the-archxr

[the-archxr]

clark x reader but the reader being a sex columnist like carrie from satc… idkidkidkidk

anon you must’ve read my mind cause I literally thought of this dynamic the second I watched the movie. also, as always I’m open to requests for headcanons, thots, imagines, etc.

gn!reader: no pronouns or specific terminology used, angst (idk, this turned out sadder than I thought it was gonna be…oops), commitment issues, allusions to sex (nothing explicit/purposely ambiguous), some fluff, clark is in love

relationships were complicated—you knew that better than most. it was literally in your job description to write about such difficulties: to report, confess, and advise.

jimmy called you ‘resident cupid’.

lois and perry called you the daily planet’s ‘cult favourite’.

clark just called you the love of his life.

his was a label that rendered you speechless. speechless, and damn-near immobile.

you had told clark you didn’t do relationships. you didn’t get involved. you didn’t date—seriously, anyway; the only concessions you made were the occasional tinder hook-ups. affairs that were nothing more than article fodder.

you were a pragmatist first, and a sex columnist second.

although, that didn’t mean you were entirely heartless.

the warm bodies you curled into knew how the night was going to end. you’d had always tried—earnestly tried—to make sure of that. you weren’t cut out for anything serious, so you made sure that they weren’t looking for it.

you were incredibly cautious.

hyper-vigilant, even.

likewise, you never slept with the same person twice; you never stayed the night; and aftercare was off the table.

you also never deviated from your go-to ‘date night’ plans: it always started with drinks or dinner at those bistros that were seemingly allergic to serving full portions. after, you’d go back to their place (never yours), have sex (mediocre, but expected), then you’d leave.

and then, by the time your uber would arrive, you’d have the topic of your next article locked and loaded in your notes app.

it certainly wasn’t a flawless system, but it was yours. it was yours, and it worked.

until clark kent, that is.

clark was a gentle giant. an old-fashioned farm-boy. a 6’4 bumbling man with a golden heart stitched to his sleeve and a smile strong enough to power a nuclear plant. he cared deeply about the world, and loved his parents even more.

he was kind, and soft, and loved without holding back.

…which meant he was also an idiot.

because only an idiot would stay. only an idiot would look at you like that. only an idiot would call you the love of his life.

when he first told you his feelings, it had been after a night-out. jimmy decided that a long work week necessitated drinks, and clark decided that said drinks necessitated him walking you home.

the time with him was nice until he said it.

calm, and annoyingly sure, clark told you he was in love with you. that he had been in love with you for a while.

your knee-jerk response was to destroy the scene of the crime. to turn away and get him to do the same, even if it meant neither of you would recover.

you could handle blowing up your friendship. it was the latter you couldn’t deal with.

you’re feelings for clark existed…tenfold. the way you felt about him both disarming and painfully hopeful. but you knew how the story would end. how every story in your life has ended.

so you did your best to bury those emotions and convince yourself you were better off.

with tears in your eyes, you ended up telling him that you weren’t what he thought you were.

clark deserved so much more. he deserved someone who was stable and lovely and just as wonderful. he didn’t need a commitment-phobe in his life. he didn’t need your problems, or the neuroses that impaired you.

you were simply hard to love. too hard for someone like him.

in true clark kent fashion, he had listened intently to everything you said, never once interrupting or dismissive. the only sign of life he gave was a frown that seemed to deepen with every passing second.

you remember how the rest of his face had morphed too. how one lip tucked beneath the other and his eyes flickered all across your face as if in search of something.

it took everything in you not to abandon him on the stoop of your apartment.

“okay.”

it was such a simple word.

“o-okay?”

clark had just nodded, plainly. “…you say you’re hard to love—that’s fine, but…it’s important to me that you know I love you regardless.” you remember the way his chest expanded, and how it never fell. “I could spend the rest of my life reminding you, if you’d let me.”

his words had settled deep within you, far stronger and far more severe than whatever you had drank at the bar.

realistically, everything that came after might have been a bad idea. maybe, eventually, you would even come to regret it. because relationships were complicated and you didn’t date.

but clark had called you the love of his life when you mindlessly kissed him, and he continued to call you that over the course of the night—at your door, in your bed, and in the kitchen the next morning.

maybe you’ll come to regret it…but certainly not right now.

[the-archxr]

teasing him (18+)

sex columnist!reader

[the-archxr]

TEASING HIM (18+)

clark kent has a thing for sundresses. that’s it. also, I like writing these mini-fics/headcanons/imagines/whatever you wanna call them, so feel free to send in ideas or “thots” (as I like to call them).

he was convinced you knew what you were doing. you had to.

summer’s in kansas were hot. objectively, he knew that. they were sticky and sweltering—the kind of humidity that you could see rolling along the horizon in waves.

clark loved it. loved the sun beating down on his face, loved how light he felt under its rays. he knew he was the odd man out, in that—especially during late-July. he knew people, normal folks, reacted very differently to the heat than he did…

but, jesus, did you have to wear that?

the dress was a pretty thing. thin, patterned fabric, a shade darker than his eyes, that fell off your shoulders and danced around your thighs as you walked.

you were headed to the market with his ma—waving bye before he even had a chance to truly take in the sight of you.

the entire morning onward, he was plagued with incredibly dirty images.

he was a little ashamed, quite frankly, to be having thoughts like that in front of his pa. the man taught him to be a gentleman, to be kind and respectful to everyone, especially his girl. and yet there he was, thinking about every disrespectful thing he wanted to do to you.

when you got back, dress swaying in the warm breeze, laughing at something his ma had said with krypto bouncing around your feet, he felt like he was going to combust.

not even a cold shower could help him.

he needed you. needed to be in you. clark needed to hike that freaking skirt up and take you right then and there.

so when pa asked if he could take the truck and go fix the fence on the other end of the farm, clark was practically bolting out of the house, shouting something to his parents about “showing you around”, with you in tow.

he drove for a bit, enough that the truck was out of sight and you would surely not be disturbed by anyone. and then you were nipping at his jaw and tugging at the hem of his shirt. before he could even park, you were on him, and that’s how he knew you absolutely knew what you were doing to him.

you whined about how he was torturing you. how the sight of him and his tanned arms and his sweaty curls made you feel, what they made you think.

“don’t act so innocent,” he had warned. “you think i’m the dangerous one? just—gosh—look at your…that goddamned dress.” rough hands pulled down the top half to expose your breasts, and threw up the skirt to your navel.

he was quick to peel off your panties, damp white lace kicked to the footwell along with his jeans.

some shuffling and no prep-work later, he was forcing the fat head of his cock into you. neither of you were patient enough for foreplay, so you held your breath and accepted the sting as your body stretched to accommodate him.

you were a mess beneath him in no time—shaking, sweating, panting, body arching into his as you whimpered.

“i’m sorry, sweetheart. so, so, sorry. i know, i know,” he mumbled over and over into your collarbone as he finally stuffed you full.

from there he built up a fairly quick pace. hips snapped flush to yours without mercy, each thrust hard and deep, grinding into your pelvis before pulling back out. you were basically foaming at the mouth, unable to do anything but hold on for dear life while his fingers dug bruises into your skin and his cock bruised your cervix.

it was a mix of sweat and heat and the loud squelch of him driving into your arousal. and then you were coming. crying into his ear, body seizing around him, squeezing him, he was able to give a few more far-reaching thrusts before spilling into you with a high-pitched groan.

