just another short person

♡ she/they ♡ 22 ♡

[anothershorthuman]

Stay Alive Pt. 8

pairings: nct dream x platonic!reader, afab!reader (you wear a skirt, but they/them pronouns are used), ??? x reader x ???

genre: zombie apocalypse au, high school au, angst, fluff, humor, not really horror but it's zombies ya'know

word count: 3.0k

series warnings: blood, injuries & fighting, suicide, character death, swearing, again... zombies.

chpt warnings: medical malpractice, mentions of dead parents, swearing

summary: nobody was ready for a zombie apocalypse. you were definitely not ready for a zombie apocalypse. while contemplating just giving up and accepting your fate, you meet a group of boys. life may seem pointless now, but at the very least, you now have a reason to stay alive.

previous: masterlist: next

… 

The camp isn’t as full as Jaemin thought it would be. Sure, there are several hundred people, but there are plenty of empty beds. The camp is broken up into several buildings: 4 housing lodges, 3 bathroom lodges, 1 cafeteria, the 2 medical buildings near the entrance, the staff entrance building, and a giant courtyard in the middle. 

The boys were given a tour after all of their medical examinations and given color coded wristbands in order to place them in a lodging house. Mark and Chenle were put into the green house, Renjun, Haechan, and Jisung in the yellow house. The remaining two houses were blue and red, but the wristbands given to Jeno and Jaemin were orange. 

“What the fuck is orange?” Jaemin asks the guard giving them a tour. 

“The two of you were uncooperative when you were found. Think of it as your first warning.” 

They were instructed to stay in the red lodging house. Apparently, that is where all of the uncooperative residents stayed, as well as off-guard security and military. Jeno assumed that this is similar to what being in prison was like. Uncooperative residents were only allowed in the red lodge and other communal spaces. People placed in other housing lodges were free to enter any building except the staff building. There was a curfew, everyone was to be in their housing lodge at midnight.

The boys sat together at the outskirts of the courtyard. Jeno was glaring at anyone that stared a little too hard. They had tried looking for you, assuming that your medical examination must have gone by quicker than theirs considering you were by yourself and yet, you were nowhere to be found.

“What if something was wrong with them?” Chenle asked. The implication was understood by everyone, what if you had been infected?

“Don’t say that.” Renjun is quick to shoot him down. “We asked the guards if they were fine and they said they are so… they’re fine.”

Jaemin is picking at the skin around his nails, “Fine my ass. We should find them and get out of here.”

“Maybe we should leave without them.” Everyone's heads whip to look at Jeno in surprise. He shrugs a bit, “Don’t look at me like that. If the government wants to keep them for whatever reason, maybe we should let them. I mean, it's the government! What the hell are we supposed to do against the government?”

Haechan is the first to defend you, “We’re not supposed to abandon our friends.”

Jeno shakes his head, “I’m glad you could find comfort in them after what happened with your mom, but they aren’t the only ones wanting to help you through that. We need to be realistic, okay?” When an uncomfortable silence follows his statement he continues, “This isn’t me not wanting to be their friend. This is me prioritizing the friends I have in front of me right now.”

Jeno’s a bit out of breath after his outburst and his eyes flicker between all of the boys trying to gauge their reaction. 

“Maybe he’s right.” Jisung says softly. He’s ripping up the blades of grass in front of him as he talks, avoiding eye contact with everyone else. “If something were to happen to them, or anyone of us, they wouldn’t want the rest of us to be hung up on it, right? We can’t just sit around and do nothing. If something happens to me, I want you guys to make a run for it. Keep living.”

Chenle stands up and speaks as he dusts off his pants, “I don’t give a shit what you guys say. Leave for all I care, but I’m not leaving without knowing why they’re being so secretive about keeping my friend isolated and away from us.” And with that he left towards the green lodge. Mark is quick to run off after him, assuring the others that he’ll be back after making sure that he’s okay. Jisung follows.

Renjun sighs, this really wasn’t how he thought this conversation would go. Jeno has been nothing but candid with his distaste for you, even if he’s unwilling to explain where these feelings originated. He’s also noticed the complete opposite with Jaemin. All of the second years know that Jaemin is a flirt, often taking people out on dates. There were rumors about how he would sneak his arm around his dates shoulders, his other hand maybe wandering. But Renjun knows that despite Jaemin’s flirtatious persona, those rumors were only rumors. Jaemin hadn’t been interested in anyone for years, but he wonders if maybe he’s interested in you now. Renjun glances at him, only to realize that Jaemin is already looking at him intently.

“What?” Renjun asks.

Jaemin shrugs, “You didn’t say anything earlier, I was just wondering what you’re thinking.”

“I’m worried about them too. But if everyone else wants to leave, then I’m okay with that too.”

Jaemin lets out a dry laugh, “So you don’t actually have an opinion?”

Renjun can feel his eyebrows rising, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re taking the easy way out. Would it kill you to be divisive?”

“I’m divisive when I need to be,” Renjun is quick to retaliate, “I care about the entire group and I understand that not everyone will agree with me, something that you don’t seem to understand.”

“Oh, I understand. I really just don’t care. If I’m right, I’m not gonna go along with everyone else because they agree. They’re still wrong.”

Renjun leans forward, challenging him, “So you’re never wrong?”

Jaemin sends him a lazy smile, “I’m never wrong.”

Sure, Renjun is annoyed with Jaemin’s answer, but it’s Jeno that scoffs in disagreement.

“I can name 5 different times you were wrong right now.” Jeno says.

“Do it.” Jaemin challenges.

“The time you told Haechan that Chaeyoung was into him and he should confess to her.”

“I knew she would reject him. But he had been doing unnecessary favors for her and Haechan was being used. She needed to straight up reject him so he could move on.”

“What?” Haechan exhaled in surprise, “You couldn’t have just told me she wasn’t into me!” He shoves Jaemin and Jaemin shoves him back and snickers.

“The time you stole Yangyangs money.”

“I saw him take it from a freshman. I gave it back to them.”

“When you skipped Chemistry for an entire semester.”

“That was the semester Yuna would not leave Renjun alone unless he had people around, I’d skip class so he wouldn’t be alone during lunch.”

“That’s why you’d eat lunch with me?” Renjun interrupts. 

Jaemin nods his head. “That girl was so fucking clingy, I figured you would like having a guard dog around for one period.”

Jeno laughs, “You did not just call yourself a guard dog.” Haechan starts to jokingly bark at Jaemin.

“I am one.” Jaemin smiles. “But see, I’m always right. So, we shouldn’t leave until all of us can leave together, okay?”

“Fine by me.” Renjun sighs.

“Jeno?”

Jeno is looking at his hands in his lap, smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants. “I don’t know, man.”

