clark kent x reader

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bitterreid · 23 days ago

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Type: “aesthetic”, “character”, “colour”, “movie”, “lyrics”, and “celebrity” into the search of your Pinterest home page and post the first result you get for each one to find your vibe.

tagged by @wonderlandwalker (this one was so much fun ty)

and I'm tagging @defencelesslove and @billybeloved <3 :)

#this is PERFECT #perfectly sums me up #bitterrambles #like I get Lizzy cmbyn silver springs AND Julia Roberts??#stop it I'll blush

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bitterreid · 23 days ago

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omg this Bucky is SO dear to my heart???

oh, it's hard to leave you (when i get you everywhere!)

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x pr manager!reader summary: you tweet one (1) mildly unhinged critique of congressman james buchanan barnes’ pr strategy—something about ghosting the press and weaponizing cheekbones—and three hours later he’s in your dms asking if you want a job. now you manage his social media, his public image, and occasionally his existential spirals. he’s got a metal arm, a rescue cat named alpine, and the digital instincts of a dad trying to facetime from the tv remote. somehow, against all odds, he’s good. earnest. dangerously hot. you're so screwed. word count: 10.6k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, soft dom!bucky, sloppy make-out sesh for the win, fingering, oral (f!receiving), face riding, praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, size kink, creampie, use of pet names like sweetheart and pretty baby, unprecedented levels of yearning, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unhinged tweets

You don’t mean to go viral.

You really don’t. It’s not a bit or a career move or a desperate plea to the algorithm gods. It’s just that you were in line for coffee at 8:47 a.m., hungover from exactly one and a half spicy margaritas (because you're a real adult now and your liver hates you), and the man in front of you was vaping indoors. You needed to direct your rage somewhere. That somewhere happened to be Twitter.

Well. That and the soft target of Rep. James B. Barnes.

Your actual tweet really isn't that scathing, in your opinion:

“Not to be rude before 9 a.m., but Rep. James B. Barnes has the digital strategy of a man who thinks ‘radio silence’ is the same as ‘messaging control.’ Ghosting the press isn't mysterious, it's lazy. And the Instagram? Sir, it's giving retired uncle who discovered portrait mode last week. You're hot, sure—but public goodwill isn’t built on brooding black-and-white cat photos and the occasional quote that reads like it was ripped from a thirteen year old's diary. Hire literally anyone.”

You hit post, tuck your phone away, and move on with your morning, which includes trying not to scream during a client call where a fitness influencer earnestly asks if she should “lean into a divorce arc.”

By the time you check Twitter again, it’s… carnage. In the good way.

The notifications are stacked like an avalanche. A dozen quote tweets, then a hundred, then you stop counting because your phone is hot to the touch and your Slack has stopped functioning. You’re about to text your best friend when you see it:

@RepBarnes:

Noted. Would you like to try fixing it?

You stare. Blink. Blink again. Surely not.

Surely the Winter Soldier, now U.S. House Representative for New York’s 9th Congressional District, is not quote-tweeting you like this is a casual Tuesday.

Surely the man who once jumped off a highway overpass and punched a terrorist in the face is not lurking on Twitter Dot Com past midnight, scrolling his name like a sad girl with an ex-boyfriend playlist.

You reread it.

Then again. And again. Your fingers are shaking a little, like you’ve had three too many shots of espresso, which—fine—you have.

You’re halfway through an existential crisis about how a minor PR manager can possibly be noticed by a former Avenger turned Congressman when your phone starts vibrating off the desk. Nina texts you first:

NINA

DUDE DUDE HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE do you think he read your pinned tweet where you said you’d marry Thor in a Walgreens parking lot???

You don’t answer. You’re too busy spiraling. Because now your professional website is getting hits. And your LinkedIn. And, insult to injury, your ancient Tumblr blog from college, where you once posted a 2,000-word thinkpiece on how Steve Rogers is a metaphor for millennial burnout. You know this because someone found it and tagged you with a screenshot.

You’re spiraling when your phone pings again.

This time it’s not public.

@RepBarnes has sent you a direct message.

If you’re interested, I could use someone like you. NY/DC split. Health benefits included. Let me know.

You read it once. Then again. Then walk away from your desk, lie down on your kitchen floor, and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It does not. It has a water stain from your upstairs neighbor’s failed attempt at DIY plumbing. You feel that deeply.

You, who spent three years post-grad slowly circling the corporate America drain—clutching your Communications degree like it’s a winning lottery ticket while negotiating brand partnerships for YouTubers who think “millennial” means “anyone over 26”—have just been headhunted by Bucky Barnes.

You should probably be flattered. Or terrified. Or calling your mom. Instead, you fire off the only response that makes sense:

are u joking?

His reply comes five minutes later.

No. You’re good. And I’m very tired of people telling me to post more cat content.

You stare at your screen.

You should absolutely say no. This is clearly a trap. At best, a weird stunt. At worst, the kind of surreal pivot that leads to you being mentioned in Politico under “questionable staffing decisions.”

But also… your rent just went up. Again. Your clients are spiraling. You haven’t had health insurance that covers dental since 2021.

And Bucky Barnes wants to hire you?

You exhale. Then type,

i'll clear my schedule. when and where?

A beat.

Meet me in D.C. I’ll have coffee. You bring strategy.

You stare at that last part and—God help you—you start to grin.

You're pretty sure you’ve just accepted a job from the Winter Soldier.

Once upon a time, you had hopes.

Real, annoying ones. Back when you still believed in upward mobility and the promise of networking events with warm chardonnay. You were going to climb the ranks. Not to the top, necessarily—you were realistic, not delusional—but to a place with an actual title. "Director" maybe, or "Head of Strategy." Something crisp and important-sounding that could be printed on business cards without irony. You’d wear smart blazers and carry a leather tote that didn’t smell like stale granola bars. You’d have power lunches.

Instead, you’re three years out of grad school with an inbox full of “circling back”s, a calendar that reads like a sacrificial offering to the content gods, and a job that involves convincing lifestyle micro-influencers to stop posting QAnon-adjacent smoothie recipes.

You had dreams. Now you have bills.

Which is why the Bucky Barnes situation feels less like a win and more like a symptom. A brain glitch, maybe. You refresh your inbox. Again. You’ve been doing that for the last hour and a half. The DM is still there, as if it might disappear if you blink too hard.

You open a Google Doc. Title it “Project: Barnes?” with the tentative, quizzical punctuation of someone who is very much not okay.

And then, like any self-respecting PR person who has just been contacted by a former war hero turned sitting U.S. Representative, you type the most professional research query you can think of:

bucky barnes political platform site:gov

Then:

bucky barnes cat

And then, after five minutes of increasingly weird search results, you cave:

bucky barnes shirtless

For research purposes, obviously. To understand the optics. You are nothing if not committed to analyzing the full spectrum of a person's public persona.

(Also, look. It’s not your fault that James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly, distractingly attractive in a way that should be a federal offense. The man has the bone structure of a war-weary marble statue. The jawline of a vintage cologne ad. And don’t even get started on the arm—the arm—because that’s a whole separate thesis.)

It’s Wakandan tech, sleek and black with gold accents that catch the light like something out of myth. You’ve seen pictures of him at press conferences, sleeves pushed up, glinting like some kind of tactical Greek god. It is, objectively, an optics goldmine. Which makes it even more baffling that his current social strategy is “post like a cryptid and hope people like based on vibes.”

You learn that he’s been in Congress for just under six months. That he ran on a progressive platform with a heavy emphasis on veteran care, climate resilience, and “actually listening to the people,” which, yes, is vague—but less vague than the average politician, so that’s something. You find clips from a debate where he tells a super PAC-backed opponent, with all the calm menace of a man who once fought a Nazi on top of a train, “I didn’t survive a handful of wars to let people like you sell this country for parts.”

It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be hot and principled and grumpy in a compelling way. That’s too many character traits. You’re fairly certain it violates some kind of congressional ethics code.

You click out of the tab. Open another.

Watch a video of him dodging a question on CNN with a non-answer so blunt it circles back around to being honest. He has a dry, clipped delivery. A little awkward. A little old. Not in a cringey, old-man way—but like he hasn’t quite caught up with the TikTokification of discourse.

You hate how much you want to fix it.

Your fingers twitch. You scroll through his feed. It’s mostly retweets of policy initiatives, local labor union updates, and cat pictures—grainy, candid shots of a very fluffy white feline with the disdainful elegance of old money and the personal boundaries of a cryptid. She’s usually perched somewhere she shouldn’t be: on top of his kitchen cabinets, wedged behind a stack of legislative binders, once half-asleep inside his empty duffel bag. Once in a while, he posts a weirdly poetic thought. Like:

Not all roads lead to war. But I remember the ones that did.

You stare at it.

It has thirty-two retweets, all from mutuals you know to be deeply online. One has responded “who’s running this account and do they need therapy.” Another has written simply: “sir.”

You breathe out a laugh.

You should be panicking. Or preparing. Or calling someone smarter than you. But instead you’re refreshing his feed and scrolling like a girl with a crush.

Which—no. Nope. Absolutely not. This is research. Professional curiosity. Intellectual rigor.

You check your calendar. Nothing but a call at four with your client who wants to rebrand herself as an “edible wellness guru” and refuses to define what that means. You sigh. Close the tab.

Then reopen it. One more scroll for the road.

In one photo, his cat is curled up in Bucky’s lap, a fluffy white loaf of judgement and chaos, her paw resting on his vibranium arm like she owns both it and the man it’s attached to. The caption reads:

She snored through my security briefing. I wish I could too.

Jesus Christ, you think. I’m in trouble.

You spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking everything.

Your research doc is now twenty pages long. You’ve compiled notes on his legislative record, his key voting blocs, public sentiment analysis, and—because you are fundamentally broken—a list of his most viral thirst tweets. There’s one that simply reads “he could kill me and I’d say thank you.” You are not proud to admit it made you snort.

You board the train to D.C. with your headphones in, your anxiety clutched to your chest like a carry-on, and your very best business casual. You don’t even read on the train. You just sit there and wonder what the hell you’re doing.

By the time you arrive, you’re exhausted from spiraling.

The coffee shop is in Capitol Hill—of course it is. Quiet and wood-paneled, with the kind of soft lighting that makes everyone look like they’re about to confess something.

You’re early. He’s not there yet. You order a black coffee and a croissant you won’t eat and choose the table in the back, where you can see the door.

Five minutes later, he walks in.

And yes, fine. It is a little cinematic.

James Buchanan Barnes in the flesh is not the brooding, hyper-composed figure from press photos. He’s rougher around the edges in person, like someone who never quite got used to peacetime. His hair is slicked back but starting to come undone at the edges. The navy suit jacket he’s wearing is slightly creased, like he’s been rolling up the sleeves and taking it off and putting it back on all morning. No tie. Just the white collar of his shirt open at the throat, exposing the soft brush of stubble across his neck and jaw.

God. This is so unfair.

His eyes land on you and something flickers—recognition, maybe, or skepticism. You can’t tell.

He walks over. You stand too quickly. Your chair makes a horrible screech.

“Hi,” you say, then—because you’re flustered and your brain is full of static—“I almost didn’t recognize you without the strategically vague tweets.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls. Could be amusement. Could be confusion.

“You came,” he says, as if the possibility you wouldn’t had been very real.

“Of course,” you reply, forcing a half-smile. “I go where the digital crises call.”

He nods once, slowly. Watches you as you open your laptop and set your coffee down. It’s too quiet for a moment—the hum of the café, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of someone stirring sugar behind the counter. You pull up the notes you made at two in the morning while spiral-reading his press history, trying not to fidget.

“I figured,” you offer, “we’d start with a social audit. Clarify some core messaging, maybe put together a soft content strategy for the next two weeks. We’ll do a tone reset, pull the last six months of analytics, identify what’s actually landing—because no offense, but your engagement rates are being carried by your cat.”

A pause.

“I mean, I get it. She’s adorable. But still.”

He huffs something that could be a laugh, if it weren’t so dry. Then leans back slightly, the line between his brows easing as he studies you.

Then he says, slowly, like he’s still feeling out the words: “You actually know what you’re talking about.”

And you blink. “You thought I didn’t?”

He shrugs, glancing out the window for a beat before returning to you. “I kind of thought you were… just someone online. Making noise.”

You sip your coffee. “I mean. I am. But I also have a master’s in communication strategy and ten thousand hours of dealing with manchildren who think posting a thirst trap is a branding pivot.”

His mouth twitches. “Sounds promising.”

You smile. Tight. “So. What exactly do you really need help with?”

And just like that—you’re in it.

You expect him to start with a question. Or a joke. Or maybe something awkward and vaguely threatening, like “how do you know so much about me?” (You don’t. You just have Wi-Fi and a dangerous relationship with your search bar.)

But instead, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and says, “It’s just not working.”

You blink. “You’ll have to be more specific. What’s not working?”

“My comms strategy. My messaging. All of it.”

He sounds vaguely exasperated, but not angry. Just tired. You get the sense that’s his baseline. He gestures with one hand, the movement sharp and utilitarian. “I’m supposed to be building a digital presence that connects with people. Makes them trust me. Instead I’m getting tagged in memes about how hot I am.”

You nod, solemn. “To be fair, you do look like that.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he quirks an eyebrow like he’s maybe a little impressed you said it. “Thanks.”

You swallow the lump in your throat with a sip of coffee. It’s going lukewarm. “So what was the issue? Your team too old school? Too hands-off?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts apology and confession. “I don’t really have a team.”

You blink again. “You… don’t have a team.”

“One guy. Used to run PR for a congressman from Montana. Thought hiring someone low-profile would keep things clean.”

You squint. “You’re a former Avenger. There’s no such thing as clean.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Starting to notice that.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “Okay. So let me get this straight. You have no digital strategy lead, no content calendar, no brand consultant, and you’re navigating one of the most publicly scrutinized jobs in America with a guy whose last success story was getting a local paper to stop calling his boss ‘the Beef Tariff Czar.’”

He shifts. Slightly. Doesn’t deny it.

You put your coffee down. Carefully. Deliberately. Then say, as diplomatically as you can:

“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes—this is a disaster.”

He meets your eyes. Dead-on. “That’s why I messaged you.”

It’s almost… earnest. That quiet, unflinching way he says it. Like he knows just how far in over his head he is. Like he doesn’t enjoy asking for help, but he’s smart enough to do it anyway.

That, more than anything, is what knocks you sideways.

Because the guy sitting across from you does not radiate “competent politician.” He’s stiff in the way people are when they’re always anticipating a fight. He looks like someone who’s only recently stopped treating doorknobs like potential traps.

But he also looks at you like he’s listening. Like he wants to get this right, even if he doesn’t know how.

And you hate how that pulls at you.

You fold your hands. Steady your tone. “If I take this job, I’m not just managing your Twitter. I’ll need full access��messaging, public statements, policy framing. You’ll have to be okay with me pushing back. Hard.”

He nods. “Understood.”

“And I’ll need to redo everything your current guy’s done.”

“I was hoping you would.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Including the website that looks like it was designed in 2007?”

A ghost of a smirk. “I designed that one myself.”

“Of course you did.”

A beat. Then—quietly, without the usual edge. “I didn’t expect to win. When I ran. It wasn’t about the campaign. I just thought… if I could stand up, maybe someone else would too.”

It’s not a speech. It’s not even polished. But it hits.

You sit with it for a second. Then say, “That’s the part people need to hear.”

He frowns. “What, the not-expecting-to-win part?”

“No. The rest. The standing up.” You pause. “You want to help. And that’s rare. It’s worth something. We can build on that.”

There’s a shift then, subtle but real. He straightens a little. Like your words have landed somewhere deep. Like maybe—maybe—you’re the first person who’s said that in a while.

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

But something’s settled between you. A quiet, unspoken agreement.

You’re in. Actually.

God help you.

Your first day working for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes begins with a minor existential crisis and a yogurt you eat standing up.

Capitol Hill is less glamorous than it looks on TV. A lot more beige. A lot more linoleum. Everything smells like government-grade carpet and desperation. You get stopped at security twice. First because of your laptop. Then because you muttered “kill me” under your breath in line and a very serious-looking man with an earpiece asked if you were making a threat.

You’re not. But it’s touch and go.

Bucky’s office is on the third floor of the Cannon Building. It’s functional in the same way a DMV is functional—technically operating, but held together by anxiety and one overworked assistant. The plaque outside his door reads:

REP. JAMES BARNES

New York’s 9th District

Inside, it’s… chaos.

Not loud chaos. Weird chaos. Subtle. Like someone tried to copy a normal congressional office from memory but forgot a few key details. There’s a framed photo of Brooklyn from the ‘40s. A desk with approximately forty-nine paperweights—no papers, just the weights. A bowl of wrapped Werther’s Originals. You are immediately suspicious.

Before you can process that, Bucky appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie in hand like he hasn’t figured out if he’s putting it on or strangling it.

“You made it,” he says. Deadpan.

“No thanks to Homeland Security,” you mutter, stepping inside.

He gives you the tour, if you can call it that.

There’s the bullpen (three desks, one of which has a sword leaning against it for reasons no one explains), a coffee station with a “don’t drink this, it’s poison” Post-it, and his actual office, which is larger than you expected and somehow still incredibly bare.

You spot a half-empty bookcase, a red file folder labeled “CRISIS?” and a punching bag tucked behind the door.

“Is that for stress relief or intimidation purposes?” you ask, pointing at the bag.

“Yes,” he replies.

The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions, vague directives, and increasingly unhinged email threads. His comms inbox is a minefield.

You get a badge, a desk, and a monitor that still has a Post-it from your predecessor that just says, Good luck, you’re gonna need it. You also learn that the thermostat in the office only has two settings: Arctic Military Base and Surface of the Sun.

By the end of your first day, your inbox has refreshed for the fifth time and you’ve flagged three crisis-adjacent threads—one involving a scheduling mix-up, one involving a meme account, and one involving a conspiracy theory about cyborgs in Congress.