“so…you like my dress, then? ‘cause i have a couple more i was gonna wear this week.”

clark growled, still lazily rolling his hips (because he just couldn’t help himself). “you don’t play fair, sweetheart.”

[the-archxr]

To whoever on the production team decided to give Steve a chainsaw this season, thank you for doing the lord’s work 🫶🏻

[the-archxr]

c. kent

✪ status: ongoing

Crawling Home (To You)

it’s not uncommon for superman to find solace in your home, but something about tonight is different. your friend seems…hopeful, sure of himself. you’re desperate to know the reason why, and clark is desperate to finally tell you everything.

Carnality (18+)

you have an itch that you can’t scratch—an itch so severe, that only your boyfriend is capable of handling it. in other words: you’re ovulating and all you want is clark.

DRABBLES

[the-archxr]

CARNALITY

CLARK KENT X AFAB!READER

SUMMARY: you have an itch that you can’t scratch—an itch so severe, that only your boyfriend is capable of handling it. in other words: you’re ovulating and all you want is clark.

CONTENT: 18+, mdni!! this shit is pure porn (but it's still romantic, okay?). established relationship; piv; oral (fem!receiving); (mentioned) masturbation; ovulation/breeding kink; hella fucking; size kink, ofc (clark is big, but we all knew that); creampie; overstimulation - reader just wants to be dicked down and clark is happy to help

WORD COUNT: 2.3k

NOTES: if you couldn’t tell, I wrote this while I was ovulating.

•

You tried to resist the urge to jump Clark’s bones the second he got home.

Really, you did.

It looked like he had a long day. All drowsy and sleepy-eyed from the moment he opened the front door. Even the first few buttons of his shirt had been undone; tie and suit jacket uncharacteristically draped over the crook of his arm.

You knew he was exhausted.

Because of that, you told yourself that you shouldn’t ask him to fuck your brains out.

It just wouldn’t have been fair. Clark needed rest. He needed you to coax him into the shower, to massage his tender muscles afterward, pull him into your lap and fall asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing.

And that was okay. You could wait.

Sure, you would’ve been incredibly pent up, and probably would’ve had to tuck the comforter between your legs for some relief, but you could wait.

You were willing to wait.

But then Clark—the love of your love; your sweet, doting Clark—just had to go and be himself.

Of course, he had to look at you like that—all lovestruck and practically melting on the spot. Of course, he greeted you with a kiss—dreamy and ardent, using every ounce of energy he had left. Of course, he just had to groan a hearty, “missed you” into your mouth. And then, to make matters worse, Clark decided to ask, rather innocently, what you had been up to all day.

By that point, your resolve had completely crumbled, and you ended up telling him everything.

You mentioned the 7am cycle tracker notification. You told him that you tried to get yourself off so many times, you’re pretty sure you killed your vibrator. And you even confessed how unsatisfied you still were. You just couldn’t stop talking—couldn’t stop saying his name; couldn’t stop telling him you missed him too; couldn’t stop whining about how badly you needed him.

After that, things were a bit of blur.

One minute you were kissing him in the hall, and the next, you were writhing on the dining room table while he mercilessly ate you out.

He had already pulled one orgasm out of you—a consequence of your hyper-sensitivity. It was so abrupt, you didn’t even realize what happened until you felt the tension building all over again.

“Oh—shit, Clark.” A particular flick of his tongue had you gasping and carding your fingers through his curls. “Fuck. That’s—oh, that’s…” Another purposeful flick, another broken moan.

“I know, honey,” Clark coos. “Try to relax. You deserve this.”

You almost laughed at his words.

He was the one who deserved to feel good. He should’ve been receiving toe-curling head, not you. But that was just your boyfriend: selfless, chivalrous.

Clark smiles into your folds, making random noises that force your thighs to clamp around his head.

You reason then, that it’s truly incredible how much you lucked out with him.

“It seems like you’re doing more thinking than relaxing, honey.” When your eyes meet Clark’s, you nearly come on the spot.

The man has stopped lapping at you, but his face still hovers closely to your cunt—skin flushed a pretty pink; lips swollen and glistening. Impressively broad shoulders cage you in, keeping you all to himself and away from the prying eyes of the world. It looks like he’s guarding a meal.

It’s a rather dangerous sight, honestly.

“…Can’t help it,” is all you manage to say.

He nods, playfully. “Mind sharing, pretty girl?”

You pause. He waits. “...I just…get caught up with the thought of you, I guess.” That blinding smile of his starts to appear. Shy eyes flicker between your face and the mess between your legs.

“You and me both. I’m always thinking about you. It drives me freaking crazy.” You laugh at his use of ‘freaking’, and Clark smiles, a little mesmerized, because of it. “Gosh, you’re so beautiful.”

The words are intensely affectionate. So much so, you have no other choice but to look away.

Clark starts smoothing his hands over your hips, toying with the flesh as if amusing himself. “Now, please relax, and let me get back to what I was doing. You needed me today, and I wasn’t here—I gotta make it up to you, baby.”

You want to remind him there’s nothing to make up. Not really, anyway. But with the way his icy blue eyes bore into yours—pleading and craving—you think it’d be downright evil of you to refuse.

Clark doesn’t waste any time once you give the go-ahead.

He mouths and sucks at your clit, over and over, continuing the ministrations until the straining knot in your stomach threatens to snap. “Clark...”

“You’re okay, baby. I got you. I got you.”

It’s the feeling of his flattened tongue at your entrance that has you letting go.

Clark guides you through the murkiness of your release. He maps out your sensitivities in ways only he can as you shudder and sigh. He’s the one you trust most—with anything and everything.

You even trust him to know that you still need more. That you still need more of his mouth, his chest, his hands, and that goddamn weapon currently straining in his pants.

When you’re ready, Clark helps you meet him at the edge of the table. He discards of your shirt, and patiently waits for you to undress him.

It’s an indulgence for the both of you.

Ever since the start of your relationship, you’ve been enamoured with taking his clothes off. Most of the time, you take it slow and you tease him. But not tonight.

Tonight, it only takes a few seconds for his clothes to join yours on the floor.

Mouth reaching for his, you tug at his upper lip and explore your own taste on his tongue. A quiet noise akin to a huffed whimper escapes him. “Want you, Clark. Need you so fucking bad.”

You’re nuzzling his neck now, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne. Rough hands forcefully inch down your back, drawing you closer. Your head spins from how heavy he is between your legs. Heavy and delightfully warm.

“Clark, please,” you whine.

He’s fallen into a pattern of marking your chest. A nip to your chin, a kiss to the curve of your breast, a bruise sucked into the junction of your shoulder. “Just wanna take care of you. Please, baby, let—agh—” He nearly chokes when you begin to stroke him.

For a man—Metropolis’ most beloved hero—who was supposed to be stronger than anything, he was so incredibly sensitive, so wondrously fragile at your touch. It drives you crazy, knowing you’re the only one who gets to see Superman like this.