Jaemin scooches closer to Jeno, putting a hand on his knee. “Please, dude. For me?”

The breeze picks up, and Renjun can feel the hairs in the back of his neck sticking up. The wind rustles the trees surrounding the camp and the leaves fall into the camp. 

“Okay.” Jeno says.

Haechan interrupts the moment with his loud voice, “No one’s gonna ask me what I think?”

…

Mark watches Chenle pout and whine to Jisung about how unfair everything is. If the circumstances had been different, Mark would probably have even thought that Chenle looked cute. He would have leaned over and squeezed his cheeks affectionately, teased him about his complaining. Sadly, they were still in the middle of the first zombie apocalypse known to man, so the temper tantrum was more annoying than cute.

“Can you chill out, man?” Mark asks.

Chenle’s mouth opens in an “O,” seemingly shocked by Mark's statement. “I can’t believe you just said that to me!” he complains.

Jisung is trying his hardest not to laugh. Really, he is. He knows that there isn’t anything funny about Mark reprimanding Chenle or having an argument about potentially leaving someone behind to die, and yet he can’t stop the giggles that leave his mouth. This, in turn, prompts Chenle to start giggling too. Soon, they are both cackling, leaning onto each other for support. Chenle is doubling over in laughter and Jisung is hitting him on the back as he starts to wheeze. 

Mark can’t do anything else but watch. His face expression is contorted into one of confusion, his eyebrows pulled together and his mouth slightly open as if to ask a question. His face only makes the other two boys laugh harder. Mark sighs deeply and leaned back on his two hands. 

“Okay, okay,” Jisung says, wheezing between laughs, “We’re done.”

Chenles laughing lessens when he sees that Mark didn’t seem amused by their outburst. He didn’t mean to be annoying, but it felt like all his repressed emotions were starting to catch up to him. 

“This is serious,” Mark said.

Chenle scoffed, “You think I don’t know that? Tell me why I’m the only person that gives a fuck as to if one of our friends is okay?”

“Are they really our friend?” Jisung asks.

“Are you seriously asking me that right now?” Chenle says with eyebrows raised.

One of Mark's hands came up to rub his face, he really was struggling to keep his frustrations at bay. “We met them a couple days ago, Chenle. And they held a knife to my neck!”

“Maybe you only met them a couple days ago. But they’re in Jisung and my homeroom, they’re my friend.”

“Friend is a stretch, don’t you think?” Jisung says, “I mean, they sat all the way in the back and barely talked to anyone.”

“They’re my friend, okay?” Chenle was clearly becoming more irritated by their line of questioning, “Just because you didn’t talk to them doesn’t mean that I never did.”

…

Chenle was on his own. Usually, he and Jisung would sit outside their homeroom before class started, talking about basketball or the latest anime episode they had watched. But, Jisung was sick and wouldn’t be at school today and Chenle didn’t feel like talking to anyone else. So he figured he would walk into class early that day and just wait in his seat for the day to start. He figured that he could use some peace and quiet and he hoped to spend some time alone.

Except, he wasn’t alone. When he walked into the classroom, you were already in your seat. You barely acknowledged him as he walked to his seat in front of you, but he noticed the way your lips twitched up when he greeted you. 

The two of you coexisted for a while. Chenle had even pulled out some homework to do. He was erasing something when his arm bumped into his pencil and it fell onto the floor. When he bent over to pick it up, he noticed your own paper. Instead of working on homework, you had been drawing. There were swirls and geometric shapes intricately drawn across your paper. In the center there was a jellyfish.

“I, uh, like your drawing.”

Your head snaps up, not having realized that he had turned around and was watching you. You put your pencil down and rest your hand on your desk, covering up the majority of your drawing.

“It’s nothing.” You mutter.

Chenle shakes his head, “It’s not nothing. I think it’s cool. Do you like jellyfish?”

“It’s not a jellyfish,” you say rather dryly, “It’s a man-o-war.”

His head tilts to the side, wanting to get a better look at the drawing, “A man-o-what?” He’s still trying to look at the drawing when he hears a small laugh. His eyes drift upward towards your face, and he catches a glimpse of amusement on your face before it disappears again. A small smile spread on his own face, he was starting to like talking to you, even if you thought he was sort of dumb.

“A Portuguese man-o-war. Don’t worry, I’m not good at drawing and it gets confused for jellyfish all the time.”

… 

Renjun, Haechan, Jeno, and Jaemin are now laying side by side on the grass. They assumed that the other boys would join them when they finished having their own discussion but they had been laying there for a while. They were getting some looks from the people that would walk past them, but they don't mind. 

“Our lives are ruined, aren’t they? Renjun asks softly. The other boys don’t have an answer for his question but when he peeks at them from his spot on the ground, he can tell they’re thinking about what he said. It really did seem like their lives were over. All of their dreams and aspirations were thrown out the window. Renjun would never get to have a display of his art in a museum and his parents would never see why he was so sure about moving to Korea to work on his craft. In fact, he might not see his parents ever again. 

He blinked away tears before the boys could see them well up in his eyes.

…

You wake up feeling incredibly sluggish, fighting to keep your eyes from falling shut once again. You instinctively try to rub away the tiredness from your eyes but find that your wrists have been secured to the hospital-like bed that you are lying in. 

Memories start coming back to you: arriving at the camp after being attacked, being separated from the boys, and weird doctors and nurses. There is a faint beeping to the left of you, presumably some sort of machine that takes your vitals and an iv that is attached to your left arm. Your arm feels tired and sore and you begin to wonder if they have something else dripping into your bloodstream. 

Now, feeling more aware of your surroundings, you realize that you are no longer in the same room you were last in with the nurse. Although this room is similar, with the general feeling of being in a clinic or hospital, it is bigger. There is a curtain that blocks your view of half the room and you wonder if there is anyone in the room that isn’t visible to you. The room is devoid of any furniture, with the exception of your bed. There's a cabinet against the wall and a manila folder on top of it. Your fingers twitch, maybe you could figure out what these people wanted with you if you could just read that file that they had made about you. 

Your train of thought is interrupted by the sound of a door suddenly opening. The door is behind the curtain, so you aren’t able to see who has walked into the room, but you can see their feet from below the curtain. They are presumably a man wearing dress shoes, some sort of loafers. They are polished and squeak against the floor as he walks across the floor. A big hand reaches around the side of the curtain and pulls it back. You are faced with a middle aged man, wearing a white lab coat over a navy blue sweater and beige dress pants. He’s got glasses on and his hair is the only part of him that doesn’t look put together, like he’s been running his fingers through it too many times. 

He smiles when you make eye contact, an attempt to be polite, you presume, but do not give him the courtesy of smiling back or speaking with him. You stare at each other rather blankly for a second before he starts speaking. 