Maybe, just maybe, this job might be more than you bargained for.

The next week is only slightly less chaotic.

Your—well, his, technically—first press briefing is scheduled for 2 p.m. sharp, but by 1:17 you’re already mentally preparing the post-mortem. You’ve seen the rehearsal footage, such as it was—him standing in front of his desk, arms crossed like a bouncer, muttering responses like they physically pained him.

When you gently suggested he try smiling, he looked at you like you’d asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.

“It’ll be fine,” An intern chirps, shoving a protein bar in your hand as they breeze past. “He does better under pressure. Like a reverse soufflé.”

“What does that mean,” you whisper, but she’s already gone.

You’re standing behind the curtain in a room that smells like too many folding chairs and not enough trust in government when he walks in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. No tie today. He says it feels like a leash. His sleeves are rolled with military precision, though. His hair’s slicked back. He looks more like a man going to war than one about to deliver a ten-minute statement on infrastructure funding.

“You ready?” you ask, clipboard clutched like a lifeline.

“No,” he says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

You almost smile.

The press corps is already seated, eyes trained, pens poised. He walks out with the focus of someone trained to enter dangerous rooms. You can see the shift in him—quiet alertness, head high, every movement efficient. There’s still something a little stiff in the way he grips the podium, like he doesn’t fully trust it not to fall apart under his hands.

Then he starts to speak.

And damn.

Okay.

You hadn’t expected this.

It’s not polished. He stumbles over a couple phrases. Uses “ain’t” once. Drops a note card and mutters “shit” under his breath into a hot mic.

But he knows his stuff. Not just the numbers. Not just the bill. The context. The human angle. He tells a story about the neighborhood he grew up in, back when it still had corner shops and streetcar tracks. Talks about a single mom who wrote in last week about her building’s pipes freezing every winter. Doesn’t make promises—just outlines what he’s doing and what he won’t let happen again.

And it’s good.

It’s honest.

He doesn’t charm the press. He earns them.

You see it in the way pens pause halfway through notes. Phones lowered. Eyebrows raised. There’s a moment—a beat in the middle of a sentence—where he talks about reconstruction efforts in Red Hook and says, “We don’t need heroes. We need decent plumbing and warm classrooms,” and it lands like a punch.

You feel it, too.

By the end, they’re asking thoughtful questions. Real ones. He handles them with a dry kind of grace. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t lie. Says “I don’t know” more than once, but follows it with “I’ll find out.”

When it’s over, he steps backstage, exhales slowly, and immediately unbuttons the top of his shirt like it’s a reward.

You hand him a bottle of water.

He takes it with a nod and says, “Well?”

You blink. “You were… actually incredible?”

He raises an eyebrow. “That so shocking?”

“Yes!” you blurt, then soften. “I mean. A little. You’re not exactly a poster child for press-friendly vibes.”

He leans against the wall, sipping. “Yeah, well. I’m not a fan of the stage.”

“But you like the mission.”

He looks at you. And for once, doesn’t deflect.

“I like helping people. I like when things are fair. And if this is what I gotta do to make that happen…” He shrugs. “Then I do it.”

You file that away. Noted: Bucky Barnes does not enjoy politics, but he endures them for the sake of something bigger.

You offer, “You want to decompress? There’s a decent café two blocks away. You’ve earned, like, three cookies.”

He tilts his head. “You buying?”

“I work for the government now. I’m broke.”

“Fair,” he says. “I’ll buy the cookies.”

You walk the few blocks in relative silence, save for the traffic and your boots scuffing against the pavement. The café is small, warm, full of people with laptops and disillusionment. You order coffee. He orders a black Americano and two oatmeal raisin cookies, like a war crime.

“Don’t judge,” he says, catching your expression. “I like raisins.”

“Of course you do,” you mutter. “You probably eat Bran Flakes and think they’re spicy.”

He gives you a look over the rim of his cup. “Didn’t realize I hired a bully.”

You grin. “Not a bully. Just aggressively helpful.”

He snorts. And you sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his first real public win, watching him pull the napkin apart like it personally wronged him. There's something calming about it—like you’re both still wound a little tight, but not as tight as before.

You let the silence stretch a beat longer before speaking. “Can I ask you something?”

He glances at you. Shrugs. “You’ve already asked me worse.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Fair.”

He waits.

You roll your cup between your palms. “Why’d you hire me?”

There’s a pause. Not the kind that makes you nervous—just one that feels like he’s actually going to answer. Eventually. When the words are ready.

When he does speak, his voice is low, deliberate. “You were honest.”

You blink. “About what?”

“That tweet,” he says. “About me ghosting the press. Most people either kiss my ass or assume I’m gonna punch them in the face. You didn’t do either.”

You snort. “I did call you hot, though.”

A small tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That, too.”

Then, quieter, “You said what everyone else was thinking. But you said it like it wasn’t personal. Just... necessary.”

You don’t speak. You’re not sure he’s done.

“I’ve had a lot of people tell me who I am. What I’m supposed to be. Some of them were wrong. Some weren’t. Doesn’t mean I liked hearing it.”

His fingers tap against the cup once. Twice. “But you were right. I didn’t have a handle on any of this. The job, the people watching, the way it all gets twisted. You called it out.”

“And that worked in my favor?” you ask, half-joking.

His gaze flickers to yours. “You didn’t lie to me. That means something.”

It lands heavier than expected.

You look down at your lap. Then, after a second: “I thought you were gonna say it was because I tweeted about your cat.”

He huffs. “That helped.”

You smile, and when you glance back up, he’s watching you. Not like he’s searching for something. More like he’s found something and isn’t sure what to do with it.

“I could tell that you'd keep me grounded,” he says.

It’s simple. Uncomplicated. But your chest goes tight anyway.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Don’t get used to the compliments,” he mutters, sipping from his long-cold coffee. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You mean the mysterious, broody one?”

He arches a brow. “Better than ex-assassin with a PR manager.”

“Hey,” you say, mock offended. “I'm rebranding you.”

And this time, his smile is small—but real. The kind that says you’re staying.

Briefings, memos, social strategy calls take up the next month. You update his official bio, overhaul his campaign site, start a new newsletter format that doesn’t look like it was designed in the throes of dial-up internet. You start drafting tweets in his voice, but you’re surprised at how often he wants to write them himself.

Sometimes he sends them to you first, via email, labeled “draft?” and rarely punctuated.

The kids who emailed about lunch debt were right. They shouldn’t have to be the ones fixing it.

You write back:

it’s missing caps and grammar and polish …it’s also perfect. i hate you a little

He replies ten minutes later:

Good. Keep hating me. Makes your edits stronger.

You start seeing him more. At first, it’s meetings. Then lunch breaks. Then you’re just… there.

In his office while he sorts through constituent letters. Sitting across from him on the Capitol steps, scrolling through your phone while he mutters about zoning regulations and offers you the second half of whatever sandwich he’s picked up from the Hill café.

One Thursday, around 6:45 p.m., you’re still at the office. Your laptop’s overheating. Your shoulders ache from the stress of trying to politely tell a PAC liaison that no, Bucky will not be attending the “Patriots for Policy” fundraiser, and no, their “Star-Spangled Selfie Station” is not an appealing incentive.

You lean back in your chair, eyes closed, and say out loud, “If one more intern sends me a Google Doc titled ‘shitposts to own the opposition,’ I’m going to walk into traffic.”

“That bad, huh?” comes Bucky’s voice from the doorway.

You open one eye. He’s holding two cups of coffee. It’s late. His sleeves are rolled again—he does that a lot, like he’s always preparing to do something with his hands. He sets a cup on your desk.

“It’s decaf,” he says. “I’m not trying to kill you.”

You sit up. “Decaf? Wow. You are learning.”

He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “Baby steps.”

You sip. It’s good. And quiet stretches out between you. The lights overhead buzz faintly. Someone’s laughing two rooms over. The city is folding in on itself outside, another day’s worth of bad traffic and moral compromises settling over D.C. like a weighted blanket.

Another few months pass in a rhythm that starts to feel dangerously like routine.

He insists on responding to every constituent letter about veterans’ benefits himself, even the ones written in glitter gel pen. One morning you find him on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of envelopes, Alpine curled up on a pile marked “urgent.”

“Just scanning,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. “She likes the important stuff.”

You start to learn things about him. Little things, dropped like breadcrumbs.

He hates cilantro. Keeps a dog-eared copy of All the King’s Men on his desk. Organizes his paperwork with military precision but leaves mugs half-finished all over the office. He’s still learning to take a break during the day. Sometimes he doesn’t.

One evening, while you’re both trying to pick a header image for the new landing page (he hates stock photos, insists they feel like “hollow propaganda”), he mutters, “I used to think if I could just disappear, I’d stop hurting people.”

You freeze. “And now?”

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Now I’m trying to build something instead.”

Your throat tightens. You change the subject. You always do.

The tension between you simmers. Unspoken, unnamed. He starts saying your name more often. You start noticing when he does.

He always says it like it matters.

One Friday, he brings you a donut. Doesn’t mention it. Just leaves it on your desk and walks away like a man who doesn’t realize small gestures are dangerous.

You stare at it for a full minute before a staffer walks by, clocks the look on your face, and mutters, “Oh, you’re gone-gone.”

You pretend not to hear her.

One night, you find yourselves outside a community rec center after a Q&A event, both of you too wired to go home. You walk a few blocks together, hands brushing once. Neither of you acknowledges it.

“You ever think about leaving?” you ask, staring up at the streetlight.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Then I remember I already ran for almost fifty years.”

You laugh. He looks over, soft.

And then, quietly, “Not sure I’d want to go anywhere without you anyway.”

You blink. “You mean… as staff?”

He hums, like he’s choosing not to answer that.

He looks at you too long sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. You assume it’s habit—old instincts. Soldier’s reflex. You don’t let yourself think about what else it could be.

Because it can’t be. He’s your boss. You’re his PR handler. This is all fine. Normal. Entirely professional, except for when he looks at you like that.

Which is how it builds—slow, steady, suffocating.

Until one night he’s sitting too close. You’re laughing too hard. His hand brushes your knee, and he doesn’t move it. And you still don’t realize.

Not really.

It’s a Tuesday night.

Well—technically Wednesday. 1:12 a.m., according to your phone. Your apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop and the soft blue from the streetlamp outside your window. You should be sleeping. Instead, you’re re-reading policy notes and trying not to think about the email from your landlord marked “urgent.”

The city is quiet, but your mind is loud.

Your phone buzzes.

BUCKY

Are you awake

No punctuation. Of course. You stare at it. It’s not like him to text unprompted—especially not at this hour. You wonder for a second if it’s a mistake. Or if something’s wrong.

You call him.

It only rings once.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep or something that isn’t quite.

“You okay?” you ask, softly.

A pause. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

You settle back against your pillows. “Bad dream?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly. “More like a bad memory.”

You let the silence stretch, but you don’t fill it. You’ve learned that about him—he’s not afraid of quiet. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it. You hear a faint rustle, like he’s sitting down, maybe at his kitchen table. Maybe the couch. Maybe the floor. He’s the kind of guy who sits on the floor without thinking about it.

“You want to talk about it?” you ask.

“Not really.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”

A breath. Then, with a strange kind of gentleness: “You ever feel like you’re… still in the middle of something, but everyone else thinks you’re past it?”

You exhale, slow. “Yeah. All the time.”

Another pause. And then: “I thought when the shield went to Sam, that was it. That was my end point. Like I’d done my part and now I could just… blend into the wallpaper. Fix things. Be useful. Pay back some debt I can’t ever really name.”

He exhales.

“But I still wake up and feel like I’m waiting for orders.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know that. But sometimes it feels like I lost the war and no one told me.”

You sit with that. It’s a kind of grief, what he’s saying. The loss of purpose. Of identity. You think about what it means to carry history in your body. To be made of violence and guilt and memory, and still try to build something from it.

“You’re not wallpaper,” you say. “And you’re not a soldier. Not unless you decide to be.”

A faint, surprised sound. “You think I can just choose who I am now?”

“I think that’s what healing is,” you say. “It’s not forgetting. It’s choosing who you are in spite of it.”

It’s quiet again. But softer, this time.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.

There’s a beat.

Then he says, “You want to come over?”

Your heart stumbles. “Now?”

“I just…” he trails off. “I don’t want to be alone.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. You do. Too much, maybe.

“I’m in sweatpants,” you warn.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m in worse.”

Which is—not fair.

He’s in flannel pants and a faded Brooklyn Public Library tee, hair damp like he just stepped out of a shower, like this isn’t his worst week in office or the worst day in months. He looks too human. Too close. Not like Congressman Barnes, not like the Winter Soldier—just like a man who lives here. Alone.

“Hi,” you say, because you’re a coward with a communication degree.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low.

He steps back. You step in.

You move past him. He doesn’t touch you, but he lingers close as you settle onto his couch. There’s a record playing low in the background—something instrumental. Maybe jazz. Maybe something older. He sits next to you. Not quite touching, but near enough that you feel it.

Neither of you says much at first.

You sip the tea he makes you. Let your shoulders drop. And after a while, you’re both leaning back, side by side, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll explain something.

“I don’t let people in here much,” he says, out of nowhere.

You glance at him. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Used to be a habit. Kept things safe. Controlled.”

“And now?”

He looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s cataloguing something important.

“I trust you."

The silence sharpens.

You feel it—somewhere between your chest and your breath and the skin of your palms, warm where they rest against your knees.

He turns toward you, like he’s going to say something. His thigh brushes yours. Your heart skips.

You say his name. Soft.

“Bucky.”

He leans in. Slow. So slow it hurts. His eyes flicker to your mouth.

And then—

He stops.

You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

Close enough to break.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

He just sits there, tension in his jaw, fingers curling against his leg like he’s holding himself back.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says, barely a whisper.

You nod. You understand.

You don’t sleep well that night. You don't even know how you got home.

Not because anything happened—and maybe that’s the problem. Something almost did. Something close enough to taste. But close doesn’t keep you up at night. Hope does. Ambiguity. The memory of his breath near your cheek, the exact second he pulled away, and the way your name sounded in his mouth just before it.

You wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender detergent and stress. Your shoulder aches from the way you curled in on yourself, as if pretending sleep would solve the question of him.

It hasn’t.

So you do what you always do: you compartmentalize. Ruthlessly. Viciously. Like a goddamn professional.

You slap concealer under your eyes, burn your tongue on gas station coffee, and tell yourself that you’re not thinking about Bucky Barnes. You are not thinking about how he almost kissed you. How his hand hovered at your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to make. How you wanted him to make it.

No. You’re thinking about agenda items. Press follow-ups. Intern drama. Your inbox, which has gone feral overnight.

You’re halfway through drafting a media roundup from your phone when your car buzzes with an intern's name.

You answer on instinct. “Hey. Yeah, I’m on my way in—”

“Have you seen the op-ed?” they cuts in.

Your fingers still on the steering wheel.

“I—what?”

They don't wait. “I’m sending it now. Check your messages.”

You pull into a spot on the shoulder, the coffee cup sloshing as you brake. Your phone dings.

The link stares back at you. Your thumb hovers.

You already know it’s going to be bad. You can feel it in their voice. In the silence after their breath. You tap anyway.

And there it is.

Is the Winter Soldier Still Lurking Beneath Congressman Barnes?

It’s from a major outlet. Not a fringe blog, not some anonymous account online. It’s written by a seasoned journalist, someone who’s covered politics for two decades. The tone is surgically polite. It doesn’t outright accuse him of anything, but the subtext is razor-sharp: can a man with his past truly be trusted with power?

There’s a pull quote in bold, center-page:

“A reformed weapon is still a weapon. No amount of legislation can erase that history.”

The rest of the article is worse.

It dredges everything. Not just his Hydra years, but the killings. The photo evidence. The old footage. The Wakandan reprogramming is mentioned—briefly, half a paragraph, like it’s a footnote in a larger narrative of violence.

The author's polite language makes it more brutal. Less a hit piece and more… a thesis. Something cold. Inarguable.

You call him. He doesn’t answer.

You call again. Still nothing.

So you go to his apartment.

Bucky answers the door in that old gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that could belong to any decade. His hair’s half-tied, his mouth set. No smile, but no walls up either. His eyes are dark. Tired in a way that goes bone-deep.

He steps aside and lets you in. You don’t say anything about how he looks. You just take off your coat, make yourself at home, and sit down at the kitchen table.

The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. Alpine is curled on the armrest of the couch like she’s keeping watch.

“I didn’t read it,” he says eventually. “Didn’t need to.”

“It’s bad.”

He nods.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You’ve been through worse,” you say. “This is—politics. It’s dirty.”

“It’s not about politics,” he replies, voice flat. “It’s about who I used to be.”

He says it like a fact. Not even bitter—just exhausted.

“I spent so long trying to fix things,” he continues. “Make it right. Every day, I get up and try to be something new. Someone new. And it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one article, one photo, and suddenly I’m the fucking Winter Soldier again.”

His fists are clenched now. You can see the tension in his frame, the way he’s holding himself together like it’s a full-time job.

“They didn’t say anything that isn’t true,” he adds. “That’s the worst part.”

You stand. Cross to him slowly. Carefully. He watches you with that guarded look he gets when he’s bracing for a hit that’s already landed.

“They used the truth to tell a lie,” you say. “You’re not that person anymore.”

“Then why does everyone keep seeing him?” His voice cracks on the last word. It shatters something in you.

You don’t know what to say. Not right away. Because it’s not your job to fix what was done to him.

But maybe it’s your job to remind him what’s changed.

So you touch his arm. The metal one. He flinches—but only for a second.

“You said you didn’t read it,” you say gently. “So you didn’t see the comments.”

His brow furrows.

“Thousands of people,” you say. “Calling it a smear job. Defending you. Saying they trust you more than half the people in office. Veterans. Civilians. Kids who look up to you. People who believe in second chances because of you.”