“Don’t. Umph. Stop. Stop. Wanna—wanna c-come in you.”

You bite back a devilish grin. “Sorry, did you say don’t stop?”

He moans your name in gentle warning.

Eventually, you let him go—but only when his tip is a blushing red and he starts rutting into your palm.

Eyes locked on each other, you lie back down and wriggle your hips against his.

The ridge of his brow is set with a new sense of determination as he lines himself up with your weepy hole.

The stretch that comes after is obscene.

It pries a silent scream from you. Has your back violently arching to better accommodate the too-big cock bullying through your walls.

A hoarse cry breaks free from your throat, and Clark is on you in an instant. “I know, I know. ‘M sorry. So, so sorry.” His hands grab yours and lace your fingers together before easing them back down to the table. “You gotta breathe, baby, remember? Have to breathe for me.” You nod helplessly, eyes screwed shut as you try to do just that.

By the time Clark bottoms out, your third orgasm is well on its way.

As you adjust to the full sensation, Clark moves your hips in a way that allows him to sit comfortably in you. “Just—ah—tell me whe-en.”

Clark starts off slow when you assure him you’re ready. It’s his go-to: shallow thrusts that test the waters of your tolerance. Only when the sound of your whimpering grows louder does he finally pick up the pace.

He grunts through gritted teeth, swallowing a sharp breath each time your hips meet. “Can—agh—can f-feel you.”

“Wha-what?” You almost can’t hear your voice over the sound of slapping skin.

You even almost miss Clark’s response. “You’re warmer. Wetter. I feel it.”

It takes a bit to catch up to what he’s saying, but you think he’s talking about your cycle. In that, he can feel, maybe even see, the inner-body workings of your ovulation.

With a slipping grip, Clark repositions your lower body—one arm hooking both of your legs over his left shoulder while his hips keep time. You can tell he’s close—muscles in his arms stiff, cock throbbing deep inside you.

The echo of your name is enunciated with a single powerful thrust. It hits you deep, eliciting a rather strangled sound.

“Shit, Clark, m’close,” you warn with a squeak. “Wanna come, Clark. Fuck, I’m gonna—”

His gaze flashes up to your face. “Me too. So, so close, baby. Just—just hang on.” He comes once he’s fully sheathed within you; your own release following suit a few moments after.

The warmth that pools in your lower belly has you grinding your hips and smiling all stupid. But even as you come down, your hips keep rolling: lazy movements that don’t really amount to much, but are enough to tell Clark you’re not done.

The man mouths at your thigh tenderly. “You sure? ...You seem tired, sweetheart. We can take a break—“

“No.” You surprise yourself with your own harshness. “I can take it. Please, Clark.” He visibly gulps. “Need you to fill me up. Please, please, I want you. Want more—”

The speed at which you’re lifted is startling.

Your limbs desperately flail to wrap around him, despite knowing he’d never drop you. The ground below passes by as Clark navigates furniture and the overall layout of your shared apartment.

Suddenly, you’re placed against a wall, held up only by sheer strength of his arousal. It’s an action that sets a match to something raw and exciting deep within the space of your ribs.

Appreciative and giddy, you kiss the tip of Clark’s nose. “I love you,” you say quite loudly. Boldly.

The man in question glides his lips along your pulse point. “Think I love you a little more, sweetheart.”

“…Gonna prove it?”

You don’t even have to ask.

With the remnants of your slick and his seed, Clark shoves into you with one thrust. Ankles crossed around his back, hands white-knuckling the thick cords of his shoulders, you brace yourself.

The pace he settles on—a combination of fucking into you, and pulling your hips down to fuck him—is absolutely filthy. Pornographic, even.

One particular rut has you screaming; neck craning backward in a way that honestly should be inhumane. Clark at least has half a mind left to put a hand behind your head so you don’t get hurt. You would thank him, but you’re still focused on the sounds he’s ripping from you.

“I’m sorry, so—you just feel too—feel so amazing, baby. Taking me so well,” he grunts. “Pretty sure you were made for me.”

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you lift his face to meet yours; to look him in the eye as you both fall—exactly how he likes it.

“Making me feel so good, Clark,” you cry. “So, so, so good.” Another growl that sounds a lot like your name fills the space.

Clark’s hips start to stutter, likely from the feeling of you clenching down hard onto him. It’s all too much, so much, and yet not enough. You make a point of clenching again.

“Stop that,” he begs. “I-I, shit—fuck, baby, I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.”

You can’t help the smile that stretches across your face. It’s a direct reflection of your ego—a smile only reserved for him. The kind that seems to come out once in a blue moon when you manage to get Clark Kent to swear.

Your hips feel like they’re on fire. Sore, and nearly satiated. And Clark’s rock hard, but he’s close. So close. His thrusts are frenzied, and less precise, but still brutal.

At this point, you’re clawing at him, desperate to ground yourself as each slam of his hips brings you closer and closer to that edge.

“You take such good care of me. Agh—fu-fucking me so good.” You swallow hard over nothing. “You gonna come for me, Clark? Shit, ple-please come for me. Fucking—oh my god, I’m coming. I’mcomingI’m—” The crashing feeling that spreads out from your lower back makes your vision cloudy and leaves you a twitching, hiccuping mess.

With a loud groan, Clark spills into you: thick and gooey and molten—the kind of fullness that makes you think you’re walls will be permanently coated.

His hips come to a lazy stop, somewhere between him mumbling something about “doing so good” and you nearly passing out then and there.

“Are you okay?” You let out a contented hum.

“...A warm bath sounds kind of awesome right now, don’t you think?”

Clark gives you a dopey smile, and presses his forehead to yours. “Whatever you want.”

[the-archxr]

I need him. biblically.

he has no business looking this fine 😭???

[the-archxr]

CRAWLING HOME (TO YOU)

CLARK KENT x GN!READER

SUMMARY: it’s not uncommon for superman to find solace in your home, but something about tonight is different. your friend seems…hopeful, sure of himself. you’re desperate to know the reason why, and clark is desperate to finally tell you everything.

CONTENT: mentioned canonical violence; pining and yearning (as per freaking usual); pure fluff babyy; loverboy clark; reader is a bit insecure(?); friends/coworkers to something more; love confessions; making out (nothing explicit); dudes this shit is so soft and so intimate—idk, I was in a mood.

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

NOTES: david corenswet/clark kent/superman brainrot is so real, guys, it’s not even funny; I’m suffering. also somehow I wrote this in a day?

•

It was routine at this point.

After every harsh workday, every broken-up street fight, every earthly battle, and every intergalactic mission, Clark—Superman—always ended up back at your place.

Sometimes he flew straight to your bedroom window—the only pane of glass in your shoe-box-sized apartment that could actually accommodate his size. Other times, he’d simply show up at your front door. Tired. Lonely, even.

No matter how he appeared to you, you always welcomed him in.

After that, the motions were always the same. Purposeful repetition.

If the prior events had been grim, he’d hug you the moment he settled. Firm, unrelenting pressure that seemed to last for hours. In most cases, though, Clark would be silent at first. A reassuring hand would graze yours before grabbing the clean set of pyjamas left in the top drawer of your dresser and retreating to the shower.