“I’m sure you must be very confused right now. My name is Lee Changsub, I'm the camp's main doctor.”

You continue to stare blankly at him. If he’s the main doctor, it’s likely that it’s his fault that you’re in this position to begin with. If he’s in control, there’s no use in trying to communicate with him, he’s only speaking with you because he wants something and the camp had made it very clear that they were willing to take whatever it is they wanted without consent, it was the government, of course.

He looks away for a second, wiping his palms on his coat and then awkwardly putting them into his coat pockets. How funny, a doctor made uncomfortable by a teen. 

“Do you, uh, wanna know why you’re here?” 

He fidgets as he waits for a response from you. He looks at you expectantly, but only receives a nod from you.

“Will you not speak to me? I’ve been told that you’re a bit abrasive.”

“Who told you that?” You ask sharply, “Miss Kang?”

His eyes widen a bit and his mouth opens and closes a couple times.

“Do you mean Dr. Kang?”

You roll your eyes, “Yes, Dr Kang.”

Changsub is clearly floored by your mockery, but it leaves you feeling confused. Are you the first person that they have strapped down against their will? Had he expected you to be in a good mood after what happened?

“What time is it?” you ask.

“I'm not sure,” Changsub says as he walks over to the cabinet, looking through the file. He seems to only skim the pages, glancing at you every once in a while. You revert back to silence. 

He leans a bit on the cabinet, suddenly becoming very comfortable. He puts his weight onto his arm that's on top of the counter and crosses his feet casually. You’re pretty sure you even see his lips twitch into a brief smile.

“This camp has been tasked with finding a cure to this spreading disease and you’re going to help me find it.”

…

tagging! @staysstrays, @caspervoid, @alyselenai, @lethephin, @leechipp, @rkiveruinz, @butterfliesinthenightsky, @olxviaaaa, @kikookii, @shley-chan, @kodzukena, @everytimeicrymytearsdonteverdry, @cocoishere

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a/n: hello,, thank you for reading this chapter! things are really gonna start picking up soon and im excited for you guys to read it! This chapter may feel like a lot of nothing lol, but i promise it's heading somewhere

[smileysuh]

cinnamon girl

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. When you’ve thought about your first time with Seungcheol, you always assumed he’d be the one taking care of you, but now you realize, although you’re the anxious one, your anxiety makes him extra nervous about doing something wrong. In this situation, you need to make the first move; you need to show him you want this, and as you adjust to sit up onto your knees, he grabs the bedsheets, a betrayal of how wound up he is over the fact that you’re finally ready for the next step. 

tw/cw. Protected sex, foreplay, body worship, breast worship, big dick seungcheol, pussy eating, fingering, multiple reader orgasms, dirty talk, praise, hair pulling, sex while there’s a storm outside, mentions of past celibacy and wintertime sadness, mentions of a big fire and workplace exhaustion, lowkey soft first-time missionary sex, multiple sex positions, etc… I pet names: (hers) princess.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.9k 

🍭 aus. Non idol au, fireman! Cheol, librarian! reader, a fireman saves a kitten from a tree and now you have a cute cat and an equally cute fireman, sad girl! reader, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I used “Cinnamon Girl” by Lana Del Rey as inspiration and adapted some of the lyrics to form a plot for this fic.“Cinnamon in my teeth from your kiss, you're touching me. All the pills that you take: violet, blue, green, red, to keep me at arm's length, don't work. You try to push me out, but I just find my way back in. Violet, blue, green, red, to keep me out. I win. There's things I wanna say to you, but I'll just let you live. Like if you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did.”  I’m on new antidepressants because my doctor says I have severe depression, and I’ve been in my feels. Writing is an outlet, so I wanted to do something that felt applicable to some of the things I’m dealing with, while still being artistic and interesting.  

One:

You’re walking a little faster than usual as you head home after finishing your shift at the library. Heart pounding, eyes scanning the trees as you get closer to the firehall- it’s your ears that pick up the small mewing sounds before you even see the kitten, who is still in the tree she was in when you were coming back from your lunch break four hours ago.

You stop by the trunk of the Callery Pear, whose autumnal purple leaves half obscure the black kitten as she struggles on a high branch.

Then, you look around, and your eyes land on the fire station. With a deep sigh, you cross the street toward the old brick building, wrapping your arms around yourself as anxiety floods through you.

You’re not the type to make a fuss about anything, not the type to bug others or ask for help, so when your eyes land on the broad shoulders of a man who appears to be doing pre-shift tasks with his back to you, it feels like the cat has your tongue. 

Another deep breath and a shake of your own head to remind yourself that you can do this.

“Excuse me!” you call, not wanting to step into the station but instead stopping on the threshold of the large bay doors. 

The man turns to look at you, and you swallow thickly at the sight of strong, regal features, of dark curly hair.

“Can I help you?” he asks, setting down whatever he was working on so he can turn his full attention toward you.

“Yes, um, I think so. There’s a cat,” you explain, pointing back toward the tree, “it’s been stuck in that Callery Pear for at least four hours. I saw it on my walk back to work after my lunch break, and now it’s still there. It’s just a small kitten-”

“Say no more,” the man assures you, slightly jogging toward the wall, where there’s a folded A-frame ladder. “Which tree?”

You hurry to show him where the kitten is, and as he sets up the ladder, he explains, “I just started my shift, I had no clue there was a cat up here, and our air vac system is pretty old and can be pretty loud, so I didn’t hear any meowing.”

“It’s alright,” you assure him, watching as the man begins to climb the ladder.

His red fireman shirt is tight on his shoulders, and you watch the way his muscles ripple under the fabric as he climbs.

You swallow the lump in your throat, heart racing as he sweet-talks the kitten, who allows him to pick her up and cradle her against his broad chest. 

He slowly comes down to the pavement, checking the kitten as she purrs and cuddles closer to him.

“No collar, no ear tag, no nothing,” the fireman tells you. “Probably a street cat, we’ve got a lot of those kicking around. The fire department leaves dog and cat food out for strays, but I’ve never seen this cat before.”

“Have you heard of the cat distribution system?” you ask. 

He laughs, looking up at you, handsome face alight with amusement. “Yeah, I’ve heard of the cat distribution system.”

“Well, maybe this is finally my chance.” You release a shaky breath. “I can take her to the vet, sort this whole thing out.”

“Works for me,” the firefighter nods, gently handing the kitten over to you. 

“Thanks for helping me,”

The beautiful man smiles, turning to close up the A-frame ladder so he can get back to work. “Don’t mention it.”

Two:

You’re on the same route you always take home when the firefighter you saw a week ago waves you down from the station.