You feel the shift before you see it. His shoulders slacken, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” you add. “You’re allowed to be angry. But you’re not alone in this.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And whatever wall he was holding up—whatever mask he puts on for C-SPAN and strategy meetings—it drops.

His voice is rough when he finally says, “Can you stay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course."

You stay right where you are—your hand still resting on metal that hums faintly beneath your fingers, warm from him. He’s quiet, but not calm. Not really. There’s tension in the way he breathes, in the slight tremor running down his arm. Like his body still remembers how to brace for impact, even when it’s just words.

Minutes pass like that. Long enough for the quiet to settle around you. For Alpine to leap silently onto the sill and stare out like she’s keeping watch for both of you.

Then he shifts—just slightly—and the couch creaks under the movement. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The line of his spine curved like it’s bearing more than just his weight.

“Bucky,” you say, tone softening. “Talk to me.”

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is on the floor. Like if he meets your eyes, it’ll all unravel.

“I say or do one wrong thing,” he says, “and suddenly I’m a threat again.”

That last part is barely above a whisper.

You pause. Let the silence stretch.

“Hey,” you say, carefully. “You’re not a threat. You’re a congressman.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up,” he says.

“Then let me help,” you say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Bucky. Every day.”

That’s when his eyes meet yours—really meet them.

“You always come when I need you,” he says.

It’s a simple sentence.

But it lands like a match dropped in a dry field.

You stare at him. His face. The way his hair’s falling loose at the front. The soft curve of his mouth, the line between his brows, the glow of his vibranium arm in the lamplight—gold against black against skin.

You stand, like you’re going to fetch water or pace or do something, but you don’t make it far. You’re near his bookshelf—he’s got a handful of novels, mostly well-worn, a few classics. One spine is cracked down the middle. Another’s bent in half. You reach for one, just to touch something, ground yourself.

“You read a lot,” you say, just to fill the space. Just to breathe.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and the sound of his voice—that low rasp, Brooklyn tugging at the edges—rakes down your spine. “Helps. When my head’s loud.”

“What’s your favorite?”

There’s a pause.

Then, quietly: “You.”

You blink.

“You,” he says slowly, “you walk into my life and it’s like someone hit the off switch on the noise. Like there’s finally room to think again. To want things.”

Your throat goes tight.

He swallows. You hear it. Feel it.

“I didn’t mean to—” he stops, drags a hand through his hair, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan on hiring you. Thought if I kept it distant, maybe I wouldn’t…”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the floor like it holds answers. His jaw is tight, that line above his brow catching the lamplight. He’s flushed high on the cheeks. His hair is curling a little from the heat of the day. It softens him.

You can’t stop looking.

“Wouldn’t what?” you ask.

“Wouldn’t get attached.”

The words fall out of him, too quick, too raw. His accent thickens when he’s like this—unguarded, unraveling.

He looks up at you then. And you swear—swear—you’ve never seen anyone look more exposed.

“I think about you,” he says, voice hoarse. “All the damn time. Your voice. The way you talk when you’re excited. The way you wrinkle your nose when you read something stupid. And I try—believe me, I try—not to want any of it. Because you work with me. And you’re good. And I don’t want to drag you down with my shit.”

“Bucky—” you start, but it breaks apart in your throat.

“But you just kept coming. And you’re kind. And smart. And funny in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been asleep for years. And now I sit in meetings half-listening because I’m wondering if you’re cold. Or if you ate. Or if you still think I’m some idiot with a shiny arm and bad instincts.”

You’re already turning. Reaching for him.

His eyes are so blue. Tired. Beautiful. Like storm glass worn smooth.

And his mouth—God, his mouth—is parted, breathing shallow, like he’s already halfway to ruin.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t want him to.

So you close the space, press your mouth to his like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

He answers in kind. Gentle at first—so careful—but then hungrier, hands finally finding you, clutching like maybe you’re real after all. Like maybe he gets to keep you.

His hands find your waist, one warm, one cool. He breathes you in like it’s the first breath after surfacing. You hold onto him, to the solidness of him, to the truth in everything he just said.

When you part, you rest your forehead against his, breathless.

“I didn’t plan on you either,” you murmur. “But I want this too.”

He opens his eyes. And there’s something there—tentative, but real. Hope, maybe.

You kiss him again, slow and sure, and this time, you don’t stop.

The kiss deepens, and you feel it — the tension of months unspooling all at once. The press briefings, the late-night calls, the shared silences. It’s in the way his mouth moves against yours, all reverence and restraint barely holding.

Then restraint snaps.

He groans into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. One hand slides to your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of reverence that borders on desperate. You gasp when your back hits the edge of the bookshelf, books shifting and thudding behind you. His body presses close, firm and solid, muscle molded to muscle.

You don’t breathe. You inhale him—his scent, his heat, the way his tongue strokes into your mouth like he’s trying to stake a claim.

Your hands are greedy, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt before they slip under, dragging over warm skin and the defined ridges of his back. He shudders, hips pressing forward, and the answering moan that slips from your mouth is embarrassingly loud.

His mouth moves to your throat, hot and open, tongue dragging over the place your pulse stutters wildly. He kisses there once, then again, a third time just to hear the way your breath catches.

The shelves dig into your back, but you don’t care. His mouth is on your throat now, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

His breath stutters. His forehead rests against your jaw for a second, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “How long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath catches. Your hands grip his hoodie like you’re afraid the floor might drop out. There’s a pause—something delicate in the air—and then you say, just to ground yourself:

“Wow. That almost sounded like a line.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised. And then—finally—a real smile. Crooked. Devastating.

“You think I say that to everyone I push against my bookshelf?”

You grin. “I don’t know, Barnes. You’ve got a lot of books. Could be a whole system.”

He laughs. Really laughs. And then kisses you again, harder this time, a groan low in his throat when your hands slip under the hem of his sweatshirt. Skin meets skin and he makes a sound that short-circuits your brain.

Somehow, you make it upstairs.

It’s clumsy and desperate in the best way. A trail of clothing, soft gasps, hands mapping territory that’s been off-limits for far too long. He kisses you like you’re something precious and half-forbidden, and you can feel it in every press of his mouth, every whispered praise against your skin.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me," he groans while pressing those lips, those fucking lips, against your collarbone. "Need you to tell me this isn’t a dream.”

By the time you hit the bedroom, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Grinning like an idiot.

And Bucky?

He’s looking at you like he’s just figured out the world’s best-kept secret.

You barely hit the mattress before he’s on you again, mouth dragging down your neck, hands urgent but careful. Like he’s cataloguing every inch of you, filing it away somewhere behind all the noise. His vibranium hand slips beneath your shirt, cool at first but quick to warm against your skin, gliding up your ribcage with reverence that makes you shiver.

“You okay?” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.

You nod, maybe too fast. “Yeah. Just—processing.”

He freezes. “Processing what?”

“That I used to mock your social media presence,” you whisper, grinning up at him. “And now I’m about to get railed by the human embodiment of a Roman statue.”

His laugh is choked and surprised. “Jesus.”

“What? You set yourself up for that.”

He drops a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, then your neck, then lower—his stubble scraping just enough to make your breath catch. “Remind me to fire you later.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Not true,” he says, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh, warm and sure. “You’re already here.”

You open your mouth for a reply, but then his mouth is on you again—tongue tracing a line down your collarbone, fingers tugging at your waistband like he’s been waiting forever.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he says, voice low and serious at your ear. “Or if I—”

“You’re not,” you breathe. “You’re perfect.”

That earns you another groan, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, tongue sliding against yours with filthy precision. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, thighs bracketing his hips like you were built for this. Built for him.

Clothes disappear in pieces. His sweatshirt, your shirt, the rest in a tangle neither of you cares enough to untangle. And then it’s just skin. Heat. The stretch of him over you, under you, hands braced, mouth hot on your jaw, your throat, your chest. He takes his time.

"Bucky," You whisper, searching for the right words. "I want you inside me. Please."

He pushes out a sound akin to pain between his teeth. "Getting there." So impatient, goes unsaid.

The moment his hand falls in between your legs, digging past soft cotton and lace, where you're dripping and soft and needy for him, you don't think you'll ever, ever have enough of him. He's slow, at first, just bordering on exploratory. Stroking the pads of his fingers through your wetness until he finds your clit—oh, fuck—and goes to town, making you moan and clench around nothing.

"There you go. That's it," He coos. "You're doing so good."

You close your eyes, his hand pressing in deeper, harder, finding just the right rhythm to drive you insane, switching between your clit and your entrance until you're going mad. Then you hear him spit, the sound obscene and dripping against your skin—then, a slap. "Oh my god," You murmur. "Oh, fuck."

"You're so wet," His brows furrow, like he can hardly believe it. Acting like he's not sinking his fingers inside of you, stretching you open with one, two fingers. "Soaked. Like I knew you would be, god. You're so tight and I—I bet you'd feel better around my—"

He hits a spot that makes you keen, fast and rough and fucking you open. "Yes, yes, oh my god, please—"

"There?" His breath fans across your cheek. "Right there, huh?"

You nod, delirious and breathless and you black out the rest of the world, lost in the way he looks at you like you're the best damn thing in the world. You clench once, twice around his fingers until you're at the brink and—

Come on my fingers, come on, sweetheart.

And who were you to resist?

For a moment, you just lay in the aftershocks, his fingers granting you enough mercy to slip out. You think that maybe he'll give you a break, maybe just for once second, but then his whole body shifts downwards, momentarily leaving you confused, and then his breath fans across your thighs—"Just want a taste."

Those four words cause something in you to snap.

His mouth is sloppy and hot and wet, more focused on cleaning you up and licking up the remnants of your orgasm, leaving your clit sorely, sorely alone in a way that's too purposeful. In a way that has you bucking against the soft stubble of his face, desperate for any kind of stimulation.

It doesn't even seem like he's doing it for you, it's like he's doing it for himself. But then you beg and whine, the words reverberating in your throat, "Bucky, please—higher, please, baby, I need you—"

A graze of his teeth and a sharp, tugging suck around your clit then and you cum again. Shaking and sighing and falling apart in his mouth.

When you look down, you can see just how much of a mess you've made, his face glistening with you, even in the dark. And he's looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, like you've just given him the whole entire world.

"Do you—do you think you can take more?" His eyes look at you, filled with concern, and that's all you need for your legs to start waking up again. "I didn't—I dind't bring a condom and I—"

"I'm clean and I'm on the pill," You smile, lopsided and silly until he's mirroring yours, like he didn't just wrench the two best orgasms of your life out of you. Like he's not about to do it again. Just the way you like it. "And I want you to cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Shut up and get over here."

Bucky clucks his tongue, ever the dutiful man. "Yes, ma'am."

There's a moment—and then he's slotting the head of his cock into your entrance and you try not to be overwhelmed. He's hard and heavy and thick in a way you've never really experienced before, and for a minute, your brain short-circuits, in disbelief. You're doing this. You're really doing this. And suddenly, his cock goes all the way inside you with a pained groan.

His first thrust against you is messy, his hands having to spread your legs wide until you're arching against him. "Jesus, you're so—tight."

Then he's thrusting back in, his hands solid and heavy against your hips, not necessarily like a hammer, but in a way that makes your eyes roll back, slow and steady that you can feel every vein on his cock, lighting you up and finding places that not even your vibrator's been able to reach before. It's mind-numbing, it's relentless, it's perfect.

"Good girl," He whispers, pressing kisses up your neck to soothe the pressure of him inside you. "Taking me so well."

And then, like a reward, his vibranium hand leaves its place on your hip and starts caressing your clit, large fingers made impossibly gentle and finding a rhythm that parallels the way he ruts inside you.

"You're so good to me, so sweet," His words land like a sucker punch, and it makes you clench tighter, his pace faltering just the slightest bit. But he keeps going. "Always looking at me like that, don't know what you do to me, don't know how I can go without this. So much better than my dreams. Fuck."

"Can you come again for me? Pretty baby, can you do it again?"

It takes a harsh, rough swipe against your clit until you arch off the bed, eyes clenched shut and mouth wrenched open in a whine, and you bear down, coming for the third time that night.

And he's right there behind you, it doesn't take long before he speeds up, getting more frantic and desperate, and oh—he's shoving himself inside you as deep as he can go and you can feel him pulse, aching—"God, I love you. I love you so much, take it all for me."

You collapse underneath him, spent and so, so full. So perfect.

You go viral again.

Not for a tweet this time, but for a thirty-second clip someone posted from a town hall two weeks later—Bucky leaning in to answer a kid’s question about public transit, earnest as ever, saying something about “freedom meaning more than just car ownership,” with Alpine meowing in the background because she’d escaped her carrier under the table.

The quote is fine. Thoughtful, even. But it’s the look he gives you afterward—off-camera, off-script, soft in a way that has no business being soft—that turns the internet into a firestorm.

The caption?

sir. control yourself. your pr manager is right there.

You wake up to three missed calls, four texts from Nina (two of which are just screaming emojis), and one from your mom:

call me when you’re up

You do. Because you are a good daughter, even when half-asleep and mostly buried in a man’s too-soft duvet that smells like cedar and coffee and very recent sex.

“Morning,” your mom says, casual, like she didn’t text you three times in a row at 6:13 a.m. “How’s the job?”

You blink. “The—job?”

“Yes, the job,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The one you got after insulting a congressman on the internet.”

You glance over at said congressman, currently shuffling out of the bathroom shirtless and towel-damp, rubbing his head with one hand while Alpine chirps at his feet like she owns him. Which she does.

“Uh,” you say, eloquently. “It’s going… well.”

“Good,” your mom replies. “You should call your aunt. She saw him on TV and keeps asking if he’s single.”

“Mom.”

In the background, a faint beeping. “Gotta go. Someone’s coding. Love you!”

The line goes dead.

You flop back into the pillows, groaning into Bucky’s comforter like it can absorb your entire soul.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Yeah. My mom thinks we’re married now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We’re not?”

You shoot him a look. He grins.

Then, like it’s nothing: “What are you up to today?”

Technically, he’s your boss. A sitting congressman. You manage his image, his agenda, his occasional tendency to go off-script and say things like “burn it all down and start over” to a room full of journalists.

But now he’s shirtless in grey sweatpants, handing you coffee with Alpine perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and asking you to stay.

Not just for breakfast. For the day. Maybe longer. Maybe always.

It shouldn’t hit you like it does. But it does.

“You’re assuming I can concentrate,” you say, taking the mug like it’s a peace offering. “In your bed. With you. Shirtless. Existing.”

He smiles—that rare, lopsided thing he gives you when he’s caught somewhere between amusement and something gentler. “You’ve worked through worse.”

“True,” you mutter. “Once wrote an op-ed from a TikTok house while one of my clients sobbed over a brand deal and a frat boy tried to deep-fry a toaster.”

“See?” He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s just another part of your morning routine. “You’ll be fine.”

You look at him. At the man with a metal arm, a rescue cat, and a city full of people who expect him to change the world.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the thing that matters.

You exhale. “You’re lucky I believe in workplace flexibility.”

“Is that what this is?” he says, already walking toward the kitchen, voice full of barely contained laughter. “Workplace flexibility?”

You grin into your mug.

God help you, you’re in so deep.

You open your laptop from the warmth of his bed. Bucky pads away, Alpine trailing behind him like a tiny, loyal shadow. You draft emails. Sip coffee. Watch sunlight crawl across his floors. Like this was always where you were meant to be.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bitterrecs

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bitterreid · 27 days ago

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you can differentiate me from weevilwizard via subtle variations in our proboscis

#why did this make me laugh SO HARD #my humour is broken #my dog thinks I'm crazy now #bitterreblog

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bitterreid · 28 days ago

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hey so!!!!!! this is actually insane!!!!!!!! omfg!!!!!!

The Devil You Know (and the one you want)

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: eddie munson x fem!reader x steve harrington 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A new meeting sparks up old tensions and a riviting idea to resolve them 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, mdni, cursing, poor editing of horny thoughts, Eddie dirty talking like his life depends on it, Steve being a fucking mess, is repetition a warning? my vocabulary ran out about halfway through, let me know if there's any major errors I did my best but jesus this was long

𝐚/𝐧: got a bit carried away with this one it better not flop Also wanted to tag a few of my mutuals who make me love this website, thank you guys for always being such a positive constant, it means everything <3 @littlexdeaths, @abitchyouhate, @rebelfell, @sugarcult, @amanitacowboy, @jamdoughnutmagician

The first time Steve Harrington meets you, he has no idea who you are—and that, as it turns out, is going to be his favourite kind of problem.

The bar is the kind of place where the floor sticks to your shoes like a second skin and the neon sign flickers like a dying pulse, casting the room in erratic washes of red and blue. Cheap beer and cheaper perfume hang thick in the air, the bass from the jukebox rattling your ribs as you weave through the crowd. Your fingers drum against your thigh, restless, scanning the room for a familiar head of wild curls—Eddie’s curls—when you finally spot him, leaning against the wall like he owns it, grinning at something one of the Hellfire guys just said. His laugh cuts through the noise, warm and reckless, and the sight of him—all leather and sharp edges, rings glinting under the dim light—makes something in your chest tighten. You know that laugh, that smirk, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s halfway to trouble.

You’re about to call out to him when the crowd shifts, and suddenly, there’s a broad shoulder stepping into your line of sight, blocking him from view.

Tall. Smirking. Unfairly handsome.

Up close, he’s all sun-kissed skin and lazy confidence, his shirt clinging just enough to hint at the muscle beneath. He smells like salt and something expensive, a cologne that doesn’t belong in a dive like this, and when he leans in, his breath ghosts over your ear, his voice a low, honeyed thing meant to be heard over the music but felt somewhere deeper.

“Haven’t seen you around before.”