Luckily for both of your sakes, there was never much to clean up. It was one of the perks of being a metahuman: to be able to take the beating of a lifetime, and never truly have to worry about bleeding all over your best friend’s carpet. Although you always said that if it came down to it, you’d let him. It’s a truth that you would never have to think twice about.

You would let Superman stain your entire apartment in the most gruesome shades of crimson if it meant that he still came back to you.

When you told him this—an off-handed comment triggered by a spilled glass of wine—Clark's first response was to protest. Obviously. It was followed by a small spiel on how he’d never let that happen, much less let you buy the replacements for his damage.

His response wasn’t all that surprising. It was in his nature, after all, to preserve and to take accountability when necessary.

What had stuck out to you, though, was his incessant need to ensure that you knew.

Clark had always handled your things—handled you—with so much care. He had always been considerate—in many ways, oftentimes, too much so.

As if you were the focal point. As if it was always about you.

You reasoned a lot with yourself, over time, to abandon that thought. It led down treacherous trails, full of gnarled branches, ghostly faces, and sensitive realizations far too complex to parse.

But then you’d offer him the last of your dinner, or you’d pass him a usual spare pillow and blankets, and somehow, some way, it always came back to you—to your alleged kindness, and your compassion, and your understanding.

Overwhelming gratitude accompanied by a sense of watery guilt; something far deeper existing within those big, blue eyes of his.

Part and parcel.

And, in the end, it all became a part of your routine. Everything from his occasionally voiced fears of inconveniencing you, to the TV he helped mount on the wall, to the old couch where he first told you about his secret life and where you realized the feelings you had were unlike anything you’d experienced before.

Clark was just as much your home as the walls themselves.

The life you carved out for yourself—it was good. It was comfortable. Familiar.

Maybe not tonight, though.

You had felt that something was different fairly early on.

Not in a bad way, necessarily. Nothing gnawed at the pit of your stomach. Air didn’t bubble in your throat, nor did it ever cross your mind to cut the night short and hide beneath the weight of your comforter.

In hindsight, your routine hadn’t changed.

Clark had still knocked on your window, unannounced, but expected. He was still careful climbing through, apologizing for whatever dirt he was tracking in, despite having likely cleaned himself as much as possible on the way over. He still smiled at you—all sunny and molten—and he still greeted you with a soft caress along your wrist.

But then things did change.

He didn’t go for a shower, opting instead to quickly change in the bathroom, all the while talking your ear off through the small gap in the doorway.

Apparently, his night had actually been pretty tame. A quiet night of patrol that resulted in him wanting to come home. His words.

Clark eventually met you in the kitchen, where you sat on the countertop, bare legs dangling and swaying. You had just put a few slices of pizza in the microwave, originally intending to have them ready for when he joined you.

“It’s a little early, don’t you think?” You find yourself asking, continuing your conversation from a few moments ago.

The man, who had found his place against your fridge, tilts his head, like when a puppy’s name is being called. “What do you mean?”

You make a point to look around the dimly lit apartment. “I mean, being here. "

“It’s close to midnight,” Clark says matter-of-factly, arms crossed and smirking.

“Well, yeah,” you mumble. “But usually you’re out until, like, one or two in the morning.”

The man in question shrugs, causing the loose mess of black curls on his head to fall ever-so-slightly. You have to remind yourself to look away.

“Like I said, I was only patrolling. It’s kind of nice, though, getting the night off for once.”

The microwave beeps suddenly, but before you can get to it, Clark stops you with a well-placed arm. With his plate in hand, he then, rather swiftly, sits on top of the counter across from you.

You let him enjoy a few bites of food before speaking up again. Or, at least that’s what you tell yourself.

Clearly, you’re not quite ready to acknowledge the effect Clark Kent has on you.

“What about if someone needs you?” You can't help but shift when he looks up to you. “I just…would feel bad if somebody needed Superman and you were stuck here with me eating microwave leftovers.” You force a light-hearted smile, but you are not met with a reaction of equal measure.

Something akin to a dark cloud cast over your friend’s face. You can’t put a word or an explanation to the shift, but you know that the sight upsets you.

“I think you’re forgetting that I have super-sonic hearing…”

Clark tries to stifle what appears to be a frown; shoulders falling and eyes drawn to a single, very crispy pepperoni left on his crust. But, just as quickly as the cloud had formed, it rolled away.

You don’t try chasing it; just let it be and pretend you don’t notice the way Clark looks at you.

Hopping off the counter and opening the fridge, you gesture to a near-empty carton of mango juice. “You want any?”

The sudden call of your name steals your attention from the fridge. You watch as Clark sets his plate to the side. There’s still a slice left untouched—unlike the hand he cautiously reaches for.

“You…you do realize that I’m not stuck here with you. Right?”

Fingers slowly interlock with yours. The air surrounding you suspiciously grows heavier with each touch.

“Clark, it was a joke—”

You try to laugh off the whole thing, but your friend, seemingly, isn’t having any of it.

With a gentle tug, Clark pulls you in closer until you’re standing directly in front of him. You do your best not to study the curve of his cheek, the smile lines left from his dimples or the worried wrinkles in his forehead.

“—Not to me,” he says with a ragged and aching breath. “I need….honey, I need you to know that I’m choosing to be here—with you. I…do you think of yourself that way? As…some kind of burden?”

You’re quick to shake your head. “No. No, Clark, it was just…it was a dumb thing to say, okay?” It troubles you that you hardly sound like yourself.

The light above you flickers—a testament to your shitty apartment and your even shittier landlord’s refusal to fix anything. Usually, the strobing muted golden light is a painful eyesore. But right here, right now, it’s painful for a whole other reason.

The light exposes Clark’s face. It shines through strands of hair, dotting the highest point of his cheekbone, kissing his lashes and following the dip of his nose.

Clark Kent truly is beautiful.

The epitome of unearthly—in every sense of the word.

It’s completely unfair.

From the silence, the man begins to shake his head—though it seems to be directed more towards himself than at you.

Without warning, a broad, warm hand comes up to the side of your face.

“Clark…” you whisper. It’s a brave choice on your part.

You don’t exactly know how you both managed to get even closer to each other. Truly, it’s a bit concerning how frequently you seem to black out in his presence.

The logical part of your brain wants to say it’s all gravity’s doing. That the only thing to blame here is the naturally occurring magnetism between atoms. Something entirely out of your control, and not at all your fault.

The other half, however, is not so convinced of the technicality you’re wishing to see. Really, it only settles on one word. The simplest explanation.

Love.

It’s just as natural. Just as dangerous.

You swallow hard, and you guess Clark takes that as some kind of sign.

“Honey…” he says carefully. “I need to tell you something. It’s—just bear with me, please. Please?”

Silence. This close, you can smell the fresh air, the cedar and the slightest hint of that vanilla hand cream he impulsively bought the other day. Clinging to his skin, spreading onto yours—the whole thing is dizzying. Too much, and yet still not enough.

Clark’s chest stutters under your watchful gaze. “You are not a burden. Or, or a tether, or a prison.” His other hand, the one that had been wrapped around yours, now also rests on your face. Delicately, he holds you still. It forces you to look at him. Forces you to listen. “I come here because I want to be here. I—I want to be with you—all the time. …I can’t breathe anywhere else. Not like this.” The man sucks in a particularly painful breath, then—the perfect finishing bruise to his words. “That’s what home is supposed to feel like. Isn’t it?”