“Hey!” he calls, jogging to catch you despite his long, baggy, yellow bunker gear pants.

“Hello,” you nod, stopping to address him.

“I uh, I realized last week I never got your name,” the handsome man explains, coming to a stop in front of you.

“Y/N.”

“I’m Seungcheol. It’s nice to meet you,” he smiles, holding out a hand.

You swallow thickly, adjusting your book bag so you can gently press your palm to his. He’s soft with the handshake, and you’re quick to retract, downcasting your eyes instead of looking at this handsome, broad firefighter. 

“So how’s the kitten doing?” he asks.

“Oh, she’s good. You were right about there being no microchip, so I officially adopted her. She’s named Brontë.”

“Brontë… that’s ringing a bell.”

“It’s a literary name, in reference to the Brontë sisters,” you explain.

“Oh.”

“I work at the library,” you tell him, skin heating with embarrassment. “I’m a bit of an English nerd.”

“That’s cool though,” Seungcheol assures you. “Listen, my shift starts in a moment, so I have to run, but I’m on schedule for nights for a couple more days, and then, I’d love to drop off some cat food or something if you’re okay with it. I feel bad that no other firefighters realized there was a cat in the tree, even though saving cats from trees is the most stereotypical non-fire-related job that firemen do.”

You find yourself giggling, and you can’t help but peek at the way Seungcheol’s face lights up as he smiles at you. 

Then you correct yourself, looking down again. 

You’re not in the market for a relationship. It’s the Fall, and soon it will be Winter, and this is your sad girl era. Now is not the time for cuffing season; now is the time for reading books and watching movies with your new cat in the warmth of your tiny apartment while the world rages and dies outside your window. 

But… if it’s just some cat food he wants to drop off, that could be acceptable.

“I’ll give you my number,” you tell him, “I’m sure Brontë would love to see you.” 

Three: 

Seungcheol pauses at your door, adjusting his grip on the bag of cat food as he raises his knuckles to tap on the wood.

“One moment!” you call out, and he steps back to give you space as you appear on the threshold.

You’re wrapped in a cream coloured cardigan, and you look completely relaxed, as if you’d just put down a book. Seungcheol has always liked smart girls; cute nerds are definitely his type, and he finds himself kind of tongue-tied as he looks at you.

“I uh, I brought the cat food,” he chokes out, lifting the bag.

“Would you like to come in for a moment? I was just drinking some Chai tea and reading with Brontë.” You step to the side, and Seungcheol realizes that in your own home, you’re much more relaxed than the previous two times he’s seen you.

He steps into your apartment, and the sweet spicy scent of cinnamon perfumes the air around him. It must be from your tea, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the candles that litter the space are also to blame for the pleasing aroma. 

There’s a small thump as the tiny black kitten jumps from the couch and stretches, yawning deeply before padding over to Seungcheol.

He can’t help himself; he puts down the cat food and picks up the kitten. She starts purring like a train engine, immediately cuddling up to his neck and trying to get into his hoodie, which she succeeds at despite his laughter and protest. 

“Brontë likes you a lot,” you muse, drawing his attention as you shift to the kitchen. “Would you like to have some tea? It’s getting stormy outside.”

“That would be great,” Seungcheol tells you, highly aware that his plan was not to invade your space and annoy you, but you’re the one making the offers, so who would he be to turn them down?

Soon, the two of you are sitting in your small living room area, and your gaze shifts to the window as you sip on your tea.

“I like Autumn,” you muse.

“The rain and bad weather?” Seungcheol asks with a laugh.

“Yes, an excuse to stay inside and not talk to anyone.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” Seungcheol nods. He plays with his teacup, bringing it to his lips. The taste of honey and cinnamon washes over his tongue, and he closes his eyes for a second to enjoy it before setting his tea down again. “If I’m being honest, I don’t really like the Fall, or the Winter for that matter. Seasonal depression is a bit of a hereditary thing in my family.”

“Seasonal Affective Disorder,” you nod, and it’s immediately clear that you’re also aware of the simply acronymed ‘Sad’ that so many people face. “I deal with that too.”

There’s a stagnant pause, but the room is not silent; instead, the pattering of rain on the cement outside becomes even louder, and your gaze shifts once more to the window. 

“What got you into firefighting?” you ask.

“I always wanted to help people,” Seungcheol responds immediately, releasing a breath as the tensions shift in the room. He cuddles Brontë closer under his hoodie, and she purrs like a little engine. “Police men get a bad reputation at times, but firefighters are always the good guys. There’s no question that they’re there to save you, no question that we have the best intentions.”

“I can understand that.”

“And you?” he asks. “What made you want to be a librarian?”

“I just love books. I like peace. I don’t love people.” You let out a laugh, turning to look at him. “As an antisocial bookworm, the library felt like the place to be.” 

“Makes sense,” Seungcheol smiles, admiring you.

You’re one of those dark, mysterious, moody, smart girls. 

Just his type.

But you’re working on things, so it's clear that now is not the season to try to engage with you.

In many ways, the two of you are opposites.

Seungcheol is loud and social compared to your quiet aversion to talking. He’s an athlete; you’re clearly a girl who had her nose buried in a book during high school.

But regardless of these base-level differences, it’s also clear you’re kindred as people who know and have felt sadness. 

You’re extremely alluring to him, but Seungcheol has never wanted to be the guy who disregards the social cues that a woman is not interested… only, you’re giving mixed signals, so he’s not quite sure what to make of you.

Instead of trying to figure all of this out, he simply sits with you, turning his attention to the storm brewing outside as he pets the tiny cat now cuddled in his hoodie. 

This is a slice of life he could get used to, but if it is a fleeting moment, he’ll be sure to enjoy it as it comes.

Four:

“I’m really sorry about this,” you apologize when you invite Seungcheol into your home for the second time in one week. “The sink was leaking, and I just didn’t know who else to call.”

“You called the right person,” he assures you, slipping past you with his toolbag in hand.

You guide Seungcheol to the kitchen, showing him the leak under the sink, and he’s quick to get down onto his knees to start working.

Sipping your tea, you try not to be too obvious about the way you’re watching him, but his biceps are just so beautiful as he begins to use a wrench to tighten bolts.

Brontë is quick to jump onto his chest, and he jolts in surprise, only to laugh, reaching down to pet the black kitten. “Hi, Honey,” he greets the cat, and your heart flips in your chest at how soft this big, burly man is.

God, he really is so handsome…

Truly a Prince Charming, like the softer heroes you read about in your books.

Sure, he’s not a Mr. Rochester or a Heathcliff, but you’re entirely fine with that. Gothic love interests are always a touch too dangerous for you anyway.