It’s not a question. It’s a challenge, an invitation, the kind of line that should roll right off you—should make you roll your eyes and sidestep him without a second thought. Except it doesn't. Heat prickles under your skin, traitorous and sudden, because of the way he’s looking at you—like you’re something he wants to sink his teeth into, like he’s already imagining the taste of you—it’s dangerous. Your pulse kicks, a staccato rhythm against your throat, and you hate how your body reacts, how your breath catches just for a second before you remember: you should step back. You should laugh it off. You should brush past him, throw your arms around Eddie, and let the realisation flash across this stranger’s face when he puts it together.

But for one reckless, heart-thumping moment, you don’t.

Instead, you tilt your head, letting the neon paint your lips red as you smile. “Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough.”

His grin widens, slow and knowing, like he’s already three steps ahead. “Oh, I’m looking now.”

And god, you can feel it—the weight of his attention, the way his gaze drags over you like a touch. It’s intoxicating. It’s infuriating.

Steve’s grin widens, sharp and delighted, like he’s just found a game he really wants to play—and better yet, one he thinks he can win.

Behind him, Eddie’s voice cuts through the chatter, calling your name—calling you Baby—and the way Steve’s expression falters for half a second tells you he’s just connected the dots. His eyes flicker down to your waist, where Eddie’s hand will no doubt settle in a second, and something in his gaze shifts—not disappointment, not quite. Interest. The kind that curls low in your stomach, dangerous and sweet.

Then Eddie’s there, pressing against your side like he’s trying to fuse his fingerprints into your skin. His arm locks around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and when his lips brush your temple, it’s not just a kiss—it’s a brand. “Missed you,” he murmurs, just for you, but his eyes are fixed on Steve, dark and challenging.

“Harrington”, Eddie says, voice dripping with something between amusement and a warning.

“Munson,” Steve drawls back, tilting his head like he’s studying a puzzle. His gaze drags over where Eddie’s fingers dig into your skin, possessive and claiming, and you feel Eddie tense beside you—just slightly, just enough—before he forces a lazy smirk.

The air between them is electric, thick with something unsaid. Steve’s tongue swipes over his lower lip, slow and considering, and you watch Eddie’s jaw tighten. “Didn't realise you were keeping such good company,” Steve says, and his voice is all honey, but his eyes—God, his eyes are pure heat, locked onto yours like he's waiting for you to react.

A beat. A breath. The bass from the jukebox thrums through your ribs, matching the frantic rhythm of your pulse. Eddie’s fingers flex against you, and Steve’s gaze drops to the movement, lingering. You should say something. You should defuse this, pull away, laugh it off—but the weight of their attention, the way their bodies bracket yours like rival magnets, roots you in place. Steve’s gaze locks onto yours, and for a heartbeat, you swear he’s daring you to look away first.

Later, when the bar's neon glow has faded into the quiet hum of Eddie's apartment, you're sprawled across his bed, limbs tangled with his under the dim flicker of a half-dead lamp. The air smells like weed and the home-brand detergent he uses on his sheets—familiar, comforting, his. His fingers trace idle patterns along your thigh, calloused and warm, the touch featherlight but deliberate—like he's mapping out a plan or maybe just reminding himself you're really here.

The silence between you is comfortable, thick with the kind of ease that comes from knowing someone's body as well as you know their tells. But then Eddie shifts, rolling onto his side to face you, and there's something in his eyes that makes your stomach flip before he even speaks.

"So," he murmurs, voice rough with the ghost of a smirk. His thumb brushes the inside of your knee, slow, teasing. "I saw how much you enjoyed Steve flirting with you."

Your breath catches. The words land like a lit match, sudden and bright, and you push up on your elbows to stare at him. "What? Eddie, I swear, I would never—"

"No, sweetheart," he interrupts, fingers tightening just enough to make your pulse jump. His other hand comes up to cradle your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze—dark and endless and knowing. "That's not what I meant."

There's a beat of silence—thick, charged—before his grin turns wicked.

Because what he means is that he remembers.

A drunken game of Truth or Dare years ago, back when Hawkins High's parties blurred into one hazy montage of corner store liquor and bad decisions. Remembers Steve, loose-limbed and laughing, admitting—red-faced but unashamed—that he's not exactly picky about who he finds attractive. "A pretty face is a pretty face," Harrington had slurred, grinning, his gaze lingering on Eddie just as long as it did on the girls. And Eddie had watched, fascinated, as Steve's fingers brushed against Tommy Hagan's wrist a little too long, as his laugh got a little too loud when Carol teased him about it.

Now, Eddie's fingers trail higher up your thigh, his touch burning through the fabric of your shorts. "You going to tell me you didn't like it?" he asks, voice dropping to a whisper. "The way he looked at you? Like he wanted to devour you whole?" His teeth graze your earlobe, sharp and punishing. "Like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else?"

You shiver, and Eddie feels it—feels the way your body betrays you, the way your breath hitches just slightly. He hums, low and satisfied, before pulling back to study your face. "Yeah," he murmurs, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "That's what I thought."

The lamp flickers, casting shadows across his face, and for a moment, he looks almost thoughtful. "Harrington's always had good taste," he adds, casual, like he's commenting on the weather and not the way your heart is currently trying to beat its way out of your chest.

Eddie’s thumb drags slow over your hipbone, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “You think he knew? When he was looking at you like that?”

You swallow. Yes. No. Maybe. It doesn’t matter, because the way Eddie’s watching you now—like he’s peeling you apart, like he likes what he sees—sends a shiver down your spine.

“Or”, he continues, leaning in until his lips brush your ear, “do you think he just saw you—all flushed and biting your lip when he smiled at you—and thought, ‘Fuck, I want that’?”

Your stomach twists, heat pooling low because, Christ, Eddie’s not mad. He’s amused. Worse—he’s into it.

“I didn’t—”

“Liar,” he breathes, nipping at your jaw. “I know you, remember? Saw the way your eyes got all dark when he stepped into your space.” His hand slides higher, possessive but not punishing, like he’s savouring the way you squirm. “Bet you liked it. Bet you wondered.”

And fuck, you had. For one stupid, dizzy second, you’d wondered what Steve’s hands would feel like—rough like Eddie’s but different, less ink, more sun-warmed skin. The kind of thought you’d shove down immediately, except—

Except Eddie’s grinning like he’s won something.

His laugh is low, triumphant. “Knew it.” He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then pulls back just enough to watch your face. “C'mon, sweetheart. Tell me I’m wrong.”

You huff, cheeks burning. “You’re insufferable.”

“Uh-huh.” His fingers trace patterns along your ribs, his voice dipping into something darker, more curious. “But you’re not saying I’m wrong.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to—he reads you too well, always has.

Back in high school, Harrington had been all swagger and smirks, the golden boy who could charm the pants off anyone without even trying. Eddie had watched from the sidelines, equal parts annoyed and fascinated, as Steve flirted his way through the pep squad, the debate team, and, hell, even the AV club. And Steve? Steve had barely glanced his way—until the night Eddie caught him staring a little too long at the way his fingers curled around a beer bottle, the way his lips wrapped around the word freak like it was something he wanted to taste.

(And maybe, just maybe, Eddie had leaned into it. Maybe he’d licked the neck of that bottle slowly and deliberately, just to see Harrington’s throat bob. Maybe he’d grinned when Steve looked away first.)

It’s old history. Mostly.

But you? You’d blushed when Steve flirted with you. Eddie had seen it—the way your lips parted, the hitch in your breath before he’d swooped in, marking his territory with a touch, a kiss, a look that said mine. Not because he was worried. No, because he liked it. Liked watching you squirm just a little, liked knowing he was the one who got to take you home after.

Now, his thumb brushes the inside of your knee, slow and teasing, his rings cool against your flushed skin. “Just saying,” he muses, leaning in until his breath ghosts over your ear, “Harrington’s more… adventurous than you might think.” His teeth catch his lower lip, and oh.

This isn’t just about you wanting Steve.

This is about Eddie wanting him too.

This isn’t jealousy. This is curiosity. This is Eddie, with his devil-may-care grin and his fingers digging into your skin, offering you a key—and waiting to see if you’ll turn it.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs against your skin, voice rough like gravel and smoke. “You should’ve seen the way Harrington looked at you.” His mouth trails down your neck, biting just hard enough to make you whimper—claiming, but not quite hard enough to mark. Not yet. “Like he wanted to devour you whole.”

His fingers slip under your waistband, teasing, taunting, as he drags his tongue over your pulse point. You can feel his smirk against your throat, the way his breath hitches when you arch into his touch. He loves this—loves how pliant you are under his hands, loves how your breath stutters when he talks like this.

But most of all? He loves the way your eyes go dark when he says Steve’s name like this—like a secret, like a sin.

“Bet he’s thinking about you right now,” he breathes, fingers working you open with slow, torturous precision. “Bet he's aching.” His other hand skates up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast just to feel you shiver. “Bet he’s got one hand down his pants right now, imagining this—imagining how you’d feel around him.”

You moan, and Eddie’s free hand tangles in your hair to tilt your head back. “Tell me,” he demands, his voice dropping to a growl. “Don’t you want to know what he’d be like?”

His thumb circles just there, and your hips jerk, a broken sound tearing from your lips. He swallows it with a kiss, messy and possessive, before pulling back just enough to watch you unravel.

“Bet he’d be good,” Eddie murmurs, his voice all dark honey and sin. “Bet he'd worship you with that pretty mouth first—just like I taught him.”

The words punch a gasp out of you, your fingers digging into his shoulders. Taught him?

Eddie laughs, low and dirty, as if he can hear your thoughts. “Oh, you didn’t know?” His teeth graze your earlobe, his fingers curling just right to make your thighs tremble. “Steve’s full of surprises.”

He nips at your jaw, his fingers still moving, still ruining you, as he paints the filthiest picture with his words:

“Imagine it. Him on his knees for you. Begging. Me behind you, holding you open for him, whispering in your ear how good you're going to take it.” His voice drops, rough with want. “You’d let him, wouldn’t you? Let him taste you while I watch? Let him learn exactly how you like it?”

Your stomach tightens, heat pooling low, because fuck, the way he says it—like it’s not a question. Like it’s already decided.

Steve’s in his bed, sheets tangled around his hips, hand fisted in his own hair as he replays it in his head—

The way you’d looked at him.

Not like he was Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, but like he was something new. Something hungry. Your lips had parted, just a little, when he leaned in—not shocked, not offended, but interested. And fuck, that was the thing that kept him up at night.

You’d been into it.

But then Eddie had pulled you away, and—

Christ.

He should be pissed. You should be annoyed that Munson of all people got to you first. But all he can think about is the way Eddie’s hand had gripped your waist, possessive and sure, the way you’d melted into him like you were made for it. Like you wanted the whole bar to see who you belonged to.

And that—that—shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Steve groans, dragging his palm down his face. His skin feels too tight, his pulse thrumming under his fingertips. He’s hard, aching with it, and he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed. Not when the image of you—of both of you—is burnt into the back of his eyelids.

Eddie’s smirk. Your parted lips. The way his rings glinted in the low light as his fingers traced your jaw.

And fuck, Steve doesn’t know who he’s more envious of—

You, for getting Eddie’s mouth on you like that—his teeth scraping your neck in a way that makes your breath hitch.

Or Eddie, for having you under his hands, his tongue, his teeth—for knowing exactly how to make you sigh, squirm, and beg. For getting to hear the sounds you make when you come apart, the ones Steve’s only imagined in the darkest corners of his mind.

Because the two of you?

Alone, you’re both lethal.

Together?

You’re a goddamn gasoline fire—and Steve’s been standing too close to the flames, pretending he doesn’t like the burn.

His hand drifts lower, stomach tightening as he imagines it—

Eddie’s smirk as he watches Steve kneel between your thighs, those clever fingers of his guiding Steve’s head down like he’s teaching him.

Your fingers in Steve’s hair, tugging just enough to sting. The way you’d gasp when Steve’s mouth finally finds where you’re hottest, wettest—when Eddie leans down to whisper in his ear, "That’s it, Harrington. Show me how bad you want her." And fuck, Steve would. He’d ruin himself to prove it.

Steve’s breath comes rough, his hips jerking up into his own grip as the fantasy coils tighter—

He groans, pressing the heel of his hand against his cock, aching. Because, Christ, he’s not going to be able to look either of you in the eye ever again.

Not when he knows exactly how badly he wants this.

Not when he’s terrified; you can tell.

"He gave me a blow job once," Eddie admits, voice thick with amusement and something darker—something that coils low in your belly and makes your thighs press together. His fingers curl inside you, just right, and you choke on a moan, nails biting into his shoulder.

"After high school. Drunk, stupid, both of us pretending it didn't mean shit."

Eddie’s grin is all teeth, his free hand tilting your chin up so you can’t look away. His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smearing the wetness there, and you shudder.

"But fuck, he was good at it."

The words shouldn’t make your pulse stutter. They shouldn’t. But Eddie’s never been one for lies, and the way he says it—low and rough, like it’s a confession and a challenge all at once—has heat pooling between your legs.

You whimper, and Eddie’s grin turns feral.

"I don’t normally like to share," he growls, pressing closer, his breath hot against your ear. His teeth graze your earlobe, and you shiver. "But Jesus, you’re so fucking hot like this it’d be a crime not to."

His thumb circles your clit, relentless, as he whispers filth into your skin—how Steve would beg, how he’d tremble.

"You want to see how pretty he’d look between your thighs?" Eddie murmurs, his voice rough with want. "How desperate he’d be to please you? To prove he’s good for you?"

And oh—oh—that’s the thing, isn’t it? Steve, with his pretty mouth and his eager hands, needing to be told he’s doing well.

Your hips jerk, and Eddie’s grip tightens, holding you right where he wants you.

Eddie grins—wild, wicked—and kisses you before you can answer.

Because he already knows.

The next time you see Steve, he’s sprawled across Eddie’s battered couch—all long limbs and effortless grace, a joint dangling carelessly between his fingers. Golden afternoon light filters through the half-drawn blinds, painting stripes across his skin as he takes a slow drag, the ember flaring bright before he exhales a lazy plume of smoke into the hazy air. It curls around him like a halo, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and the confident set of his shoulders. He looks good like this—loose-limbed and relaxed, the way he only ever gets when he’s high and among friends. Friends. That word feels too simple for whatever this is. For the past hour, the three of you have been tangled in that perfect kind of high where everything feels warm and liquid—laughing at stupid impressions, passing the joint back and forth, fingers brushing in the exchange. Each touch lingers just a second too long, charged with something unspoken. Eddie’s pressed against your side, his rings cool where they rest against your thigh, his fingers occasionally tightening just enough to remind you he’s there—watching, waiting, enjoying this. Steve’s in the middle of some animated story about Robin’s latest conspiracy theory, his hands painting pictures in the air. “She’s convinced,” he says around a grin, “that the mall pretzels are actually government surveillance devices.” The way his whole face lights up when he laughs—eyes crinkling, dimples flashing—makes something flutter low in your belly. His shirt rides up as he moves, revealing a tantalising strip of toned stomach that your eyes keep snagging on despite yourself. Eddie notices where your gaze lingers—of course he does—and when you glance up, his dark eyes are alight with knowing amusement. “You good, sweetheart?” He murmurs, voice low enough that Steve doesn’t hear, but the roughness of it still sends a shiver down your spine. His fingers trail down your arm, deliberate, teasing. “You’re staring.” You swallow, your skin suddenly too warm. “Am not,” you lie, but the way Eddie’s lips curl tells you he doesn’t buy it for a second. Steve stretches, arms lifting above his head with a groan, and this time, his shirt hikes up even higher, exposing the sharp V of his hips, the faint trail of hair leading south—Jesus. Your breath catches. Eddie’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, his exhale hot against your ear. “You want to touch him, don’t you?” The question punches the air from your lungs. Because, yes, you do. Steve’s gaze flickers to you both, his smile faltering for just a second as if he senses the shift in the room. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your pulse kicks up another notch. “What?” he asks, voice rough from smoke and laughter. Eddie just grins, slow and wicked. “Nothing, Harrington. Just admiring the view.” And suddenly, the air between you isn’t just warm—it’s electric.

His fingers trail down your arm, teasing, before he gives you a little nudge forward—just enough to make your breath catch.

Steve’s eyes flicker to you then, his grin softening into something more curious as he registers the change. There’s a pause—a heartbeat where he could pull back, could laugh it off—but he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze drops to where Eddie’s hand still hovers near your skin, and his throat works as he swallows.

Eddie’s hand slides from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, his fingers playing with the hairs there in a way that makes you shiver. His touch is deliberate, a slow-burning claim, and when you arch into it just slightly, Steve’s lips part on a silent exhale.

His grin is all sharp edges and wicked promise when he murmurs—something filthy, something meant only for you—and the words curl hot against your ear, sending a jolt straight down your spine. Steve’s breath hitches, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it—the way his knuckles whiten where they grip the couch cushion, the way his thighs tense like he’s holding himself back from something.

The look he levels at Eddie is equal parts question and warning, and it hits you then, with a dizzying rush: this tension between them isn’t new. It’s been simmering under every shared glance, every half-barbed joke, every time their shoulders brushed a second too long. It’s just been waiting.

Waiting for you.

Eddie’s fingers tighten slightly in your hair, tipping your head back just enough to expose the line of your throat. His other hand settles high on your thigh, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles up your skirt. The pressure is possessive, coaxing, and when you glance down, you see his rings glint in the low light—cold metal against the heat of your skin.

He’s watching Steve. Studying him. Revelling in the way Steve’s chest rises faster now, the way his jaw clenches when Eddie’s fingers dig in just a little harder.

And Steve—

Steve is struggling.

His usual confidence is fraying at the edges, his breaths coming shorter, his fingers flexing like he doesn’t know whether to reach out or push away. There’s a flush creeping up his neck, and when his tongue darts out to wet his lips, Eddie lets out a low, approving hum.

“Problem, Harrington?” Eddie’s voice is all honey and venom, and Steve’s eyes darken at the taunt.

You watch as Steve’s restraint splinters—just a crack—and his hand twitches toward you before he catches himself.

His jaw is clenched, his chest rising just a little too fast, like he’s holding his breath without realising it.