You hesitate, trying to hold on to whatever composure you have left. “You said that earlier, too. …You see this place as home?”

“No. You.”

He says the two words so...ordinarily. As if their implications aren’t loaded with a kaleidoscope of the unimaginable. He says “you” as if it’s the most obvious answer.

He says it without having to think twice.

Your knees buckle. They don't give out, but Clark is quick to support your body. He holds you up and against him, curling around you as if he’d done it a million times before.

Noises of the city outside echo inward: laughter, car horns, the early rumblings of the storm that the news had promised earlier. It’s all faint—fading, until the only thing left to listen to are Clark’s barely-there sighs.

“...Can I...kiss you?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak. So, you nod.

Clark steals one more glance, eyes travelling all across your face. He looks at you like you’re everything. As though it’s his first time seeing. As if he hasn’t seen the vast expanse of the galaxy, and then some.

He kisses you with just as much fervour.

Clark is exploratory—smooth, saccharine. Lips continuously slot with yours, over and over again. A testing of the waters. An impassioned act of trying to commit as much as possible to memory.

His kiss makes a raging fire of your smouldering instincts.

With your fingers tangled in his hair, you allow yourself to fall into him. He stumbles back into the counter, steadying your body and laughing into your mouth. The moment continues to grow—a languid percussive beat of your heartbeat and Clark’s shy noises of contentment.

His lips navigate yours, your nose, then the tip of your chin, then your jaw, and finally the sensitive spot right beneath your ear. You let out a sigh and crane your neck to allow Clark more space.

You’ve never been the best with words; always the type to show your affection rather than say it. But Clark is intuitive. Far better at knowing what to say and when to say it. At least, that’s what you think when he mouths “I love you” around the curves of your throat.

It becomes his favourite thing to do, your shared routine: kissing syllables into each other’s skin—whenever he leaves home, and every time he crawls back to you.

[the-archxr]

MY MANS BAAAACKKK

JOE KEERY as STEVE HARRINGTON STRANGER THINGS | SEASON 5

[the-archxr]

b. barnes

✪ status: ongoing

Forever is the Sweetest Con (18+)

you and bucky might not have forever, but at least you have each other.

[the-archxr]

forever is the sweetest con

bucky barnes x afab!reader

summary: you and bucky might not have forever, but at least you have each other.

content: 18+, mdni. porn with plot; implied slow-burn, will they/won’t they/right-person-wrong-time bullshit; avoidant attachment behaviour (jumpscare, I know); angst; coworkers/friends to…something more…?; mutual yearning/pining; fingering; semi-public sex—an attempted quickie; love confessions—this shit is very romantic.

a/n: *gif isn’t mine, its from pinterest* reputation, specifically dress, was on repeat when I wrote this. take from that what you will.

word count: 4.6k

main m.list

•••

It had been three years since you last saw him.

Three years, almost down to the day, since you decided that your days as an Avenger were coming to an end.

Sam had donned the shield, and somehow, that was enough for you to officially head into retirement. A final closing of the chapter on your bygone era. For good, this time. No more owed favours or defences left to join.

It was the first time in your life you had ever felt so certain.

Until he asked you to stay.

Three years ago, Bucky—shrouded in smoke and strobing ambulance lights, smelling of diesel and earth—asked you if there was any harm in staying.

His timing was a bit odd, having waited until you were in your car before finally laying it all out on the line.

Or maybe it was perfect.

Because ever since then, you’ve thought about his question—about him.

If your seatbelt hadn’t been fastened, you might not have driven away. You just might have actually stayed.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because of this, you always told yourself that if you ever saw him again, it would be different. He would be different. You told yourself he would not be the same Bucky you traded for a life of peace.

But with the way he’s looking at you now—across the gilded room, eyes finding yours around every moving body—you can’t help but be unnerved.

This isn’t what you planned for.

Bucky looks at you in the exact same way he did all those years ago. Tender. Raw.

A small circle of oblivious partygoers beside you attracts your attention. Their laughter and clinking glasses bubble, becoming one with the rest of the crowd as they stumble off.

With the distraction gone, you finally braved looking back across the room.

Needing to find his gaze, if only one more time, was instinctual at this point. Something you couldn’t suppress, even if you tried.

And fuck, have you tried.

You scan the room, looking at faces and exposed hands, drinks and smiles. But Bucky is nowhere to be found.

He disappeared just as quickly as he had come, and you know that it’s because of you.

Propped up in the corner alone, entirely too sober, and visibly uncomfortable, you become painfully aware of yourself.

But maybe this is your karma. Maybe this is why your circumstances are so unfortunate—you weren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. Technically, the gala invitation had been meant for your boss. But you were eager to impress. Like, somehow you had to ‘prove’ your normalcy.

But you didn’t have to. You had it.

You just became too overzealous.

Icarus flew too close to the sun, and you accepted filling in for your boss on a networking gig that you really should’ve asked more questions about.

And now you have to face the consequences.

“It’s kind of you to hold up the wall.”

Your body goes cold. Erratic fingers now remain frozen in place.

When you turn, you see that Bucky is already smiling at you, two flutes of champagne in hand. “Hi, —.”

You take a shaky breath. “Hi, Bucky.”

Up close, you can confirm that he really looks no different than when you left. You figured that your eyes were just playing tricks on you earlier, imagining things. For your sake, you hoped that if you saw him again—face to face, wandering eye to wandering eye—he’d be unrecognizable.

But, no. He just looks like Bucky—your Bucky.

That fact feels more like a curse than a blessing right now.

The two of you stand in silence, unsure of what to say or if you should even say anything at all. You opt to busy yourself with the lines on the parkade floor instead.

“Thought you’d never be caught dead at one of these again.” He says the words like they’re an inside joke. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

“It’s a work thing”, you respond flatly. “I honestly didn’t know it was for you guys.”

Bucky sips at his drink, warily maintaining eye contact with you. “I’m glad you’re here, though,” Bucky eventually says. The shyness in his voice surprises you. “It’s really…really good to see you, —.”

You don’t respond, but you manage to force a little smile. Measured. Pleasant. Evidence of you being on your best behaviour. Besides your roaming eyes, at least.

Unfortunately, they’re not as controlled as you’d like them to be.

But, if push comes to shove, you could always blame tradition.

You and Bucky have an unspoken agreement. A ritual, of sorts, that you rely on during moments like this. Observe and pretend.

If your years in SHIELD taught you anything, it was how to watch and how to see with the briefest of passing glances.

Visual study is light work for trained government agents.

But when it comes to this—when it involves the two of you, and whatever it is that you guys are—it’s not so simple. It’s more than just observing how time passed shows on each other’s skin.

It’s about taking the time to commit everything you see to memory.

To document it all—the slick-backed hair curling behind his ear, the flecks of grey in his beard, the eyes that darken in the moody amber light—and lock it away. Keep it safe for some lonely night in the future where all you can do is ruminate, and the only thing you can think about is ‘what if’.