“So a few bolts weren’t tight enough,” Seungcheol explains. “Try the water again.”

“With you under it?” you ask in shock.

“I’m pretty confident I’ve fixed the problem, might as well put my money where my mouth is,” he laughs.

With a shake of your head, you hesitantly turn on the water.

“Good as new,” Seungcheol concludes after a moment, adjusting himself out from under your sink. He sits up, cuddling Brontë close to his chest. “Any other broken or wonky things I can fix for you?”

You can’t help but laugh. “Not off the top of my head.”

“Oh.” He looks around. “Any art I can help you put up?”

“Not really,” you grin.

“Okay, well… I’ll get out of your hair then.”

Part of you wants him to stay, but you’re too shy to say it out loud, so you watch him stand up, collect his tools, and hand Brontë back to you. As you walk him to the door, he stops.

“I don’t want to overstep or anything,” he tells you, and you notice a pink tint in his cheeks, betraying he might be just as flustered as you are. “But uh… I was thinking maybe I could take you out for a coffee date or something sometime? I mean, we could do dinner, but you seem like a coffee date kind of girl to me.” 

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you do your best to swallow it. There’s a war inside of you, with part of you wanting to stay in your little single bubble, and another part of you wanting to take a leap of faith with this beautiful man.

“No pressure or anything,” Seungcheol says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Sorry, no, I, uh… I just, I haven’t been on a date in a while,” you try to explain.

“Me neither,” he admits. “Maybe, if it’s less pressure, we can just say let's go out for coffee and leave the ‘date’ word out of it.”

“I think that would be nice,” you smile.

He returns your grin. “Perfect, it’s a coffee then,” he muses, adding a twist to the age-old saying ‘it’s a date.’ 

He can be kind of dorky, too, which isn’t something you expected from this beefy fireman, and your heart melts as you watch him go. 

Five:

The coffee date that’s not a date, except that it is, is going better than you had imagined. Seungcheol is charismatic, honest, and intelligent, all things that you enjoy in a man. He makes you laugh, and you find yourself becoming more and more comfortable with him.

There’s still something in the back of your mind that tells you that maybe you should hold yourself back, that you’ve been burned before, that you’re still working on yourself, and don’t want to enter a relationship while you’re not fully healed.

But there’s the other side of you that acknowledges you’re not perfect, and despite that imperfection, you deserve happiness. You deserve to be laughing with a handsome man over coffee as it rains outside. You deserve to find some joy even as the seasons shift from bad to worse.

It’s clear neither of you wants the date to end, and you spend three hours in this coffee shop until the rain slows a bit, and then, with a sigh, Seungcheol offers to walk you home.

You both have umbrellas, and there’s a space between you as you meander down a couple of city blocks until you arrive at your apartment.

“That was a good coffee,” Seungcheol muses, once again using the word ‘coffee’ as a substitute for the word ‘date,’ and you can’t help but smile.

“It was.”

“You don’t have to answer right now, but I’d love to do this again sometime.”

“I think I would too,” you say, honesty getting the better of you.

Seungcheol’s smile widens, and the two of you stare at each other for a moment, then he leans forward and kisses your cheek. “Say hi to Brontë for me.”

Your skin practically burns from where his lips had brushed you, and your heart thunders in your chest. You trip over your words, whole body tingling. “Yes, I uh, I will.”

“See you soon,” Seungcheol promises, reaching down to gently squeeze your hand. With one final smile, he turns and leaves, and you stand in shock for a moment in front of your building, heart racing, whole body alight with a fire that contrasts with the cool fall air.

You feel giddy and excited, which are not feelings you’ve experienced for quite some time, and your hands are shaky as you push your key into the door to enter the building. You feel like you’re buzzing as you get back to your home, and you let out a deep breath as you reach your apartment.

Brontë lets out a soft mewl, stretching by the window before she jumps down to approach you.

You pick up your little blessing, kissing her soft head as he purrs with pleasure to have you home again. She’s already saved you in more ways than you can count.

Six:

Your second date is spur of the moment, as you’re sitting down to watch a movie, you decide to text Seungcheol, and upon a short back and forth, you invite him over to watch with you.

He’s as respectful as ever, waiting an entire movie before he asks if you want to cuddle, and he allows you to dictate how close you get as you adjust next to him, gently grabbing his arm and leaning against his shoulder.

You relax during this date, and when it comes to a close, standing on the threshold of your apartment, he asks if he can kiss you for the first time.

Your heart leaps at the question, and you nod, hardly able to contain a smile as he gently pulls you closer by your hips. One hand cups your cheek, and he moves in slowly, giving you ample time to change your mind before he presses his lips to yours.

It’s as if a ton of pressure is released from your body, your muscles relaxing as you melt into the kiss, pressing your palms gently to his broad chest as you lean closer.

Seungcheol adjusts, wrapping you in his arms, and you have to fight back a moan, your skin tingling with need.

Then, he pulls away, and you notice he’s breathing heavily, as if holding himself back from you is taking a lot of effort.

“We should do this again sometime,” Seungcheol muses with a half-chuckle.

You compose yourself too, managing a smile. “I would like that.” 

Seven:

It’s been a month of movie dates and cuddling without taking the next step, and Seungcheol hasn’t brought it up at all. He seems perfectly content to spend time with you, to cuddle, and kiss… There have been heated moments for sure, but the two of you have always cooled down. If Seungcheol is good at anything, it seems he’s good at putting out fires, even metaphorical ones.

He has an inherent understanding that you need to take things slow, and his respectful nature draws you closer to him every day. You’re becoming used to being in his arms, used to the feeling of safety he has gradually brought you.

It’s a new experience, as all the guys you’ve dated in the past have ended up hurting you… badly.

But… you’re starting to realize, maybe not Seungcheol.

The most difficult thing about this budding relationship - which isn’t even Seungcheol’s fault - is that as a firefighter, he’s in a high-stress environment and can’t always be on his phone to message you back.

Sometimes you go a few hours without hearing from him, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to endure that. It’s not that you’re worried he’s off with some other girl; he’s clearly not the type to be like that, but you worry about his safety.

Even with all of the safety rules in action for firefighters, accidents still happen, and you’d be devastated if anything happened to Seungcheol.

Tonight, you haven’t heard from him for about four hours, and you’re starting to worry. Even your books can’t distract you, and you keep checking your phone, but to no avail.

When there’s a knock at your door, your heart leaps into your throat, and your body freezes for a moment before you will yourself to stand up and see who is in the hallway. 

A breath escapes you when you find Seungcheol standing there, but he looks worn out, and you immediately reach for him.

“Cheol?” you ask.

He doesn’t say anything, just wraps you in his arms, squeezing you desperately.