It’s stupid. It’s pathetic. He shouldn’t be this affected. Shouldn’t feel like his skin is too tight, like his pulse is hammering in places it has no right to. Not here. Not now. Not with Eddie fucking Munson smirking at him over the curve of your shoulder, all dark eyes and knowing fingers.

It’s been years since whatever-the-fuck that was between him and Eddie—

Years of stolen glances in the rear-view mirror, Eddie’s laughter curling hot down his spine. Years of Eddie leaning too close under the pretence of passing a joint, his knee brushing Steve’s under some shitty dive bar table like it was an accident. Years of half-forgotten dares—bet you won’t, Harrington—echoing in the back of his skull late at night, when the sheets stuck to his skin and his teeth bit down on the memory of Eddie’s grin.

Years of pretending it didn’t matter.

And now—

Now, Eddie’s got his hands all over you, and Steve can’t fucking look away.

Eddie’s palm splays possessively against your waist, his thumb hooking to tug you back against him. The movement is casual, effortless, like he’s done it a thousand times—like he owns the space you’re in. Steve’s stomach twists. His fingers flex against his thigh, nails biting into denim.

You arch into Eddie’s touch like it’s second nature, your breath hitching when his teeth graze your earlobe. And Eddie—Christ—Eddie watches Steve the whole time, his smirk sharpening as Steve’s control frays in real time.

When he takes another hit, lips wrapping around the joint in a way that makes your stomach tighten, you let your hand drift to his knee.

The movement is casual. Innocent, almost.

His skin is warm through the fabric of his jeans, the muscle of his thigh firm under your palm. Solid. Real. At first, he doesn’t even register it—too lost in the floaty buzz, his head tipped back against the couch, throat exposed as he exhales a slow, hazy cloud. The smoke curls between you, lazy and sweet, and for a second, he just exists in the quiet, in the hum of the music and the weight of your touch.

But then your fingers slide higher, just a little, nails scraping lightly over denim, and—

His breath hitches.

It’s barely audible—just a sharp little catch in his chest—but it’s enough to make your pulse jump. His gaze drops to your hand, slow and heavy-lidded, like he’s not quite sure it’s real. Then it flicks up to your face, his brows knitting together in stoned, sluggish confusion. His lips part, still damp from the joint, and fuck if that doesn’t do something to you. The way his tongue darts out instinctively, like he’s chasing the ghost of smoke—or maybe the taste of you.

“What—”

And then you kiss him.

No warning. No hesitation. Just you—leaning forward from Eddie’s lap, all heat and hunger—and Steve’s brain short-circuits the second your lips meet his.

It’s sudden.

All-consuming.

Your mouth is soft, so fucking soft, but the way you press into him is anything but gentle. There’s intent there, and Steve groans before he can stop himself, his hands flying up to grip your waist on instinct. His fingers dig into the curve of your hips, desperate to anchor himself, because Christ, the way you kiss him—

It’s like drowning. Like lightning in his veins.

And fuck, the view—

From this angle, with you arched toward him, the neckline of your shirt dips just enough to tease. A glimpse of skin, the shadow of cleavage, and Steve’s pulse kicks into overdrive. He should look away. He knows he should. But he can’t. Not when your tongue swipes against his lower lip, not when you make this little noise in the back of your throat that goes straight to his dick.

His brain short-circuits, torn between the warmth of your mouth and the sudden, gut-churning realisation that Eddie is right fucking there.

“Fuck—what’s—?”

Steve’s voice cracks, rough and strained, his pulse rabbiting under his skin. His eyes dart between you and Eddie, wild with panic, because shit—that was a good kiss. Not just good—devastating. The kind that lingers, that brands. Your teeth had caught his lower lip just right, sharp and sweet, and for a split second, he’d forgotten where he was. Who was watching?

But now reality crashes back in, cold and brutal.

Words fail him. Logic fails him.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say? Yeah, sorry, man—I just got a little carried away kissing your girlfriend in front of you. No big deal, except now I’m half-hard in my jeans like some pathetic teenager who’s never been touched before?

The thought alone makes his stomach twist.

It’s not like he meant to react like this. He hadn’t planned on the way his breath caught when you leaned in or how his hands instinctively flexed at your hips like he wanted to drag you closer. He sure as hell hadn’t planned on Eddie watching, dark eyes tracking every second of it with that infuriating, knowing smirk.

Yet he doesn’t want to stop.

The realisation hits him like a punch to the gut, sharp and sickening. Guilt coils hot in his chest, but it doesn’t smother the hunger still simmering under his skin. If anything, it fuels it—the shame only making the heat in his veins worse, more desperate.

Before he can choke out another broken syllable, Eddie leans forward.

It’s just a slight shift—a tilt of his body, a fraction of space closed between them—but it’s enough to make Steve’s muscles lock tight. His breath stutters, trapped somewhere between his ribs, because Eddie’s presence isn’t just there—it’s heavy, deliberate, the kind of thing that demands attention even in the silence.

Eddie’s gaze flicks down to your lips—still kiss-swollen, still tempting—before dragging lazily back up to Steve’s flushed face. His grin widens, like he can see the war raging inside Steve’s head.

“Relax,” Eddie purrs, low and velvety, the word curling around Steve like smoke. “You think she’d do that if I didn’t want her to?”

And fuck.

That shouldn’t make it better. It shouldn’t send another jolt of heat straight to Steve’s already aching cock. But it does—because Eddie’s not just allowing this. He’s enjoying it.

Then, before Steve can process anything—before he can even breathe—Eddie’s hand slips under your shirt, fingers rough and warm as he hikes the fabric up, letting your breasts spill free. His palms are calloused, possessive, moulding against your skin. His thumbs drag slow, deliberate circles over your nipples, coaxing them into tight peaks beneath his touch, and you arch into him with a soft, pleased sigh.

Eddie’s mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear—his spot, the one that always makes you shiver. But his eyes? Those are locked on Steve, watching him over your shoulder with a predator’s focus.

“Doesn’t she look so fucking sexy like this?” Eddie murmurs, his voice a low, velvet rumble against your skin. “All worked up? All needy?”

Steve’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. His throat works around a swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing helplessly. This feels like a trap—like every answer is wrong, like Eddie’s dangling something forbidden right in front of him and just waiting for him to fuck up.

“I—uh—I mean—”

You and Eddie share a look. A silent conversation passes between you—his smirk, dark and knowing; your raised brow, a challenge and a promise. Then Eddie gives a small, approving nod, and your lips curl in response.

For one agonising second, Steve doesn’t move—doesn’t breathe—like if he stays perfectly still, frozen in this fractured moment, none of it will be real. Like he can rewind time, undo the way your lips had seared into his, the way his body had responded before his brain could catch up.

“Fuck,” Steve hisses, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in. His cock is already hard beneath you, the thick, insistent line of it pressing against your thigh, and the way his breath stutters when you roll your hips again—slow, filthy, testing—sends electricity coursing through your veins.

But then Eddie laughs, low and rough against your ear, the sound curling like smoke through the charged air between you. His fingers tighten in your hair, just shy of painful, tipping your head back so Steve gets a full view of the flush on your skin and the way your lips part on a gasp. “C'mon, Harrington,” Eddie taunts, voice dripping with amusement, dark and velvet-wrapped. “Are you going to leave her hanging?”

Steve’s hand flies up, fingers tangling in the neckline of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on. The fabric strains under his grip, his knuckles brushing the heated skin of your collarbone, and the contact sends a visible shudder through him. His other hand finds your waist, fingers digging in as he drags you closer, his mouth crashing into yours. It’s hot. It’s filthy. And it’s so fucking guilty—every ragged breath, every desperate slide of his lips against yours screams, I shouldn’t be doing this. But he doesn’t stop. You bite his lip, and Steve groans, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. His grip turns punishing, his thighs tensing under you as you roll your hips harder, grinding down just to feel the way his body jerks in response. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing every last flicker of light in the room, and his lips part around a silent plea—God, he’s trying so hard not to buck up into you, not to beg for it. His breath stutters against your lips like a gunshot in the quiet, ragged and uneven, caught between sin and surrender. His fingers flex against your waist like he’s fighting the urge to take more, to claim – but the restraint is crumbling, second by second. His throat bobs around a swallow so loud you feel it vibrate against your chest.

You roll your hips down again, dragging against the hard, aching line of Steve’s cock—fuck, you can feel every twitch, every throb, even through the denim. His hips jerk up instinctively, chasing the friction like his body’s already decided what his brain won’t admit.

A ragged sound tears from his chest, half groan, half plea, raw and unfiltered. But his mouth stays stubbornly shut, lips pressed into a tight, trembling line. No protest. No denial. Just those eyes—dark and blown wide, pupils swallowing every last shred of his resolve—and his bottom lip caught between his teeth like he’s physically biting back the words.

Eddie’s laugh curls against your ear, warm and thick as dark honey. His hands slide up your back, fingers splaying possessively between your shoulder blades.

His grip tightens in your hair, wrenching your head back just enough to force your gaze to his.

"Look at him," Eddie murmurs, dragging his thumb over your lower lip, smearing the wetness there. "Bet he’s never been this quiet in his life."

Steve’s chest heaves like he’s run a marathon, each breath ragged and punched out between parted lips. His skin is feverish, the blush on his neck deepening to a ruddy, blotchy red as it spills down to his collarbones—marking him with the kind of want he can’t hide, no matter how hard he tries.

And God, is he trying.

His cock strains against his jeans, the outline obscene, the fabric damp where he’s already leaking for you. When your fingers finally slip inside, his entire body seizes. A choked, guttural sound rips from his throat, his head slamming back against the couch like he’s been struck, like he can’t fucking stand how good it feels.

"Shit—"

He’s thick in your palm, heavy with need, the head slick when your thumb swipes over it in a cruel, slow circle.

Eddie’s mouth finds the shell of your ear, his breath hot as his tongue traces the curve before he speaks.

"Feel that?" His voice is a wicked hum, vibrating against your skin. "He’s desperate for it. Bet he’d cum just like this—all over himself, like some fucking loser—if you kept teasing him."

His hand slides down to cover yours, fingers slotting between yours as he tightens your grip just so, twisting his wrist to drag a filthy stroke from base to tip—

Steve’s whole body jerks, his thighs trembling, his cock throbbing in your shared hold.

Eddie’s smirking, already working his own belt open with one hand, the leather sliding free with a snick that feels obscenely loud in the thick air between you. His other hand stays tangled in your hair, guiding your mouth back to Steve’s like he’s orchestrating every filthy second of this.

Steve’s gaze darts between you—your hand on him, stroking slow and teasing, fingers dragging just shy of where he needs them—and Eddie, whose fingers are toying with his own zipper like this is just another Tuesday night.

Steve’s still half-convinvinced this is some fucked-up fantasy his brain conjured after a fucking overdose or something, because no way is this real—no way Eddie’s letting this happen, no way you’re smirking against his lips like you know exactly how bad he’s burning for it—

Then his hands are everywhere.

Tangling in your hair, gripping hard enough to hurt—not that you’d ever complain. Dragging you impossibly closer, his hips jerking up into your touch like he’s trying to fuse with you, like he can’t stand a single inch of space between you.

And your mouth—God, your mouth.

You taste like the salvation of summer rain after a heatwave, like chocolate melting on skin and sticking to it, like the sun’s decision every single day to bless the earth with its light. But beneath it—there’s Eddie. The earthy tang of Marlboros clinging to your tongue, the heavy promise of fires burning low and hungry beneath the surface.

Steve growls into the kiss, something primal and possessive ripping out of him before he can choke it back.

Eddie laughs—a low, delighted sound—as he watches Steve finally snap. "There he is," he murmurs, voice thick with triumph.

Steve breaks the kiss just long enough to glare at him, chest heaving, lips swollen and spit-slick. "Shut the fuck up, Munson," he pants, but there’s no heat in it—not when his hips are already rocking up into your touch, not when Eddie’s fingers are tracing your sternum like he’s mapping holy ground.

Then Eddie tugs you back to him—one firm hand on your hip, the other fisting in your hair—

The grip is merciless, all possessive intent, and the sharp tug at your roots sends a lightning bolt of heat straight to your core. You gasp, but it’s swallowed by Eddie’s low growl in your ear—"That’s it, sweetheart, show him where you belong"—before he yanks you onto his lap, your back slamming flush against his chest.

His thighs bracket yours, spreading you open with a rough nudge of his knees against yours, forcing your legs apart. The denim of his jeans bites into your bare skin, the friction deliberate, mean. Eddie’s hips roll up just once, just enough for you to feel how hard he is, and his chuckle vibrates against your spine when you shudder.

Steve watches, lips parted, fingers twitching where they grip the edge of the couch. His eyes are dark, flickering between Eddie’s smirk and the way your breath hitches when Eddie’s teeth graze your neck.

"See something you like, Harrington?" Eddie purrs, voice dripping with amusement. His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to expose your throat—a display—and Steve swallows hard.

The space between your legs is an invitation, a demand—a sinuous curl of heat that Steve has never been able to resist.

And Eddie doesn’t even have to say a word before Steve fucking pounces.

He drops to his knees like a man starved, like his body couldn’t bear another second of distance. The thud of his knees hitting the floor is obscenely loud, and his hands are already on your thighs, dragging you forward to the edge of Eddie’s lap with a roughness that borders on desperation.

And God, the sight of you—

Already dripping, slick and glistening, your arousal painting your inner thighs in a sheen that makes Steve’s mouth water. The scent of you hits him like a punch to the gut—sweet and musky, ruined—and his tongue darts out to wet his lips on instinct. His cock twitches violently in his jeans, the fabric straining, and his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave indents, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

"Fuck," Steve chokes out, voice already wrecked, his pupils blown wide with want.

Eddie’s laugh is dark, triumphant, the sound curling around you both like smoke. "Yeah, Harrington. Fuck." His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, pressing you harder against him as his other hand tightens in your hair, possessive. "Look at you. Kneeling like you were made for it."

Your fingers fist in Steve’s hair, yanking his head back until his throat bares in a helpless arc. His groan is pure surrender, ragged and punched-out, his lips parting around a gasp as your grip forces his spine to bow.

"You are made for it," you murmur, voice dripping with honeyed cruelty, and Steve’s eyelids flutter, his breath stuttering as you drag your nails down his scalp in a slow, taunting scrape. "Aren’t you?"

Eddie’s grip on you tightens in approval, his teeth scraping your shoulder in a way that makes your own breath hitch. "Answer her, pretty boy."

Steve’s whine is pathetic, high and reedy, his hips jerking forward like he’s aching for friction. "Yes—God, yes—"

Eddie leaned down, his breath hot against Steve’s ear. "Then prove it."

And Steve—

Steve obeys.

He flattens his tongue against you, dragging in long, slow strokes that make your thighs jerk against his shoulders, your hips rolling helplessly toward his mouth. He doesn’t let up—won’t—like if he pauses for even half a second, Eddie might yank you away and claim you for himself. His nose bumps your clit as he laps at you, messy and starving, and you can feel the vibrations of his groan against your slick, the sound desperate, devoted, like he’d drown in you if you let him.

“There you go,” Eddie murmurs, his breath hot against your neck, lips brushing your pulse point just to feel it leap.⁠ His hand snakes around your waist, fingers splaying over your lower belly to press down, forcing you harder onto Steve’s mouth. “Now use your fingers—two, nice and deep—show her how good you can be.”

Steve moans as he obeys, the sound wrecked, grateful, like he’s been waiting his whole life for orders. His fingers sink into you with ease, your slick coating his knuckles as he crooks them just right, the stretch perfect, blissful. His forehead presses into your thigh like a prayer, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise—as if he could fuse himself to you, as if he’d die before letting you go.

“Fuck, Steve—” Your voice cracks, toes curling as his tongue flicks your clit in tight, relentless circles. “So good, so fuckin’ good for me—”

Eddie’s laugh is dark, delighted, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Oh, he loves that, baby. Listen—” Steve’s answering whimper is muffled against your skin, his fingers speeding up like he’s trying to earn your praise, like he’d do anything to keep it coming. Eddie’s hand tightens in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a filthy, open-mouthed kiss—claiming your moans as Steve claims your cunt, both of them working you in tandem, relentless. “Bet he’d beg if you told him to,” Eddie growls against your lips. “Bet he’d fucking crawl.”

And God, Steve would—you can feel it in the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers stutter inside you like he’s already imagining it. His other hand slides up your thigh, trembling, his grip shifting from possessive to pleading, like he’s silently asking, let me, let me, let me—

You’re a mess, babbling half-formed pleas and curses, your head lolling back against Eddie’s shoulder as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your gut. Eddie’s free hand drifts down, his thumb swiping over Steve’s spit-slick lower lip, pressing just to feel the way Steve’s breath shudders at the touch.

“Wanna make you cum,” Steve rasps against your thigh, voice shattered, wrecked—like he’s the one being unravelled here, not you. His lips are slick with you, his breath hot and uneven as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your inner leg, trembling with restraint. “Please—fuck, please let me—”

Eddie just watches, his grin sharp and satisfied, a predator lounging in the wreckage of your pleasure. One hand grips the back of Steve’s head with cruel, teasing precision—guiding him, controlling him, like Steve’s just another instrument for him to play.

“Go on then, make her cum.”

Eddie’s voice is a dark, velvet command, rough with want, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he adds, “Let me hear her.”

The words coil low in your belly, a live wire of pleasure as you rock back against him, the thick drag of his cock against your ass wringing a whimper from your throat. But Steve—Steve—doesn’t need to be told twice.

He surges forward like a man unchained, fingers digging into your thighs as he drags you closer, mouth sealing over you with a hunger that borders on violent. There’s no hesitation, no teasing—just pure, devouring need. He fucks you through your climax with his tongue, his fingers, like he’s trying to carve his name into your very bones, like he’ll die if he doesn’t swallow every last drop of you.

And God, does he feast.