“…You look good,” you say wistfully. A mindless and stupid act on your part. Heat floods your face, forcing your eyes down. “I-I meant, you look like you’re doing good.”

Bucky chuckles. The sound of it makes you ache.

“Thanks. I’ve, uh, actually been getting some sleep, so I’ve been feeling a lot better.” You nod and take a drink. “You look good, too, by the way. …Beautiful, actually.”

The champagne in your stomach threatens to come back up. Bucky, though, is none the wiser—still looking at you, soft and fond.

With rolled back shoulders and a straightened spine, you clamour to change the subject. “You’ve, uh, been busy, too—lately, it seems.”

Mindless. Stupid.

Bucky clears his throat. “Who knew, right? …One minute I’m wanted by the state, then the next—“

“You’re an Avenger,” you continue. “And a Congressman.”

A sly grin forms on his face. One, he doesn’t even try to hold back. “Have you been stalking me, Ms. —?”

You roll your eyes and bite back a familiar grin. “You wish, Barnes. I just have a strong internet connection and a knack for boredom-fuelled curiosity.”

“A deadly combination,” Bucky hums into his glass.

In trying to suppress the wide smile breaking free, you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. The sting is a good stabilizer.

“So, what about you?”

When you look up to meet his eyes, you realize that the two of you have been gradually getting closer. Another annoyingly instinctual response.

You try not to give the sparking in your chest too much attention.

“—How’s retirement been treating you?” Bucky asks.

You hesitate for a moment, unaware of how to sum up the past three years of your life.

“Um…good.” The word feels wrong immediately. “Quiet,” is your correction.

“Quiet, huh?” Bucky looks away briefly, over to a boisterous group in the centre of the room. From the slight fondness in his features, you assume they’re likely his new team. “Well, that’s—I’m glad. That’s what you always wanted, right?”

You nod despite him not looking your way.

Bucky shifts his weight from one foot to another, still lost in thought. Then, slowly, they travel back to you and settle on your hands. “And, is it…just…you?”

“…You mean, am I seeing someone?”

Bucky’s shoulders fall back against the wall. He gulps, too, although he tries to hide that more. “I’m just…curious,” he says a bit defensively. “I didn’t—I don’t see a ring. That’s why I’m asking.”

“You were looking for a ring? Congressman…” you tease.

Bucky’s smile is genuine, but it still doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just happened to notice. Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

The nickname—a simple word that, at the end of the day, you’d hate if it came out of anybody else’s mouth—hits you hard. It makes your stomach twist, and your hands shake, and your mouth go dry.

It also makes you want to beg him to say it again.

You polish off the rest of your drink, which at this point has gone flat. Then, quietly, you say, “No, I’m not seeing anyone—not right now. …Not anymore.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Bucky stiffen. A fist clenches at his side, and his eyes shut for a few seconds before he seemingly releases himself. Guilt cramps in your stomach at the sight.

A guilt for what? You’re not entirely sure.

You don’t even know if you should be telling him this. If it even matters. If at this point it’s morally right to do so, or just plain cruel.

All you know is that you’ve never been able to hide anything from Bucky. Even when your insides scream at you to turn away, to run and hide, to forget you ever saw him.

“…His name was Connor. We, um, dated for two years.”

Bucky’s silent. You wait. It’s painful. Your lungs can’t hold onto air for the life of you, and your fingers are sore from being constantly picked at.

“Was he…” Bucky takes a harsh breath. “Was he good to you?”

His words force you to pause and collect yourself. “Yeah. He was. Actually, Connor was kind of perfect, in a way. He was kind, a-and attractive, and funny, and he always tried to bring me breakfast in bed on Sundays. …He just…he had a wonderfully quiet life.”

Bucky hardly makes a sound, but you know that he’s listening. You know that he’s just taking the time to digest all that you’ve said.

Out loud, speaking of Connor feels like admitting to a long-kept secret. And the thought makes you sick. He was the longest relationship you’ve ever had—by no means a secret. You lived together. You had a life together.

But it was a life that Bucky didn’t get to witness. A life you made sure he wasn’t a part of—in any capacity.

That fact alone nearly disables you.

Bucky has his bottom lip tucked behind his teeth, gnawing on the flesh nervously. His voice cracks when he goes to speak. “Why’d you break up? If you don’t mind me asking…”

“We stopped understanding each other, I guess. He wanted to do more with his career, and…after everything I’ve seen and done, the plans he had, they just… Like I said, we didn’t understand each other anymore.” Your voice trails off. You unintentionally end up mimicking Bucky’s slumped figure.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers.

You shrug plainly. “It is what it is.”

A waiter comes by, collecting both of your empty glasses before hurrying off into the party. You end up going back to spinning the gold ring around your finger. “What about you, Barnes—are you seeing anyone special?”

You offer Bucky a friendly smile, even though the thought of him with someone else makes you physically ill.

“No.”

Your heart leaps. Shame immediately crawls in from behind your ribs.

“No one?” The shock in your voice is evident. “…Not even dating?”

Bucky shakes his head gently. “I think in the past three years, I’ve been on a total of…two dates? Neither one got very far.” Your jaw falls open just enough to grab his attention. “…Is something wrong?”

“N-no! No, I just…I’m surprised, that’s all. Surprised that no one would…you know…”

He turns against the wall on his shoulder, closing whatever distance was left. The air was thinning; muddled with all the nagging thoughts and feelings you keep stifling.

“I never said I didn’t date because no one has been interested in me,” Bucky says simply. “I don’t date because I don’t want to.”

You can’t help yourself from asking ‘why’. And, at this point, you’re convinced your curiosity has a mind of its own. Like it’s completely set on orchestrating your downfall.

Bucky hesitates, gears visibly turning in his head. Until his eyes flash to yours, something sure and smouldering within them. “I guess I’ve just been too busy holding on.”

“Holding on to what?” You echo.

“Hope.”

Your mind skips—a broken record, a preemptive warning.

Turn away. Stop. Go back. Turn away.

“Hope is a dangerous thing to have,” you find yourself saying.

“It’s a damning thing to have,” Bucky concludes. Between you, a calloused hand attempts to reach out; fingers brushing your knuckles without any hesitation. “It’s hard to want someone else when I’m hoping for you.”

It’s not that time slows down or speeds up in that moment. You just become more aware of it.

As if, suddenly, your body is completely and wholly cognizant of everything. Of where you are, of what you’re wearing, of the blood pounding in your ears, of the pinky touching yours, of the earthy scent that makes your chest contract.

You’re exposed, and it’s because of him.

It’s all because of him.

When you first became friends, you found it kind of funny that you got along so well, that you guys just clicked. He understood you better than anyone else had before, and he’s been the only one to truly know you like that ever since.

Hope is a damning thing—his words.

The light refracting from the chandelier above is dimmed by Bucky’s shadow. It looms over you, but never cages you. He’s still giving you the chance to run.

The freedom only makes it that much harder on you.

Blinking back an onslaught of tears, you will yourself to look him in the eye. “Do you…remember what I said to you—that night, wh-when you asked me to stay?”

A pause.

“You, uh…you said we were ‘too smart’ for ideas like that,” Bucky answers quietly. So quiet that you’re surprised you can still hear him.