You melt into the hug, rubbing his back, and although there’s something clearly wrong, you’re just happy he’s here, happy he appears to be okay.

After a minute, Seungcheol pulls away, and you invite him into your apartment, where the two of you sit on the couch. You sneak closer to him, resting your hand on his thigh, giving him space to tell you what’s gotten him worked up.

“I uh…” Seungcheol swallows thickly. “There was this big fire, some low-level drug dealers made a kitchen in their apartment, and something went wrong. The whole building lit up. I just spent the last half of my shift there, and it was a lot.”

You nod, squeezing his thigh to show him you care while not wanting to interrupt his train of thought.

You can smell the smoke on him, although it’s clear he’s had a shower, his hair wet, yet still carrying the scent of fire.

“I don’t want to stress you out with the details, but I just…” Seungcheol lets out a deep sigh. “I think we both clearly have roadblocks. I can’t speak for you, but I know on my side, I have a dangerous job. Being a firefighter is rewarding for me, but I think I’ve held back a bit with you because I don’t want to put you in a situation to be hurt if something happens to me. And I think you have a past where you’ve been hurt before. I just… today made me realize, although we both are holding back for our own reasons, if something bad had happened to me today, I didn’t want you to be left wondering how I feel about you.”

Your breath catches as Seungcheol turns to look at you, and he places his hand over your own.

“I’m crazy about you,” he admits. “I knew there was something different about you from the moment we met, and getting closer to you this month has been the most rewarding thing outside of being a firefighter that I’ve ever experienced. I want to give you time, and I don’t want to pressure you, but if you’d consider being my girlfriend… I just… I’d love to take that next step with you.”

You feel tongue-tied as you look at him, and he’s as respectful now of giving you the floor to speak as you had been when he’d first sat down, so you collect your thoughts.

“I mean… It’s no secret that I struggle with depression. I’ve been hurt before, and it makes me scared of relationships. But… being with you this past month has been so different from anything I’ve experienced before.” Your voice cracks, and you swallow to control yourself, looking down at where your hands are connected. “I would love to be your girlfriend, it’s just scary sometimes to put yourself in a position to get hurt.”

“I know all about that,” Seungcheol admits, cracking a smile. “But the most rewarding things can come from putting yourself out there.”

“I guess we’re just built different,” you laugh. “You, the firefighter, me, the librarian.”

“I like that you’re a librarian,” he assures you, cupping your cheek while you lean against his palm. “You’re smart, and funny, and I always come away from my time with you having learned something new.”

“Yeah?”

“For example, the first time we talked, you pointed to a tree and called it a Callery Pear. That tree is one of the most common trees in the city, but I never bothered to learn its name. You taught me that. Now every time I’m on the streets, and I see one, it reminds me of you.” Seungcheol smiles. “You’re smart, and it’s one of the many things I love about you.”

Some past boyfriends have been intimidated by your brains. They’ve made your intelligence and memory something to be put down, but not Seungcheol, and your heart warms at his words.

“You’ve had a long night,” you tell him. “You must be tired.”

“I am pretty exhausted,” he concedes.

“Why don’t you stay here?” you suggest, feeling confident.

“Really?”

Even in a month of slow dating, Seungcheol hasn’t stayed at your home for a night, but if there were ever a time to rip the band-aid off, it would be now. You get the sense he needs the comfort, and you want to comfort him more than you’ve wanted to do anything in a long time.

“Come,” you prompt him, standing up. “I’ll get you a guest toothbrush, and we can get you settled.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re both set for bed. Seungcheol is lying flat while you curl next to him, and Brontë is on his chest, enjoying the attention from both of you.

This feels so natural, and you know it’s helping Seungcheol calm down after his stressful day at work.

Soon, you hear him softly snoring, and your entire body relaxes, knowing that you’ve helped this man find some peace.

Falling asleep next to a new man has always been something of a difficulty for you, but before you know what’s happening, you’re drifting into an unbothered dreamland. 

Eight:

You wake up slowly, pressing against something warm. It takes you a moment to realize it’s Seungcheol, and he pulls you closer with a groan, still asleep.

A smile appears on your lips, and you release a deep breath, feeling your entire body relax.

That had been one of the best sleeps you’ve had in a very long time. 

You open your eyes and notice some light coming through the blinds. It’s a grey day outside, and you can hear rain now, softly pattering against the window pane. 

Brontë notices you’re awake and lets out a small chirp. She sits up and stretches, mewing at you.

After a moment of enjoying the situation, you carefully get out of bed, the little kitten running around your ankles as you go to the kitchen to get her some breakfast.

While she’s preoccupied, you go back to the bedroom, gently closing the door behind you.

Seungcheol is a vision even while he’s asleep, and you simply look at him for a few seconds, admiring him.

You pop into the bathroom, brushing your teeth and freshening up before going back to bed.

Returning under the warm covers, you cuddle up close to his chest, and Seungcheol stirs, letting out a soft groan as he takes you in his arms.

Everything about this feels so natural, and Seungcheol slowly wakes up, smiling as he cuddles closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Good morning,” he groans, and the deepness of his voice makes your skin tingle.

“Hi.” 

“Been awake long?” he asks.

“Not really. How did you sleep?” 

“Really good,” Seungcheol chuckles. “You?” 

“Best sleep I’ve had in ages.”

“That’s nice,” he muses, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

The two of you cuddle, enjoying a soft, lazy Sunday morning, and then Seungcheol asks if he can have a quick shower. The smell of smoke is still clinging to his skin, and while it’s not necessarily a bad smell, you know a rinse off will make him feel better.

You wait patiently while he’s in the bathroom, and a short time later, he returns.

You put your book down, admiring the fact that he’s shirtless now, using a damp towel to scrunch through his dark curls while his sweatpants hang low on his hips.

You’ve never seen him like this, and while you’ve always known Seungcheol is beefy under his hoodies, finally seeing his uncovered form with your own eyes takes your breath away.

He’s an absolute vision, a true physical masterpiece, but you suppose you shouldn’t be shocked, as he’s a firefighter and being physically fit is part of his job. 

“Do you have plans for the day?” you ask, putting your book on the nightstand.

“Was thinking maybe I could stay here with you for a bit, if that’s okay. I could also take you out for breakfast since we both have the day off. Whatever works.”

“That all sounds nice,” you muse, stretching and forcing your eyes away from his chisled body.

Seungcheol comes and joins you on the bed, gently grabbing the blankets to adjust them to cover your legs. “Are you cold?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit. 

“Here.” Seungcheol gets under the covers with you, and you curl against his side, enjoying the warmth he provides. His hand gently strokes your arm, and you release a deep sigh.

“Where’s Brontë?” Seungchol asks.

“Eating breakfast.”