He drinks you down like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered—his tongue lapping up every shuddering pulse, his groan vibrating against your clit as you cry out his name, your back arching, fingers twisting in his hair. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you come down, just licks deeper, harder, until you’re sobbing, until your thighs tremble around his ears and your voice cracks around a second, broken scream.

He’s drunk on it.

On the way, you clench around his fingers, on the salt-sweet tang of you coating his tongue, on the way Eddie’s grip tightens on your hips, his own breath ragged against your neck as he watches Steve ruin you.

“Fuck,” Eddie hisses, his cock twitching beneath you, his voice thick with awe. “Greedy fucking thing, isn’t he? Can’t get enough.”

And Steve can’t.

He moans like he’s the one coming apart, his lips glistening, his chin slick as he chases the aftershocks with relentless, open-mouthed kisses. Like you’re the lotus flower he’ll spend eternity consuming, like the world outside this moment has dissolved into nothing but heat and taste and more, more, more—

You twitch, overstimulated and trembling, your thighs clamping around Steve’s head like a vice as a broken whimper tears from your throat—not for mercy, but for Eddie, his name a shattered plea on your lips. Steve whines at that, high and wounded, the sound vibrating against your cunt as his fingers flex inside you, possessive, like he can’t stand the idea of your mind wandering, even for a second.

Eddie chuckles, dark and throaty, his teeth grazing the pulse point of your neck in a way that makes your back arch. “Shit, Harrington.” His voice is rough with amusement, with challenge. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” His hips roll forward, grinding the hard, aching length of him against your ass, and you can feel it—the slick heat of his cock, trapped against you, leaking with the same desperation that’s turning your muscles to liquid. “She’s already close again.” Eddie’s breath is hot on your skin, his words a taunt, a dare. “Think you can get her there?”

Steve doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, he moans, filthy and raw, his tongue dragging a slow, torturous circle around your clit before diving back in, devouring you like he’s starved. His fingers curl just so, that perfect, punishing pressure, and you choke on a gasp, your hands fisting in his hair, on Eddie’s arms, anywhere to anchor yourself as pleasure coils tight in your belly—

“He’s fucking ruined for you.” Eddie murmurs, lips brushing your ear, his voice a velvet rasp that sends shivers down your spine. “Can’t even talk; just takes what he’s given.” His words coil around you, possessive and sweetly cruel, as his free hand slips between your bodies. His thumb swipes over your clit in rough, perfect circles, matching the rhythm of Steve’s thrusts—deep, relentless—and you’re gone.

Your back arches in Eddie’s hold, a broken moan tearing from your throat as Steve coaxes every last drop from you, his touch unyielding even as you sob his name. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady while he fucks you through it, dragging out your pleasure until you’re trembling, oversensitive, your fingers tangled in his sweat-damp hair. Only then does he ease up—soft, so soft, his lips pressing apologetic kisses to your trembling thighs even as his own breath comes in rough, desperate pants.

The room spins, your heartbeat a wild, erratic thing, and you’re still shuddering—overstimulated, dizzy, ruined—when Eddie’s voice cuts through the haze like a blade.

“Well, honey,” he purrs, fingers tightening in your hair, “are you going to give him a reward for a job well done? Or did you forget your manners?”

His voice is syrup-slow, dripping with faux sweetness, but the hand fisted in your hair is anything but gentle. He tugs just enough to make your breath stutter—pay attention—and your skin burns under the weight of both their stares. Steve’s gaze is dark, hazy with want, his lips parted as he watches you with something dangerously close to idolisation. But Eddie? Eddie’s is pure fucking fire, his smirk sharp enough to cut as he drags his thumb over your bottom lip.

You can barely speak, still trembling from the aftershocks of your climax, but the thought alone sends a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs—yes, yes, yes.

“C'mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in so close you can taste the cigarette smoke and mint on his breath. “You know what he deserves.”

Before Steve can even process what’s happening, you’re dragging him back onto the couch, your hands clumsy with urgency, your body thrumming with the need to feel him buried deep.

With shaking limbs, you shift, straddling Steve’s hips, and the way he groans as you sink onto him—slow, torturous, perfect—makes Eddie’s grip tighten in your hair. “That's it,” he growls, his other hand skimming down your spine, possessive and approving. “Take what’s yours.”

Steve’s hips jerk up instinctively, seeking friction, seeking you, but you press him down with a palm to his chest, fingers splayed over his pounding heartbeat. Eddie’s there before Steve can protest, a dark chuckle rumbling in his throat as he pins Steve’s wrists to the couch, leaning in close enough that his hair brushes Steve’s flushed skin. ⁠"Don’t fucking move." Eddie murmurs, voice dripping with amusement. "Not until she says so."

You take your time, sinking onto him inch by agonising inch, making him feel every second of it. His teeth clench hard enough to ache, his thighs trembling under your weight like he’s one wrong touch—one merciless squeeze—away from losing his mind completely.

You’re still spasming from your own orgasm, and Steve feels it—Christ, he feels it—the way you flutter around him, hot and slick from his handiwork. His groan is ragged, punched out of him like a prayer, his fingers twisting in the couch cushions like he’s clinging to the last shreds of his sanity.

You clench around him, slow and deliberate, letting him stew in it, letting him burn as you adjust, as you savour the way his breath hitches, the way his cock twitches inside you, desperate for more.

And then—

Smack.

Eddie’s palm cracks against your ass, sharp enough to make your skin sing, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a gunshot. You jolt forward with a gasp, and beneath you, Steve snaps—his back arching off the couch, his fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise as pleasure detonates up his spine.

For a second, he’s pretty sure he actually dies. Ascends. Sees the pearly fucking gates.

Eddie laughsas he crowds against your back, his chest pressing into you, his breath scorching your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “You’re not even trying yet.” His fingers dig into your hips, possessive, commanding, guiding you into a slow, torturous roll that wrings a shattered groan from Steve’s throat.

Steve’s head thuds back against the couch, his chest heaving, lips parted around a please or a fuck or maybe just your name—but all that comes out is a ragged exhale, his hips twitching helplessly as you ride him—slow, torturous rolls of your hips that have him clawing at your thighs, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. You can feel how close he is, the way his cock throbs inside you, his muscles coiled tight like a spring about to snap, every ragged gasp and choked-off groan vibrating through your skin.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

You lift yourself off him entirely, leaving him gasping, his cock slick and twitching, his whole body jerking like he might just chase after you, desperate for friction. But you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you turn in his lap, pressing your back against his chest, and fix your gaze on Eddie, your lips already parting in a needy whine.

"Please," you beg, your voice dripping with desperation, fingers already reaching for him, trembling with the effort of holding back. "Wanna make you feel good too—need to taste you."

Eddie’s dark eyes flicker between your flushed face and Steve’s wrecked expression. "Shit, sweetheart," he murmurs, dragging a thumb over your lower lip, pressing just enough to make you shiver. "How the hell am I supposed to say no to that?"

You don’t wait for an answer, leaning forward, taking him into your mouth with a hungry moan. At the same time, you sink back down onto Steve, swallowing him deep inside you, and the twin sensations—Eddie’s heat on your tongue, Steve’s thickness stretching you—make your head spin, pleasure sparking white-hot behind your eyelids.

Steve chokes out a curse as you no longer hold back, riding him in chase of that feeling, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in like he’s torn between holding you still and fucking up into you. "Fuck—fuck—you can’t just—" His voice cracks, ragged and ruined, as you hollow your cheeks around Eddie, sucking him deeper, your nails scraping lightly over his thighs.

Eddie groans, his head tipping back, fingers tangling in your hair—not forcing, just guiding, his breath coming faster as you work him with slow, filthy drags of your tongue. "Jesus, look at you," he rasps, his other hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your spit-slick lips. "Taking us both so fucking ’good—shit—Steve’s not going to last, baby. You feel how hard he’s shaking?"

You do. You feel everything—Steve’s shaky breaths against your neck, the way his cock twitches inside you, the desperate little jerks of his hips like he’s this close to losing control.

Eddie’s fingers tangle in your hair, tender at first, but the moment your tongue swirls around the head of his cock, his grip tightens—yanking just enough to make your scalp prickle with sweet, stinging heat. His hips jerk up instinctively, fucking shallowly into your mouth, his breath coming in rough, punched-out gasps, each one laced with your name like a prayer.

Behind you, Steve is shaking, his hands roaming your body like he’s trying to imprint himself onto your skin. But you’re lost in Eddie—the salt-bitter taste of him, the way his thighs tense under your palms, the filthy praise spilling from his lips between bitten-off curses. Steve’s cock is buried inside you, thick and throbbing, but he might as well be a ghost for all the attention you’re giving him, and the realisation makes him growl against your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin in a silent plea.

You hum around Eddie’s cock, the vibration wringing a ragged moan from him, and then he’s cumming, his fingers tightening in your hair like he’s worried you’ll pull away. But you don’t—you swallow every drop, your eyes fluttering shut at the way Eddie’s voice cracks when he praises you—"Perfect, so fuckin’ perfect for me—"—and the pride in his tone is driving you closer to your own edge.

When you finally pull off him, lips swollen and chin wet, Eddie’s gaze is heavy with adoration, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. He thumbs away a stray drop from your lip, his smirk lazy and satisfied, before flicking his eyes to Steve.

"Bet he’s dying to cum inside you, huh, Harrington?" Eddie taunts, voice rough with spent pleasure.

Steve lets out a broken noise, pleading—to you, to Eddie, to God himself at the off chance he’s listening.

"No," you murmur, tilting Steve’s chin up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown, lips parted, and you can feel how hard he’s trembling beneath you—every muscle wound tight, his cock twitching inside you, so close to the edge it’s almost cruel. But you’re so fucking close too, that coiled pleasure building again, and you won’t let him tip over first. "Not yet. I’m so fucking close."

Eddie laughs, dark and delighted, dragging his knuckles down your sides in approval. "You heard her," he purrs. "Better make it good, pretty boy."

Steve’s hands scramble to obey, touch turning frantic, worshipful. He’s murmuring against your skin—"Please, please, let me; I’ll make you feel so good, just—fuck—"—his voice wrecked, his hips rolling in shallow, desperate thrusts, like he’s trying to hold back but can’t stop himself from chasing that friction.

The sheer need in his voice sends a thrill through you, electric and undeniable, like he’s barely holding himself together. And God, you love it.

You kiss him, slow and filthy, letting him taste Eddie on your tongue—the sharp tang of whisky, the lingering bite of smoke—

The overwhelming rush of pleasure builds inside you, a crescendo as every sensation converges—the tight grip of your walls around Steve’s cock, the slick friction as your arousal coats him, the desperate way your body clenches to keep him buried deep. He moves with effortless glide, your wetness easing his thrusts, yet your muscles lock around him like a vice, refusing to let go.

You can feel the tension coiling in your core, every nerve alight as the pleasure crests, dragging you toward the edge. The moment stretches, suspended—until finally, with a broken moan, you shatter, your orgasm crashing through you in unstoppable waves.

Eddie’s fingers carded through Steve’s hair, gripping tight before pulling just enough to make him moan. “Go on, then.” His voice curls low, a wicked tease. “Fill her up.”

And Steve—Steve breaks.

A shattered groan tears from his throat as he comes, his whole body locking up, muscles taut like a bowstring. You feel every pulse, every hot spill of him, the way his fingers clutch at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He shakes apart under the weight of his own pleasure, trembling, gasping, ruined—and you just hold him close, laughing softly against his lips because, God, is there anything better than this? Than watching Steve Harrington come completely undone between the two of you?

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut

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bitterreid · 28 days ago

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Tagged by the lovely @wonderlandwalker: List 5 of your favourite films in a poll and have people vote for their favourite!

and I'm tagging @defencelesslove and @billybeloved <333

#have I basically had the same taste in movies since was 14?#perhaps #mind ur bussines #bitterrambles

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bitterreid · 28 days ago

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HAHAHA oh you best believe he's never living down the high of saving you from that dangerous beast !!

thank you for reblogging :))

🍒 Cherry Red 🍒

Summary: The cars need work, but Eddie is… distracted. By you. And ice cream. --- (My Clementine <- here you can find my other mechanic!Eddie fics :))

Word count: 4.6k (fluff/smut)

Contains: fem!reader x mechanic!Eddie, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise, Eddie is down bad (as he should be), even more incorrect car facts probably, woops, porn w plot

A/N: you guys requested a part two and I am a girl of the people!!! So here it is!!! PLEASE let me know what you think, because I was SO happy reading all the positive feedback on part one :)) and lmk if anyone would want a part 3!!!!! <3

⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Eddie had been going mental.

It had been two days since he last saw you, and Eddie was sure no weekend in his entire life had ever lasted this long. He had laid about, tried not to melt during this ongoing heat wave Hawkins kept trying to drown him in, and mostly just thought of you. Non-stop. Whatever he tried, the image of your pretty face between his thighs kept popping up behind his eyelids every time he so much as blinked.

He was very much aware of how pathetic he was, truly, as he stared at his reflection in his tiny bathroom mirror. His big brown eyes peered back at themselves in the swipe he had cleared off the fogged up glass with his fingers. He touched his hair. Again. And Again, and again and a few hundred times over until he groaned in frustration and dragged his hands down his face. He had probably spent more time grooming himself this morning than he had in the rest of his life.

Unsatisfied with the end result (the heat and humidity made his curls extra puffy), Eddie dragged himself out of the bathroom and to his uncle's van.

"You ready, kid?" Wayne asked as Eddie finally hoisted himself into the passenger's seat.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Eddie mumbled, winding down the window to feel the soft summer breeze on his face. It was only 7:30 in the morning, which meant that the excruciating temperatures that were to come had not yet fully woken up. Instead, Eddie welcomed the mellow warmth on his face, closing his eyes to mentally prepare himself to face you again.

He had no idea how today would go. Friday had been his literal dream come true, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen had just - somehow - liked his awkward charm enough to give him the best present of his life, but how did he act now? Was it a one time thing? Would you suddenly ignore him now? Eddie felt a sinking feeling at the thought of it. He really liked you, he realised somewhat hesitantly. Because he knew very well that there was a huge difference between a heat-of-the-moment kind of fling and the soft, colourful-winged nerves he felt fluttering around inside his body. He just hoped you felt the same.

⋆⭒˚.⋆⭒˚.⋆

Eddie spent the day on high alert. With every move he made, he was painstakingly aware you could be watching. You weren't, of course, so Eddie looked like a fool every time he turned around in his (definitely not practiced in front of a mirror or anything) movie-like manner, to an empty door frame, or worse, Wayne, who gave him increasingly weirded out looks.

He was starting to lose hope. Maybe it had meant nothing to you, maybe you had meant nothing by it, maybe you hadn't thought of him at all since that night, maybe you didn't like him, maybe he had done something wrong, maybe he-

"JESUS! Oh my god- oh you have to stop doing that!" Eddie blurted out, steadying himself on one of the cars.

You stood beside him, close enough so he could smell the sweet vanilla-like scent of your perfume. You were even more beautiful that he remembered, the ache in his chest told him without uncertainty. And you had a love for scaring the living shit out of him, apparently, as he gathered from the satisfied smile on your lips.

"Hi Eddie, good morning," you said, voice betraying no ill intentions.

"Good morning," was all Eddie managed, paired with a smile he hoped was not as awkward as it was in his mind. This was just typical. He had daydreamed about what to say to you all weekend, played out entire conversations in his head, and now he was reduced to a nervous mess in front of you.

"How are the cars behaving today?" you asked, stalking around the one he was working on, "This one is notorious, if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, yeah, this one's feisty," Eddie said while lightly smacking the side of the car like it was a horse, "she's a real piece of work."

"Hmm," you mused, sitting down on one of the stools in the garage, "she's pretty though."

"Yeah," Eddie wrung the oil and grease stained rag he wiped his hands on between his fingers, "real pretty." It was unclear to himself whether he was still talking about the car.

Wayne had gone out to fetch a part for one of the Mustangs in the town over, so it was just you and Eddie in the sweltering heat trapped inside the garage. Had you waited until Wayne left to be alone with him? The thought alone made his heart skip a beat.

"So, uh, how've you been?" was the only sentence his scrambled brain could produce on the spot, somehow.

You smiled at him as if you saw right through him, "Melting, mostly, what about you?"

"Yeah, same…" Eddie internally cursed himself for his total lack of social skills, "real uh, real warm." He could about die right now, yeah.

You snickered at him, luckily more in a (dare he say it?) affectionate way than a mean one, to Eddie's surprise and delight. "Right on, Munson," you said, "Hey, would it be okay if I just hung around here for a while? Just reading all alone in an empty house is just a tad sad, you know?" you asked while producing a book, seemingly out of thin air.

Eddie couldn't agree to your request fast enough, "Y-yeah! Sure, sure."

"Alright, don't mind me, don't want to distract you," your smile was sweet, comforting in a warm way that had nothing to do with the temperature.

But distract him, you surely did. Eddie was a mess in your presence, no one needed to spell that out for him, but just the mere fact that you were now sitting a mere few steps away from him messed up his brain to a fatal degree. He spilled oil, screwed bolts on the wrong way, tried to open a hood that was already open, and that was all in the first ten minutes. Meanwhile, you seemed completely unbothered.

But for Eddie, the unspoken events from a couple of days ago hung in between you, making the air he was trying to breathe thick and syrupy. He didn't know what to do with himself, somehow completely enamoured with the simple sight of you reading a book, but nervous to his core when he thought about starting a mere conversation.

He was pulled out of his spiraling thoughts by the sound of you snapping your book shut. You stretched your limbs, your top riding up to expose a sliver of your waist that Eddie was sure would come back to haunt him in his daydreams and nightmares alike. You looked up at him, and Eddie suddenly realised he had been frozen in place, bending over one of the motors, screwdriver in hand, frozen mid-air. He quickly straightened up, going for unbothered and casual. (he was neither)

"Hey so, would you like to go get ice cream later?"