You’re nodding before you speak. “Well…that’s what I’m saying to you now.”

A loud roaring laugh passes by your sheltered corner. It kills you a little to see people so elated while you stand here and break the love of your life’s heart all over again.

Bucky holds his breath. You see it in his chest—the expansion, the stillness.

“—…”

“No—Bucky, please.” You wince. “…It doesn’t work out for people like us. Right? You—you know that…”

The man in question frowns, a sad acceptance.

You always swore you had a strong resolve. A thick backbone. You had to in order to be a SHIELD agent-turned-Avenger.

Whether your time out of the game had turned you soft, or if it was just Bucky’s presence, you’re not sure. But as you acknowledge yours and Bucky’s hurt, your resolve crumbles.

It hurts to encourage the pain. But you reason now—as you have had to many times before—that it’s for the best. That this is the right thing to do.

The responsible thing.

“Because of what we do, who we are, this—this would never work. It has never ended well. …We’d only be hurting ourselves in the end, Buck. It’s—it’s not worth it.”

“…Connor was worth it, though, right?” Bucky’s words are sharp, cutting. They scar you right where you stand.

“Bucky—“

“I’m just saying, —. You sit here and talk about being smart a-and how distance and all that is good. You know, sounding exactly like how I used to—“ At this point, the man is gasping for air. “But…but you fall in love with someone else? Two years of your life, —; was that not worth it?”

“It was worth it! Because at least I knew that every time he left the house, he was coming back,” you snap.

Silence.

Bucky’s eyes are a marvel: big and watery and as wildly blue as a stormy ocean. “What makes you think I wouldn’t come back home to you?”

The sound you make then is agonizing. “You can’t guarantee that.”

Without warning, Bucky places a soft kiss on your forehead. “You’re right,” Bucky whispers into your hairline. Your eyes involuntarily flutter, as if doing so could allow you to feel the gesture tenfold. “But I can promise you that I would try.”

You want to tell him that it’s not enough. Being an Avenger doesn’t allow for the same liberties as everyone else. Death and loss, and irrevocable change are all part and parcel. Commitment, partnership, love—they don’t belong in that lifestyle.

At least you and Connor had the luxury of stability, of reassurance. But with Bucky, the act of being in love is a terrifying one.

Loving Bucky is easy, despite what he says. But being in love with him, consciously choosing to love him, takes a lot of inner strength.

But you’re selfish.

You’re selfish to fall in love with someone while they’re falling in love with you. You’re selfish to test the waters, only to run in the other direction at the first sight of a rippling wave. You’re selfish to hope, even slightly, that Bucky would wait for you after all this time.

“If I allow myself to love you, I won’t be able to let you go.” Your lowly confession successfully slips through the chinks in your armour. It hangs heavy in the air once it’s free, and you’re entirely too tired to rein it back in.

Bucky hands still on your shoulders, holding you as he tries to meet your eyes.

“I don’t want you to.”

He looks at you like you’re everything. You look back at him because you know he is.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Since when did you become good at having emotional conversations?”

“Since you became so damn bad at it," he replies without missing a beat.

Bucky’s smile almost triggers yours. Almost. You’re still terrified of the reality that stands before you.

It’s a scary thing to care about something this much that you innately anticipate losing it.

Because those two things—love and loss—go hand-in-hand. They’re inseparable. One can’t exist without the other.

“…Will we regret this?”

Bucky sighs. “Maybe.” Hands delicately cradle your face. Careful, yet unafraid. “…But not right now.”

His face is so very close to yours, champagne lingering on his breath. You expect to move, to cross that line. But he doesn’t.

He waits.

Your mind fires off reservations, fears, worries, unaddressed concerns and technicalities that you’re sure you’ll feel tomorrow.

Not right now.

The first kiss is soft. A feather-light touch; skin on skin. It’s hesitant, not scared. An effort of held-back anticipation rather than apprehension.

Bucky, the old-fashioned gentleman that he is, is the first to pull away. He keeps a safe distance: far enough where he gets to measure your reaction, yet still satisfy whatever desire he has to be as close to you as possible.

It’s you who pulls him back in.

The second kiss is firm. It exhibits a hunger, a desperation that could only be triggered by starvation. With a few nips to his lower lip and your hand clawing at his chest, you hope to tell him just how badly you need this.

Bucky backs you up into the wall, both hands—hot flesh and cold metal—holding your face still as he prods at your mouth. You scratch at his face, letting the thin skin of your palms become familiar with the feel of his scruff.

You want to feel more. You need to feel more.

But you’re also acutely aware that your environment isn’t ideal.

“Buck,” you kiss the warning into his upper lip. He chases you with his mouth. Another kiss. “Congressman, we’re in public.”

Bucky groans. It’s hearty, it reverberates. It instantly shoots down to your core. “‘M not waiting. Don’t think you want to either, doll—not with how you’re kissin’ me.” Teeth nip at the edge of your ear.

The whole thing is disorienting. Enough to make you rip his clothes off then and there, without a second thought.

Except, fucking like rabbits in the middle of a government-funded gala wasn’t a responsible thing to do.

That didn’t mean fucking was completely off the table, though.

“You have any other ideas, Barnes…?”

•

In a matter of minutes, after a balancing act of evading his team, Valentina, and a few mostly sober government officials, you and Bucky find yourselves in a bathroom on the other side of the building.

The area had been roped off, guarded by two golden posts corded together, with a sign that read “entry prohibited”. And, based on the sight of the oddly lavish bathroom alone—forest-green walls, dark gold faucets, and glittering black tile—you expect the sign was up for good reason.

Not that it really mattered to either of you.

Bucky had half a mind to lock the door, but he took far too long for your liking. He shakes the handle—just to make sure—while your mouth wanders.

“Looks who’s impatient now.” Lips slot against yours, teeth clacking and noses squished.

You huff. “Shut up, Barnes.”

Bucky takes a turn mapping your neck with his slick, open mouth. “I’d like to make it known, by the way, that this”—a kiss under your ear—“isn’t”—another to the hollow of your throat—“how I imagined our first time to be.”

Intrigue, and maybe a bit of pride, pull at your face like puppet strings. “You’ve thought about this before?” You hum as Bucky kisses the hyper-sensitive junction of your neck. “You’ve got a dirty mind, Congressman.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” is Bucky’s gruff reply.

Without warning, thick arms come up under your thighs and lift you onto the sink. Bucky acts like it’s nothing, manhandling you like that. You, however, aren’t so nonchalant. What once felt like molten lava in your veins had now become a raging fire.

It was a trigger for your more feral desires. Resurfaced thoughts and primitive sensations that only cared about what else he could do to you.

God, you wanted him to do it all.

Impatient fingers start to work at his clothes—peeling off his jacket, loosening his tie, undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. You then yank on his belt and pull him towards you.

Except Bucky is quick to cover your hands with his. “Doll, I need to make sure you want this,” he whispers. “—That you want this as much as I do.”

He gives you the chance to take his request to heart, but you know you don’t even have to think twice about it.

Realized by the weight of him between your legs, you have the sense that you two are freakishly and inexplicably right. After all this time, it honestly feels silly to have imagined the two of you as anything other than inevitable.