“The bedroom door is closed,” he muses.

“Yeah.” Your skin heats. “I thought maybe we could have some alone time.”

“Really?” Seungcheol laughs, tugging you closer to his body. 

“Last night I realized how safe I feel with you,” you admit quietly. “I think… I’m ready for another next step, if you are.”

“Another next step,” Seungcheol echoes, and it takes a moment for it to click for him. “Oh.”

You laugh shyly, tucking your face down against his chest to hide your embarrassment. “Or not.”

“No, sorry, I just, I didn’t expect-” Seungcheol’s chest is blooming pink now. “I don’t want you to feel pressured that just because I asked you to be my girlfriend and you let me stay over last night, now you have to… put out, or whatever.”

“I don’t feel pressure,” you assure him, trailing your finger along his bare skin.

Seungcheol looks down at where you’re tracing his bicep, and he lets out a deep breath, shifting slightly. You avert your gaze, and that’s when you notice that he’s started to stiffen in his sweatpants.

Tingles erupt through you, and you move your hand down his body slowly until you reach his waistband. Then you look up at him again. “I want this,” you confirm. “Do you want me?”

He swallows thickly and nods, and you realize he’s holding his breath, waiting to see what you do next.

When you’ve thought about your first time with Seungcheol, you always assumed he’d be the one taking care of you, but now you realize, although you’re the anxious one, your anxiety makes him extra nervous about doing something wrong. In this situation, you need to make the first move; you need to show him you want this, and as you adjust to sit up onto your knees, he grabs the bedsheets, a betrayal of how wound up he is over the fact that you’re finally ready for the next step. 

Part of you wants to just go for it, to pull his pants down, but it would be a shame for your first time to lack more foreplay, so instead, you mount him.

Seungcheol’s hands find your hips to steady you, and you press your palms against his broad chest, leaning down so your lips can meet.

He kisses you back desperately, and you love how he’s already coming undone.

Seungcheol cups the back of your head, and the kiss deepens as you begin to grind down slightly against him, earning a groan that sets your whole body on fire.

You can feel his cock pressing up against his sweatpants as you tease him, gently rocking your hips for stimulation while you remain in a heated battle of lips and tongues.

Part of you wants to continue, to move down toward where he needs you most, but kissing him just feels so good. Your entire body is buzzing with pleasure, and the anticipation of the ecstasy to come.

He’s stiff as a rock now, and even with clothing acting as a barrier, the feeling of a hard cock rubbing against your clit has you whimpering already.

Seungcheol finally breaks the kiss, panting hard, and you lock eyes as you both try to collect yourselves. 

You reach a hand between your bodies, rubbing him through his sweatpants, which makes him groan again, his eyes closing. His hips rock slightly, pushing up toward your palm.

Then, quite suddenly, Seungcheol flips you onto your back, his lips finding your throat as you let out a giggle of surprise.

So maybe you won’t have to be the one taking control of this situation; maybe Seungcheol just needed a bit of a push. 

He grinds down against your core at the same time his mouth finds your sweet spot, and you let out a moan, tangling your fingers through his hair.

One of his hands reaches up to cup your breast, his thumb teasing your nipple through your shirt. Your buds are hard and ready to be attended to, and when Seungcheol realizes this, his mouth descends from your neck.

You take the opportunity to try to get a breath while you lift your shirt, and he gives you enough space to take it off completely, now leaving your torso bare for him.

“You’re so pretty,” he groans, his hair tickling your skin as he leans down to lick one of your nipples, his hand massaging the other breast.

You can only mewl in response, your entire body lighting up with pleasure as he begins to suck on your sensitive bud. 

As he works you up, you continue to tangle your fingers in his soft hair, using him as an anchor of sorts as you give yourself to him.

Your core is practically throbbing now, and you can feel your panties getting wetter by the second, your body anticipating something you haven’t had in months. 

While you’ve chosen to be celibate and distance yourself from men, you still have needs, needs that have never been quite fulfilled while flying solo. You’re shocked at how sensitive your body is, how you react when he flicks his tongue against your nipple and makes you gasp, writhing against the bed as insatiable need overtakes you.

You’re getting more desperate by the second, but you do your best to take what he’s giving you, to let him choose the pace now. 

By the time he sinks lower, kissing down your abdomen and hooking his fingers in your shorts, you’re sure your panties are soaked through.

“Can I take these off?” he asks.

“Please,” you moan, lifting your hips to make the task easier.

There’s a distant rumble of thunder outside, and the air in your room is cool as Seungcheol gets you completely naked, but there’s something comforting about sex during a storm.

Seungcheol gets down onto his knees next to the bed, and your heart skips a beat when he drags you closer, his breath warm on your wet core.

“Please, I need-” you whimper, writhing against the sheets already.

“I’ve got you,” Seungcheol promises, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

The slow way he works his mouth toward your core has your skin feeling electrified, and you’re throbbing by the time he makes contact with your pussy.

He starts with a long, drawn-out lick that ends with your clit, which he circles deliciously with the tip of his tongue. 

“Oh my God,” you pant, throwing your head back as your entire body jolts from such a soft, yet intense motion.

You feel Seungcheol smirk a little as he continues to kitten-lick you, switching between soft kisses and languid movements with his tongue.

His warm hands find your thighs, and he pushes them into a spread eagle position, giving him plenty of room to work on you.

“Cheol!” you whimper when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking on it with a little more pressure. “I’m close already!”

You’re not sure if your sensitivity is due to going so long without having the proper attention of a man, or if it’s because Seungcheol is just so good at this, and you have such a great connection.  Regardless, your muscles are already tensing, and your eyes are clenched shut, your breath coming out in hot pants of pleasure.

Seungcheol lets out a small groan, and the vibration makes your legs shake, your body teetering on the edge. You understand his sound as an affirmation that you can cum, that he wants you to experience an orgasm without holding back.

So you don’t hold back.

You reach down and tangle your fingers in his hair again, prompting him to suck on your clit harder, and seconds later, your first orgasm crashes into you like the thunder that erupts in the skies outside.

You’re a moaning mess as he works you through your high, your core throbbing desperately around nothing as waves of pleasure overtake you. 

Fuck, cumming has never felt this good, and it leaves you breathless as your muscles begin to relax.

You let go of his hair, and Seungcheol chuckles, pulling away from your core to look up at you.

“Was that okay?” he asks.

“That was amazing,” you tell him, heart still racing in your ribcage.

“Yeah?” He plays with your slit, rubbing you with a finger, toying the tip inside of you, and making you groan.

“More,” you demand. “Please.” 

“You got it, princess,” he muses, pushing his digit into you, testing your walls, which immediately try to clench around him.