Eddie felt like he had been hit over the head with a lottery ticket. You had just… asked him out. Why didn't that cross his mind? Why didn't he do that? "Yeah!" he blurted, quickly reigning himself back in, "Yeah, sounds nice."

"Great," you smiled at him while you got up from the chair, "I'll come back here around five, yeah?"

"Yeah, great, great," Eddie could hardly school the broad smile on his lips into something less euphoric, "See you then!"

"See ya."

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The hours crawled by achingly slow, making Eddie wonder multiple times whether the big grandfather clock was even still working. But then, finally, a quarter to five arrived. He wished he could take you out -was this a date? He still wasn't sure - in an outfit different from his dirty tank top and ripped jeans, but it would have to do. Besides, if he wasn't mistaken, you seemed to have a thing for it?

Anyway, at exactly 4:58, you appeared. You had changed into a flowy sundress, and wow. Eddie marvelled at how the colour brought out the depth in your eyes and complimented the glow of your skin tone perfectly. Simultaneously, he wondered when exactly he had become Shakespeare? He had never noticed these kinds of things before. But then again, it had never been you standing before him.

"Hey Mr. Munson," you greeted Wayne.

"Hey Sweetheart, what are you doing here, shouldn't you be out enjoying your summer?"

"Oh I am, Mr. Munson, promise," you smiled your infectious smile at him, "mind if I borrow your nephew for that tonight?"

Wayne's eyebrows shot up as he gave Eddie a surprised look over your shoulder. All Eddie could do was smile back sheepishly. It's not like he had wanted to keep it a secret per se, he just didn't want to put up with all the teasing.

"All yours," he motioned to Eddie, "And I've told you a million times, sweetheart, just call me Wayne."

He packed the last of his things into the truck while you made your way over to Eddie. Before he left, Wayne gave him a pointed look, the same one as when Eddie looked at the expensive cars a little too long. The same one that applied to everything else in this garage, now including you, be careful, boy.

But Eddie didn't have much time to heed his warning, as you were now standing right before him, and his nervous system once again crashed and burned inside his chest.

"So, which one?" you quipped.

"Hmm? Which what?" Eddie felt like you always had his brain working overtime.

"Which," you swung the door of the cabinet containing all of the car keys open, "one, Eddie?"

"No way."

"Yes way," your smile grew even wider, "I'm driving, of course, but it's you pick tonight."

Eddie thought he might spontaneously propose to you right then. Instead, he went on a rant about all the dream cars that were gathered in this room. "Maybe the Camaro! Or the Miata, the Aston Martin, the Carrera 6…" he was almost bouncing from excitement.

You laughed along with him, the affectionate tone seeping back into your voice, "Your pick!"

"Sweetheart, you're making it real hard on me," he half-whined, somewhat finding back his charm, "Any requests from your side?"

"Nope, all yours."

"You're too kind to me," he drawled, "but I bet you already know which one I'm going to pick, right?"

You grinned, taking a key from the cabinet and tossing it in the air, "Thunderbird, of course."

"Of course," he echoed, now it was his turn to sound fond.

"M'lady," he said as he opened the car door for you.

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Eddie shouldn't be surprised by your driving skills, logically, you had grown up with all sorts of classic cars around, obviously. But he still was. The genuine smile that took over your face as you shredded through the bends in the country roads made his heart do flips inside his chest. He was, once again, quite aware of how pathetic he was being, sitting there in one of the most beautiful cars he had ever seen, and only looking at your side profile.

When you got to the ice cream shop, it was extremely busy. Heatwave, and all. So you stood in line, and Eddie's nerves seemed to have sufficiently calmed down for him to behave like a semi-normal person again, so he ventured into starting a conversation.

"What flavour are you gonna get?"

You thought it over for a second, "Cherry."

"Cherry?" Eddie craned his neck to see past the cue, "they have that?"

"Yeah," you nodded, "they have all kinds of crazy flavours, way crazier than cherries, I once had strawberry cilantro sorbet here - that was a mistake," you giggle, thinking back.

"Cilantro??" Eddie exclaimed, "Sorry but anything green does not belong in ice cream."

"I agree, definitely, but I have this terrible habit of always picking the strangest flavour and then regretting it." you mused, getting closer to the end of the line. "Hey, they have clementine!"

"Clementine?" Eddie barely even knew what a clementine was, but before he could ask you whether that would even taste remotely good, you had already ordered a scoop of it. When it was Eddie's turn, he ordered cherry.

You walked away from the stall to an area with some benches under the shade of a large tree. Eddie watched as you took the first lick of your bright orange ice cream, and saw in real time as your face went sour.

"I think I did it again," you said after you had swallowed, "this is… this is a crime." The crinkle in your nose made Eddie's lopsided grin even wider.

"Trade?" he offered.

"Would you?" you said, eyes lighting up.

"Hmh," he nodded, "let me taste," you held out the cone and Eddie took a broad lick, trying not to think of any underlying implications and/or flashbacks, and indeed, it was terrible. The ice cream tasted like straight up chemicals, pure food colouring, paint, something like that, and Eddie had to try so hard to school his face into an agreeable expression. "I like it."

"You don't!" you exclaimed, "you can't!"

"I do, though" he sing-songed, plucking your cone out of your hands and replacing it with his.

"Did you order cherry just because you knew I'd like it?" you wondered, eyes slightly wide, slightly thrown.

"Maybe," Eddie mumbled before he took a big bite from his ice cream, "just enjoy the cherry for me, alright?"

"Alright," you said quietly, smiling into your ice cream, "thanks, Eddie."

Even the chlorine-like taste was worth getting to see you enjoy your bright red treat.

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After you had both finished your ice cream (Eddie was so glad it was over), you talked for hours. Afterwards, Eddie couldn't even begin to name the topics, but what remained was a warm, fuzzy feeling, and the fact that you were not only the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, but also the funniest. Oh and you were so smart, and kind! And Eddie could keep going, but you were currently throwing the keys to the Ford in his direction.

"Fancy a test drive, Munson?"

"No way! Can I?" Eddie's eyes went comically wide, excitement bubbling up in his chest.

"If you can sit through that ice cream, I think you deserve a ride," you smiled, broad and careless, and Eddie couldn't tell what he was more excited for, driving the car, or more time with you.

When he carefully let himself drop into the driver's seat, he marvelled at the beauty before him, "You're sure?" he had to check.

You just nodded, "Just, never, ever tell my dad. Ever."

Eddie swallowed, alright, no pressure.

But it was so worth it. Eddie was careful enough in handling the car, luckily, but still managed to rack up speeds that would make Hopper frown, even though he reserved them for the deserted backroads you had directed him to.

When he had finally had enough of driving (speeding) around with you giggling beside him and your hair swooshing around your face in the wind, it had already gotten dark. He parked the car at the side of the dirt road in the middle of nowhere you were currently on, somewhere between the corn fields.

"Look at the stars!" he exclaimed, as he marvelled at the sight above him. You tipped your head back as well and smiled.

"If you want to stargaze, we should sit in the back, there's more room there" you suggested. And it was an innocent enough suggestion, sure, but Eddie's voice surely thought otherwise when it almost broke at the word "Sure."

So, you climbed into the backseat together, Eddie's long legs still a bit cramped, but there really was more room, he had to admit. You settled into the backseat next to him, and Eddie was almost surprised by how easy it was to put his arm around you. The way you fit into his side made him question why he was so nervous at all, because it just felt right.

You sat there silently, cuddling up to each other in the faint moon light. It was quiet, serene, almost. Until you shrieked. And jumped. Or, well, as much as you can jump in a car, at least.

"What! What's wrong?!" Eddie exclaimed.

You were frantically swatting around you, "Grasshopper!!!" was the only thing you shrieked, and Eddie would have burst out laughing if you hadn't yelled it so loudly. Still he huffed a little laugh, but wasted no time in helping you catch the thing. Eddie eventually succeeded in capturing it in his hands and throwing it into the fields, bringing peace back to the car.

"It was, it was just really big," you managed, out of breath from the swatting. But once your wide eyes met Eddie's, you both burst out laughing.

"He was pretty big, I'll admit," Eddie eventually managed, "But you were really brave, sweetheart."

You shoved his shoulder, wanting to wipe the teasing grin clean off his face, but you accidentally lost your balance, falling into Eddie's chest. He caught you, and suddenly all giggly, lighthearted giddiness evaporated. Your face was so close to his that he could practically feel the burning of your cheeks reflected on his.

He was almost lying down already, but with one smooth movement from you, he was now flat on his back, with you on top of him. Your hair softly swayed in the wind as you looked down on him, your smile hovering somewhere between playful and sincere, and Eddie thought that he should take a moment to imprint this sight into his brain forever. Your beautiful face, the stars above you, the soft sounds of crickets in the grass around you, and the bone-deep silence beyond that.

He smiled up at you, embarrassingly aware of how sappy he was being inside his head, and cupped your cheek with his large, warm hand. You instinctively leaned into his touch, which made his heart flutter, as he slowly caressed your cheek with his thumb.

After what felt like hours of staring into your eyes, the wind whistling softly through the fields, you draped yourself on top of him and buried your face in his neck, where you - ever so lightly - started planting kisses. Eddie's eyes immediately fluttered closed, not used to the soft, intimate touch, but reveling in it.

Your kisses slowly grew more heated, your teeth scraping over his pulse point had Eddie writhing beneath you, not being able hold back a whiny moan when you followed the soft sting with careful laps of your tongue. His hands found your waist, softly caressing your curves through the fabric. Just the shape of you, the dip in the small of your back made him go crazy. His hands roamed your body, not quite daring to dip below your waist just yet, but his inhibitions were slowly melting away with the way your mouth attacked his skin.

By now, you were planting open-mouthed kisses on his collarbones, and Eddie had never wanted to bottle a feeling as much as the feeling of your body pressed to his and your mouth on his neck.

When your hand slowly slid between your bodies and you reached for his belt buckle, he stopped you, though. Eddie was a gentleman, of course, and he had been daydreaming about this moment all weekend.

You halted your gentle attack when you felt his fingers curl around your wrist, insecurity flashing in your eyes for just a second before Eddie smiled and said "Not this time, sweetheart, it's time to let me take care of you tonight."

Your eyes went a little wider at his words, and then a lot wider as he grabbed your waist and flipped you over, him now hovering above your frame. The gasp you let out was followed by your giggles, which only encouraged Eddie's antics. He smiled wolfishly down at you, at your delicate features framed by the moonlight, the smooth expanse of your neck and collarbones until his view was obstructed by your dress. He had been dreaming of kissing the soft skin behind your ear since he met you, he could finally admit now, and when he did, the feeling was unmatched.

The soft mewls he pulled out of you with each peck and precise lick fueled him on even more, kissing a stripe down your chest to where the swell of your breast disappeared into your dress. He didn't particularly think it would be a good idea to strip you completely naked somewhere in a random field, but god, how he wanted to. Instead, he would have to settle for his next plan.

After making sure he left no part of your neck untouched, unkissed, his large hands curled around your waist again to slide you further up on the seats. He positioned himself in between your legs, smoothing his large hands up and down the expanse of what was already revealed of your thighs. He could hardly think straight anymore already, he vaguely thought, so lost in the sight of you, even while still fully clothed.

He looked up at your face, your eyes were heavy with need, tracking his every move, while your bottom lip was tucked between your teeth. You were a vision.

"'This alright?" Eddie asked, an almost breathless quality to his voice.

"Yeah," you said, softly, a smile playing on your lips.

At your confirmation, Eddie wasted no time in bunching your dress up at your hips, revealing your light blue panties, complete with a little bow. He groaned as soon as he saw the little wet patch that had formed on the soft cotton, growing hungry in a way that was new to him. But he wanted to draw this moment out for as long as you would let him.

He started by kissing each of your knees, working his way down your thighs kiss by kiss. The skin there was just so soft, Eddie thought he could drown in it. The plush flesh felt divine underneath his fingertips as he softly squeezed your hips, getting closer and closer to your centre.

You were growing impatient under him, your body writhing and wiggling in his grip. He smiled against your soft skin, "Needy, are we?" he remarked, as if he had any resolve left in him.

At the simple "Please, Eddie, need you," that left your lips, he was a goner. He capitulated instantly, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulling them down your legs. His eyes were fixed on your pussy, the way your slick glistened in the pale moonlight seemed to him the single most alluring thing he had ever seen.

He carefully leaned down, as in trance, and swiped his calloused fingertips through your folds, gathering your wetness. You moaned instantly at the relief it brought, making Eddie even more crazed to taste you.

"All this for me, sweetheart?" his voice was thick with anticipation.

"All for you, Eddie," you cooed, arching your back for him.

That was what did him in, what made the very last of his resolve crumble. He dove in, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. The way you arched into him and moaned his name upon the contact made him dizzy. So he kept going, licking deliberate strokes up your soaked pussy, while you mewled above him. He had a steady grip on your waist, holding you to his mouth as he experimentally wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked.

The pornographic moan you let out went straight to Eddie's rock hard dick, making him moan against your core. He didn't have a lot of experience, but he sure made up for it in enthusiasm, plus, he liked to think of himself as a quick learner. That's why, when your hands found their way into his hair, he let you softly pull his hair to guide him to all the right spots. He followed your directions carefully, devoting extra attention to your most sensitive spots, all while you ground your hips onto his face.

Eddie had never been this happy in his entire life, he thought. The way you tasted, the way you sounded, the fact that it was his name tumbling from your lips amidst your moans and curse words, he must have gone to heaven.

When he broke away for just a second, your eyes were heavy lidded, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and your lips were bitten raw. Eddie had never seen anything more beautiful.

"Sweetheart, do you want my fingers?"

You smiled coyly, almost bashfully, as you nodded, "Yeah, please?"

And who was he to deny you anything? He gathered some of your wetness first, circling your clit just a couple of times, reveling in the soft "oh" sounds you made with every pass of his fingers, before he carefully pushed his middle finger into you. He studied your face intently, but he only found pleasure there, in the way your eyes screwed shut, your lips slowly parted, and the way you clawed at the expensive leather of the seats.

Eddie couldn't care any less about the seats right now, though, being entirely mesmerized by the way you were taking him.

"More?" he offered.

All you could do in your blissed out state was nod.

So Eddie added a second finger, steadily pumping in and out of you, watching your body react as if it was pure magic. The whiny sounds you started to make tipped Eddie off about how close you were getting. He quickly added his mouth back into the mix, going back to licking and sucking on your clit as his fingers still worked your entrance.

The sounds you were making were divine, and also the backdrop to all of Eddie's future fantasies, he was sure. So he kept going, spurred on by every breathy "Edddie, Eddie, Eddie," that left your lips.

Your hands found his hair again, raking through his curls and softly pulling on them. "Eddie, baby, I'm so close, ah-" your thighs were trembling by now, a sight that made pride bloom in Eddie's chest.

"Yeah? Are you gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna come all over my fingers for me?"

And that was all you needed. With a last high-pitched moan and a dozen more chants of his name, your back arched into him as your orgasm crashed over you. Eddie felt your pussy squeeze his fingers even tighter as he worked you through your orgasm, completely in awe with the stunning sight playing out before him.

When you came down from your high, cheeks glowing and smile cherry red and satisfied, Eddie felt a surge of affection blooming in his chest that had been just as strong as his lust.

"Was that good, sweetheart?" he asked, partly to mirror your earlier question, partly because he still needed some validation.

You leaned forward, raking your fingers through his wild hair once more as you planted a careful kiss on his forehead, "Eddie, that was the best orgasm of my life," you giggled, dropping your head on his shoulder. Soon, you were joined by Eddie's matching giggles, which he just couldn't hold back at your compliment. He was glad your face was buried in his neck again, because his cheeks were burning so hard, he was sure not even the night air would be able to hide his deep cherry blush.

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let me know if you guys still want a part 3! :)) thanks for reading and feedback is very very welcome! <3

Tag list? @pretendthisnameisclever @g3n3zshack @s1mp-4-ga11y (never thought I'd be cool enough to have a tag list so thank you guys <333)

#eddie munson smut #mechanic!eddie munson #eddie munson x reader

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bitterreid · 29 days ago

Note

Are you single?

do these look like the posting habits of someone experiencing romance

#bitterreblog

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bitterreid · 1 month ago

Text

----------♡

"Fuck- baby, does that feel good?"

Eddie's body is pressed tight right up against yours. His chest, evidently getting sweatier from the heat that radiates between the two of you, pressed against your own so that your breast squished up against his sweltering skin. Your legs are wrapped securely around his waist to ensure he has no opportunities to pull away- as if he would ever do so willingly- as his hips grind into yours, his thrust slow and deep in a way that has you breathlessly gasping into his hair and him groaning your name into your ear as if it were the lifeline keeping him going.

He pulls away a little only so he can get a proper look at the way you wreath underneath him. The pace of his hips increases just so he can watch as your face scrunches at the hasty stimulation; the faces you make when being overcome with pleasure bring his own climax closer to its inveitable peak. Your jaw is dropped, lips parted slightly, and you're releasing the most angelic moans and whimpers into the open air of his bedroom. He leans down to place a lingering kiss to your forehead and his wild hair, swaying with the movement of his body, brushes across your face. Strands of stray hair tickling the hill of your cheeks and chin.

As he chases both his release and yours, his hair continues caressing you with feather light touches. When his lips find yours, tongue taking its time exploring your mouth with what can only be some type of desperation, his overgrown bangs stroke along the bridge of your nose a few pieces drifting to tickle the tip. The feeling has your face scrunching with something other than pleasure this time.

You braced your hands along his broad chest to push him away just enough so you could have space to turn your head and let out a violent sneeze into the crook of your elbow before he even has the chance to ask whats wrong.

His eyes widen, and the chortle he let out is so involentary it would've startled him if the laughter wasn't streaming continuously from the smile etched on his face. You slap at his shoulder playfully, glaring as if to scold him, but of course there's a smile that matches his stretched across your lips.

He places a kiss to the tip of your nose then to your cheek, echos of laugher still laced into his voice, "Should probably tie my hair up."