“Need you, Bucky. Need you so, so bad,” you whine and kiss the tip of his nose.

He’s back on you in an instant.

As his tongue explores your mouth, his fingers begin to toy with the thin straps of your dress. “Want this off.”

You help him out a bit and slide the satin down your torso. As your bra is revealed, Bucky’s stare intensifies, carefully tracing every curve and clean line.

“There are no straps,” he mumbles eventually.

You shift under his gaze. “Um…what?”

“The straps,” he says. An inquisitive metal finger comes up to the edge of the garment, right where the cup ends and the rounded flesh begins. “Where are they?”

“You—you’ve never seen a strapless bra before?” You giggle as he shakes his head. “It didn’t come with any, Buck. That’s the point.”

“I don’t understand—“

You laugh some more, lazily carding your fingers through his hair. “I’ll tell you more about it later, yeah?” Bucky, although still stumped, nods and lets you guide his head forward.

When you kiss him, he lets out a puff of air. The reaction forces you to smile into his mouth. You try to deepen the kiss, to take charge and move his limbs around you as you please—but you don’t get very far.

The second he picks up on your plan, he becomes committed to leaving you breathless. Even when he abandons your mouth and makes his way down to your chest, you’re practically gasping for air.

With your back arched, desperate for a slight reprieve, you angle your hips forward. The slight movement has you firmly pressing into him.

Bucky groans.

Even between the too-many-layers of fabric, you feel him. All of him. It’s a promise that makes your mouth water and your toes curl.

You roll your hips then—an experiment that has you whining and Bucky going rigid.

“Don’t”—his teeth gritted—“start. We don’t have the time for that, doll.”

Against the arm that aims to keep you still, you move your pelvis over his bulge again. Bucky growls.

“Doll,” he warns.

“God, Buck, just—shit—just do something.”

Upon your command, one hand grabs a fistful of your dress. The fabric is roughly lifted until it’s pooling around your thighs.

Your eyes curiously travel down your contorted body, stopping right where Bucky’s arm—taut flesh over strained veins—disappears.

And then you feel it: thick fingers pulling aside the drenched seam of your underwear.

The man’s forehead rams into yours. “Fuck, you want me dead, don’t you…”

You don’t respond, but not for lack of trying.

He’s just so…warm…and he’s everywhere.

He’s all muscle, and weight, and languid pressure—and god, your heart feels like it’s swelling beyond capacity.

You gasp when he slides a finger through your folds.

Your brain urges you to do something. Tease him; spit out a smart quip. Hell, even slide off the counter and get on your knees.

But you can’t.

Two fingers slip into you then, curling just at the knuckle before partially pulling out, and you go limp. A pliable mess of his doing.

It’s embarrassing how close you already are.

It only becomes more embarrassing when the pad of his thumb starts rubbing tight circles on your clit.

The entire lower half of your body tightens, almost instantly. You’re shaking, panting, and desperate for more.

More Bucky. More friction.

More.

You’re so consumed with needing more, your hips start rocking back and forth on their own accord.

“Buck,” you whimper.

The man in question looks up from the mess he’s made of your chest, and you nearly come on the spot.

Swollen lips, glossy with his own spit. Hazy eyes that are nearly black from blown-out pupils. A cherry-red flush paints the rest of his face.

Fucked out—that’s how he looks.

Content. Blissful. Like he’s somehow enjoying himself more than you.

A muscle in his arm twitches then. What quickly follows is a new pace, a new force in his thrusting fingers that has the knot in your stomach contracting.

“Take whatever you need, doll. Whatever you need, it’s yours,” he says, finally adding a third finger. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream. “Let go, —. I got you.”

Everything within you seizes.

For a moment, it feels like you’re floating. Entirely weightless, as Bucky’s hands help you ride out your orgasm.

As you come to—aching hips stuttering to a stop, vision slowly clearing—Bucky wipes the sweat from your forehead. He keeps his metal hand there like a cold compress, all the while planting delicate kisses into your cheekbone.

“Are you okay?”

You nod despite a frown beginning to brood. “You…you didn’t—“

“Wasn’t the point, doll,” he lets out a breathy chuckle. His nose affectionately bumps yours.

You shake your head. “Want you to feel good, though.”

Bucky just smiles—all dopey and light. “I do feel good. …Really, really good.”

“But—“

“Why don’t we make it up later? Can show each other just how good we feel…” his voice lowers, returning to that gravelly tone that makes you ache all over again.

Your first instinct is to fight him on this. But, instead, you bite your tongue.

“Fine,” you say. “As long as I get to make it up to you first.”

[the-archxr]

*in the middle of a debrief…*

John: can I ask a dumb question?

Bucky: better than anyone I know.

[the-archxr]

Dear readers,

Holy shit it’s been a long time—three years, I think, or something like that. I don’t know, I could be wrong; I was never good at math (the curse of having ADHD and Dyscalculia is a great one).

Anyways, how have you guys been? Taking care of yourselves, I hope!

I wanted to take the time and space here to give all of you an update:

I’m coming back. Well, sort of.

This year, on top of school and general life shit, I’ve started a personal project. It’s reignited my love of writing, and while I am very excited to share it with everyone, it’s still in the very early stages, so, as of right now, I won’t divulge too much.

But I will say, this project has sort of given new life to my once-inanimate pen. As I continue to move forward with this and further develop my skills, methods and practices as a writer, I will be returning to this blog. Sort of like an interim palate cleanser to keep me writing and motivated and not falling down the ADHD paralysis slump (more than I already do, at least).

While I will be writing here once again, please understand that it will certainly not be as much as I’ve done in the past. Though, I’lll still try to maintain a rather consistent(-ish) schedule, considering that’s kind of the whole point.

To get back into the swing of things, I will be accepting requests for imagines/drabbles, headcanons, and the like. However, I won’t be accepting requests for full-length fics.

Before I continue rambling, I do have a quick disclaimer:

When I first left, I wasn’t too sure if and when I’d be coming back, so I ended up deleting all the remaining asks in my inbox. I apologize to everyone who sent something in—they were all wonderful, and I deeply appreciate/ed the engagement. I was just becoming incredibly burnt out and couldn’t keep up with all of them. So again, thank you, and I’m really sorry that I didn’t respond.

Likewise, I’d like to mention that while my current masterlists won’t be going anywhere, I am not updating the Moonknight one. Meaning, I will no longer be writing for or accepting requests regarding him. But, I am still accepting asks for Steve Harrington (if you’ve been here for a while, you already know what’s up) and Din Djarin. I’m also into writing for a certain mcu, metal-armed super soldier, if that’s something you guys would be into…

(Oh my god, I’m so sorry for the massive fucking info-dump. My brain kept adding things to mention mid-ramble, so if this post is all over the place, please pretend that it isn’t, for my sake.)

And finally, all of this to say: I’ve missed our little community so very, very much, and I’m so very, very excited to be back.

Stay tuned.

Faith 🏹

[the-archxr]

he’s not real.

(down bad barking at the gym, or whatever it is taylor swift said)

i’ve died

[the-archxr]

im a lover by profession but i am also a recreational hater. these two things can coexist

[the-archxr]

[the-archxr]