#first this was SO HOT and then I just laughed hahaha #Eddie Munson #eddie munson x reader

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bitterreid · 1 month ago

Text

okay this made me CACKLE hahahaha!!

and thank you :))

🧸 Real Tough Cookie 🧸

Summary: Mechanic!Eddie gets hurt while working on one of your father's cars. Luckily, you're there to take care of him, in more than one way.

Wordcount: 3.6k (smut, little bit of hurt/comfort, fluffy)

Contains: fem!reader x mechanic!Eddie, grinding, fingering, piv, cream pie, praise, Eddie is a boob guy, (argue with the wall), Eddie is down bad (as he should be), porn w plot, description of a minor injury but nothing too bad I think? Just some blood but it's mainly just Eddie being dramatic lol, somehow both incorrect car facts AND incorrect medical facts now, probably?

A/N: why is this low-key my favourite thing I've ever written...... enjoy ;))))))

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Eddie was melting at the edges.

He couldn't remember when it had ever been this hot in Hawkins, ever. He cursed under his breath as he wiped the sweat from his brow for what felt like the 50th time that morning, leaning his palms against the cool metal of the car.

It was the last day he and Wayne were supposed to be working on your father's cars, now that they were all checked and ready for another year, but Eddie was alone in the garage today. Wayne had trusted him with finishing up, as he was called into an emergency fix.

Eddie was… agitated? Grumpy? Hopeless? All of them? It would be the last day of your forced proximity to him, the last day that he got to be around you without an excuse, and he wasn't ready for whatever it was between the two of you to end. Still, he dragged himself through the morning. He was pretty sure you were still asleep, as the house looked rather quiet and he got there extra early to avoid the scalding temperatures - to no avail, of course.

He was sulking, he knew very well, way too preoccupied with what you felt for him, what you wanted from him, if you would even want to see him at all after this job was done.

He was working on the 1967 Camaro when it happened. A stupid mistake, really. Avoidable, definitely, but he just wasn't thinking clearly. He had leaned forward to disconnect the radiator, fingers brushing along its edge to find the clamp, until a sudden sting made him jolt back. The razor sharp aluminium blades had sliced his wrist, making him retract his arm with a loud hiss. It looked fine, at first, in a flash. But then the blood started to well from the cut. And it didn't stop.

The dull pain itself was less overwhelming than the sheer sight of the red dripping down to his elbow and onto his shoes, his throat going dry at the image. Because yeah, Eddie Munson was metal and rough and cool and tough, but secretly, he's not good with blood. Not good at all.

He clamped his hand over the cut, hoping to stop the bleeding, and instinctively wandered out of the garage. In a haze, he stumbled up the steps of your back door, pushing the door open with his back. There, he found you. The immediate relief that flooded his body upon the mere sight of you alleviated some of the pain, though it didn't make him any less lightheaded.

You startled at the sight of him, his face white as a ghost and with a steady drip of blood oozing from his arm through his fingers that were curled around it. You shot up from your chair, abandoning your breakfast mid-bite.

"Eddie! What happened!" you exclaimed, voice full of worry. Strangely, that sent a tiny little rush through Eddie's body, seeing you so worked up about him. It was drowned out as quickly as it came, though, as he looked down at the mess of red his upper arm was coated in.

He swallowed thickly, trying very hard not to start shaking like a leaf, while he racked his brain for something remotely funny to say in this situation.

"Papercut?" was all he managed, accompanied by a pathetic little smile.

You huffed an incredulous laugh, shook your head and cradled his arm. "Can I see?" you asked, gentle but concerned, a deep furrow between your brows.

Eddie nodded and took his (definitely not trembling) hand away from his arm, revealing a cut of a few centimeters in length. The bleeding had slowed down by now and was no longer dripping onto the floor.

Your eyes went wide, eyebrows immediately dropping to a pitiful expression, "Oh, come here, poor thing, I'm gonna clean this up, okay?"

The softness in your tone made the knot in Eddie's stomach dissipate just slightly as he surrendered his arm to your care. You slowly led him to the upstairs bathroom, careful not to hurt him any further, and positioned him on the edge of your bathtub.

"You're lucky I just completed my first aid course with flying colours, Munson," you mused as you pulled out a little white container with a red cross on it.

Eddie smiled weakly, trying his hardest to not look down at his arm.

"I'm gonna rinse the blood off first, alright? Come here," you beckoned him to the sink. He hoped you couldn't see the wobble in his knees when he stood up, but if you did, you didn't betray it.

Eddie hissed when the water hit the cut, though his arm immediately stopped looking like a major crime scene. "See, it's just a spot that bleeds heavily, but the cut isn't that deep," you reassured him, "you'll be fine in no time, Eds."

The nickname brought a blush to Eddie's pale face, finally bringing some colour back along with his smile. You led him back to the tub, quickly grabbing some cotton wads and the dreaded yellow bottle Eddie knew all too well. He groaned at the sight of it, throwing his head back at your careful chuckle.

"Yeah, this is gonna sting, I fear." You smiled apologetically at Eddie's miserable face. One of your knees nudges his legs apart so you could come to stand in between them for better access.

Eddie watched as you soaked one of the cotton balls in the evil liquid and closed his eyes as you went to press it to his wrist. The hiss in pain he was about to make got - to his delightful surprise - softly swallowed by your lips on his. You kissed him gently, sweetly, dissolving all the stinging from his wrist with your pillowy lips.

Eddie's body relaxed into yours, despite the pangs in his arm, it was instinctive. His free hand came up to hold your waist, softly caressing the soft curve of your hip. He forgot about the cut for a second, lost in the deep lull of your kisses and the way your delicate hand cradled his jaw. You somehow still had half a mind to keep dabbing his would with the alcohol, dutifully swallowing down every muffled wince Eddie let out against your lips.

When you finally pulled back, Eddie had almost forgotten where he was. That was, until you pulled the cotton away from his cut, which by now had stopped bleeding entirely. He bit away another wince, as by now he had gained enough composure back to care about his image again.

"Luckily it didn't hit your tattoo," you mused, pulling more gauze and some medical tape out of the box.

"Yeah," he hadn't even thought about that, "wouldn't be fun having to walk around with like, half a bat on my arm."

You chuckled, "Right. And besides, I like them. Your tattoos."

"You do?" Eddie wondered, not exactly surprised, but more so intrigued.

"Hmh," you hummed as you cut the white rope into a long strip. "Got any more?"

"Um, yeah, yeah, on my back," he gestured vaguely behind him, "and my chest, a couple."

You hummed appreciatively, "Maybe I could see them some time?" you said easily. "Now bite your teeth for me, alright?"

Your hand applied pressure to the wound while you started wrapping the gauze around it.

Eddie did bite his teeth, to his credit, while he wondered how his entire nervous system wasn't fried to bits by now. The implications of your comment swirled around in his chest, the idea that there was so much skin left unexplored between the two of you made his stomach swoop deliciously. He hardly felt the pain anymore - he told himself - as long as he watched your face intently focus on what you were doing.

"There you go," you said smiling, "all patched up."

Eddie carefully rubbed over the gauze with his other hand, admiring the precise application. "Thanks," he said and swallowed, "I mean it, thank you."

You smiled back at him, still from your position between his legs, slightly towering over him.

If you had been anyone else, if Eddie had been twice as brave, and if his head was not still swimming, he would have kissed you right then. His eyes flicked from your eyes down to your lips and back up again about a hundred times it seemed, stuck in the quiet morning light shining through the bathroom window. You looked ethereal.

You were still in your pyjamas, Eddie noticed for the first time that morning. The fluffy material was soft underneath his hands as he settled them on your hips, ever so slightly pulling you towards him.

Luckily, you were brave enough for the both of you, it turned out, as you tilted your head and captured his lips in a slow kiss. Eddie kissed you back immediately, relief flooding his body at your touch.

Your hands found their way into his hair, sneaking into the mess of curls at the base of his skull and scratching his scalp softly. Eddie was practically purring like a cat at your affection as he tried not to get too lost in the feeling to kiss you back at all.

His hands wandered under the hem of the oversized t-shirt you were wearing, softly caressing the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips. The mere shape of you drove him borderline insane, his mind going hazy at the feeling of your soft skin.

Eddie was impatient. He felt the need to touch every single inch of you crawl all over his body, making him grow restless. He deepened the kiss, licking into your mouth and reveling in the way you granted him access immediately. Your fingers twirled around his hair, softly pulling every once in a while, which made Eddie gasp into your mouth. You were making a mess of him.

That's when he stood up from the edge of the tub, hardly breaking the kiss and holding you close by your waist instead. The tin first aid kit tumbled to the ground, making a hard cling resound through the house, which neither of you even seemed to notice.

Your hands were pulling the collar of his Metallica shirt towards you, perfectly matching Eddie's desperation in wanting him close. You pulled him into the hallway, still not breaking the kiss, and pushed him into one of the adjacent rooms. Eddie stumbled backwards into the room with you, hands taking advantage of the commotion to roam your body.

"Eddie," you managed to squeeze between kisses to his puffy red lips, "need you."

It was no question, it was no command, it was a whine. A delicious whine full of need that went straight to Eddie's head, making him dizzy for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

"I know, sweetheart," he took advantage of the moment to start trailing kisses down your neck, "what do you want?"

You mewled softly as his teeth grazed your pulse point, "you."

"Me?" Eddie would be damned if he didn't tease you at least a little bit, "what do you want from me, pretty girl?"

You raked your fingers through his hair and pulled his head away from your neck, "You, Eddie, all of you, please."

Eddie could hardly hold himself together at your words, your lips were shiny with his spit and he couldn't wait to taste every single inch of you. There was a quip he wanted to throw at you, a funny remark, sarcasm, but he just couldn't bring himself to. Instead, he kissed you like he wanted to swallow you whole.

His hands slid up under your t-shirt and softly caressed the underside of your boobs. No bra. Eddie almost lost his mind. His hands gently kneaded the soft flesh, occasionally grazing your perked up nipples with the rough pads of his fingers. The soft whines you let out against his mouth only spurred him on more, as his hands grabbed the hem of your t-shirt. You willingly lifted your arms up so he could pull it over your head, revealing your breasts.

"Fuuuck," he breathed, the sight sending heat straight to his lower belly. "Sweetheart, jesus, look at you…" he trailed off as he cupped them in his palms again, squeezing them gently before pulling you straight to the bed. Eddie assumed this was your room, as literally everything smelled like you, which was his personal heaven.

He laid you out on the duvet before he climbed on top of you, immediately latching his mouth onto one of your nipples. The way you arched your back for him made his body tingle, heat surging in his abdomen as you moaned at every open mouthed kiss he planted on your pillowy soft skin.

"Eddie," you whined, all high and pretty and desperate for him, which just made his brain short-circuit. "I wanna see you," you breathed, pawing at the thin fabric of his shirt.

He came up to kiss your cheek, "Anything for you, sweet thing," he purred in your ear. He felt your hands on his chest the second his t-shirt was off, flinging it god knows where on the floor. Your fingertips were so soft and gentle in comparison to his own calloused hands, it made him dizzy.

That is why he didn't expect those hands to push him flat on his back the next moment, your body taking the place of his as you crawled on top of him. "So pretty," Eddie didn't know whether you were talking about him or the tattoos you were tracing with your nails, but blushed either way.

Your fingers soon got replaced by your lips as you kissed the inked skin of his chest and shoulders, venturing lower and lower until you reached the jumpy muscles of his stomach. Eddie's large hands carded through your hair while he admired the sight of your gentle attack on his nervous system.

You came back up again to kiss his lips, making Eddie get lost in the sweet sensation before you suddenly ground your hips against his. Eddie moaned into your mouth, hands instinctively grabbing your hips and holding you there. You giggled coyly as you swirled your hips down in a circle over the bulge in Eddie's pants.

"Fuck, sweetheart, what are you doing to me," Eddie moaned, lost in the feeling of warmth spreading through his body. He was sure he looked a mess, red cheeks, messy hair, puffy lips, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Meanwhile you kept moving languidly against him, making soft sounds with every pass of your hips. The flimsy material of your pyjama shorts were dragging over the rough demin of his black jeans, no doubt providing you friction.

Eddie's hands drifted to the waistband of your shorts, looking up at you expectantly.

"Want me to take these off?" you purred.

"Fuck, yeah, baby," Eddie's voice was hoarse by now, even to his own ears.

You smiled sweetly down at him as your fingers travelled to his wrist, "but Eddie, are you sure? I mean, you're gravely injured, remember?"

Eddie had completely forgotten about the cut, now looking at the bandages as if seeing them for the first time.

"I mean," you continued, "I don't want to take advantage of you," you cooed, the mischievous smile on your lips betraying your teasing. Your eyes roamed his face as you combed his hair back, making Eddie close his eyes at the gentle contact.

"Advantage?" The sound that left his lips was most pitiful, "Oh, sweetheart, you couldn't take advantage of me if you tried." His big brown eyes were impossibly round from his position beneath you, "don't make me beg now, pretty thing." He squeezed your hips softly as he peered up at you. The implied 'because I would' hung thick in the air.

You smiled back, your eyes a mixture of bashful and hungry that made Eddie catch a hundred little kinds of fire.

"C'mere," he beckoned, kissing you slowly while his fingers pushed your shorts and panties down your hips. You hummed against his lip, one hand sneaking in between your bodies to undo the button and zipper to his jeans, running your fingers over his length.

Eddie's breath was shaky, he was well aware, as he tried his best to shimmy out of his jeans in the sexiest way he could manage, while it seemingly took you no effort at all to slide your panties off of your ankles in the most alluring way known to man.

Both completely bare, Eddie took a moment to look you over, feeling the blush seep from his cheeks down to his chest at the sight of you. "So pretty," he mumbled as he loomed over you. "You ready for me, pretty girl?"

"Hmh," you nodded, running your hands over his back, "want you, Eddie, need you."

He settled himself between your legs, hiking one of your thighs up on his hip so he could line himself up with your entrance. He couldn't help himself, though, when his fingers instinctively reached out to part your folds, reveling in the whiny sound you made underneath him. "So wet for me, sweetheart," he said, voice deep and dripping with want. He circled your clit a few times before slowly pushing one finger into your entrance.

You bucked your hips up, craving contact, and Eddie had to fight himself not to give in and give you what you wanted. "Eddie," you wiggled your hips restlessly, "want to feel you inside me, baby, want you to fuck me" you pouted.

Those words were what did him in. Plus, he was pretty sure he would come on the spot soon if you kept talking like that, so he took his fingers out and lined himself up with your core. His hands were (definitely not) shaking for way different reasons than they were earlier, as he looked over the smooth expanse of your skin. He pushed inside, achingly slowly. Just the tip at first, which already had both you and him gasping.

"Fuck," Eddie cursed, head swimming once again, willing himself to calm down and last at least a few thrusts before he ruined his entire ego. "Fuck, sweetheart, you're so warm, so tight," he was vaguely aware he was babbling, but you didn't seem to mind, gasping and moaning as he slid into you further.

"You alright, pretty girl?" Eddie checked after he bottomed out, completely drunk on the feeling of your pussy squeezing his needy dick.

"Yeah, perfect," you gave him a dopey smile, "you feel so good, Eds."

He almost lost the very last sliver of his cool right there, but instead he started slowly thrusting in and out of you. Everything in him wanted to pound you into the mattress and chase his high as fast as he could, but he wanted to savour every single little reaction on your face. Every gasp, whine and scrunch of your eyes made the fire in his belly burn brighter, fueling him even more.

He himself was a complete mess. He was moaning your name over and over, pink cheeks and messy curls shining in the bright sunlight pouring through the windows. He picked up his pace, hiking your leg higher on his hips and grinning at the sharp sting of your nails digging crescent moons into his skin.

His pace was relentless, hitting deep inside you over and over, his hips connecting with yours every time, filling you up to the brim. He marvelled at the sight beneath him, you taking his dick so prettily, the sounds you were making driving him closer and closer to the edge.

"Eddie, fuck, I'm-" you whined.

"You getting close, sweet thing? Fuck, yeah, that's right, you gonna come on my dick?" Eddie was getting so close himself, his thrusts becoming sloppy and desperate, "come on, pretty girl, come for me, yeah?"

He watched as you fell apart underneath him, arching your back into him while he fucked you through your orgasm. The way you moaned his name over and over was the last drop for him, as he followed your high with only a few more thrusts. He buried himself deep inside of you and felt his cum fill you up as white hot pleasure washed over him.

Eddie collapsed on top of you as you both came down from your highs, catching your breath in tandem.

"Fuck, sweetheart," was all Eddie managed in his blissed out state, affection seeping into his voice with every syllable.

You let out a content hum as Eddie rolled off of you, tucking you into his side instead. You laid there together in the soft golden sunlight for a while, just sharing sticky kisses and cuddles, until Eddie got up to fetch a towel to clean you off.

As he came back, the sight of you struck him once again, a surge of fondness washing over him. You must have felt the same, as the tired smile you gave him was followed by the words "Say, Munson, you wouldn't mind coming over to 'fix cars' more often, I hope?"

All Eddie could do was flash you his broad, wolfish grin before he swept you away into another kiss.

⋆⭒˚.⋆🧸 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

A/n: This is part of my mechanic!Eddie series My Clementine, so head over there for more! My devoted readers have been waiting long enough for this :) Tell me what you think! (sorry for the wait! I graduated in the meantime haha) and I'm out of ideas now so requests for them/something else are welcome <33

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader

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bitterreid · 1 month ago

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okay so I have WAY too many wips, so I thought I would let you guys choose which one I'll try my best to finish today

(mind you I expect like four votes so this is your chance to really see your vote make a difference)

#spencer reid x reader #eddie munson x reader

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bitterreid · 1 month ago

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tagged by @wonderlandwalker <3 :)

colour/bold the sentences that are true to you:

i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face :') / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / ive never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child

tagging @pablopablito01 and @defencelesslove but no pressure :))))

#asks #tag game