It feels like you haven’t been touched here in years, and your body is eager for this. As he finger fucks you gently, adding a second finger, you can hear your pussy squelching, its wet sounds mixing with the noise of rain splattering against concrete, brick, and glass outside.

“You sound so pretty when you cum,” Seungcheol muses, leaning in to press a kiss to your clit that makes you shiver. “I want to hear it again.”

Two orgasms before he even puts his cock in you? 

You’ll take that action.

You wiggle your hips slightly, looking for more pressure, and Seungcheol responds by crooking his fingers up to find your G-spot. You groan deeply from the feeling, closing your eyes and focusing on the pleasure that’s still surging through you.

“Right there?” he asks.

“Right there,” you confirm. “Feels so good.”

Satisfied he’s found a good spot, Seungcheol presses his mouth to your clit again, sucking on the sensitive bud and making your legs shake.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, pleasure radiating out from your core and engulfing your entire body.

The combination of pressure on your G-spot and his mouth on your clit has you writhing within minutes, grasping at the bed sheets, heart thundering in your chest.

“Just like that,” you tell him, “I’m close again.” 

Like the first orgasm, when you tell Seungcheol you’re close, he increases the pressure of his motions, sucking your clit harder and thrusting his fingers up into your sweet spot with a faster speed that has you seeing stars.

All you can do is whimper and moan in ecstasy as you get closer and closer to the edge again. 

You let out a loud gasp and a moan when you cum, your core clamping down on his fingers, squeezing him as he works you through your second high.

Your entire body is pulsating. There are no thoughts in your mind as you give yourself completely to the pleasure.

He works you through your high until you’re twitching, almost overstimulated by all the sensations overwhelming your body. Then, Seungcheol pulls away.

You open your eyes to watch him lick his fingers clean, releasing a small groan, then he heads over to where his hoodie is lying on the floor. He pulls out his wallet. “I brought a condom just in case,” he tells you shyly, rubbing the back of his neck as his skin blossoms with pink.

“Good idea,” you tell him, still trying to catch your breath.

You adjust on the bed, scooting back up so you can rest against the pillows.

Seungcheol slips off his sweatpants, and you have to swallow the drool that immediately fills your mouth at the sight of him.

He’s big.

Maybe the biggest you’ve ever seen up close like this, and suddenly, you’re thankful he’d worked you open with his fingers because how else would you fit a cock of his size inside of you after being celibate for months?

He rolls the condom onto his cock, and then he joins you in bed.

You’re struck by how shy he is as you pull him close, pressing your lips to his pink cheek. “I want this,” you assure him again.

“I do too,” he tells you, nuzzling his nose against your throat. “Let me know if it’s too big or I need to slow down or-”

“You’ll be fine,” you tell him, nibbling on his earlobe. “We’ll make it fit.”

He laughs a little at your comment, and to try to show him you truly mean it, you reach between your bodies to grab his cock. Your thumb and pointer finger can’t even touch with the girth of him, and you groan as you adjust his tip to your entrance.

Seungcheol lets out a shaky breath, looking down at where you’re gripping him, then back at you.

As he pushes his tip into your wet core, he presses his lips to yours, and you kiss him back desperately as he stretches you open, slowly working himself deeper and deeper and deeper.

You can’t help the whimpers that escape you, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as your body adjusts to accommodate him. 

When he’s fully snug inside of you, you both break the kiss to take strangled breaths, and Seungcheol swallows thickly. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You nod, trying to slow the racing of your heart, but it’s a pointless attempt because when he slowly starts to fuck you, your pulse surges even faster.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, throwing your head back, which gives Seungcheol more room to press his lips to your throat.

He fucks you languidly, still giving your body time to adjust to his motions while he does his best to relax you with kisses elsewhere.

Your toes are curling already, and you adjust slightly, lifting your thigh higher onto his hip for a better angle.

The tip of his cock hits a spot deep inside of you that makes you groan, and you thread your fingers in his hair, drawing his mouth back to your own.

His pace is slowly increasing, matching the desperate way your lips are locked. The room is filled with the sound of skin on skin, the noise of the rain and thunder outside, and the music of moans intermingling as you find pleasure in one another.

“Wait,” you tell him, as you feel another orgasm threatening to bubble in the pit of your stomach. “I want to be on top.”

There’s a moment where he looks shocked, but then he nods, allowing you to flip him over onto his back.

You press your hands against his broad chest to get an anchor, enjoying the view of him below you. Then you slowly ride him. It’s a shift in pace, but it feels so good to be on top, and when he presses his thumb to your clit, your entire core tightens around him.

You let out a deep moan, throwing your head back and bouncing faster.

“You’re so pretty like this,” Seungcheol groans, his other hand cupping your breast and teasing your nipple, making you whimper even louder.

Then, he begins to rut his hips, fucking up into you and making you gasp.

“Cheol,” you groan, knowing that an orgasm is now extremely close.

Seungcheol sits up abruptly, cupping the back of your head so he can press his lips to yours.

You grab onto his shoulders, anchoring yourself better as you bounce desperately on top of his cock, chasing the high that’s so close you can almost taste it.

A few seconds later, you cum with a loud gasp, throwing your head back as your walls threaten to suffocate his length, which is still buried completely inside of you as you sink to a fully seated position. 

Seungcheol growls, pressing his lips to your throat, and as your walls clench around his cock, he jolts, signifying that he’s cumming too.

Part of you wishes he didn’t have to wear a condom, but he’s a firefighter, so you suppose safety is in his nature. And the flimsy piece of rubber clearly doesn’t take much away from his own orgasm if his sounds are anything to rely on.

God, his groans are music to your ears, making you whimper even louder, clutching his shoulders as the pleasure engulfs you both as if you’re one complete entity.

Your legs are shivering, and as your orgasm subsides, Seungcheol slumps back down against the bed, looking up at you. 

You’re both trying to catch your breath, but you lean down, kissing him one more time before you collapse against his shoulder, nuzzling your nose along his neck.

A large, warm hand strokes your back, comforting you as you twitch with aftershocks of one of the most insanely passionate orgasms of your life.

You spend a few minutes just breathing together, holding onto each other, and basking in the warmth and afterglow of your highs.

“I know you’re not supposed to have dessert before breakfast, but I could get used to this,” Seungcheol says, cracking a smile to finally break the soft, comfortable silence.

“I could too,” you admit with a chuckle.

“I still want to take you somewhere nice for food, though,” he assures you. “I’m not one of those guys who gets laid then stops trying.”

“Trust me, I know that.” You shake your head at him, charmed by how soft and shy and awkward he can be sometimes.

Seungcheol presses a kiss to your lips. “Maybe we could shower together first?” he suggests. “You know, proper aftercare and everything.”

Your heart melts for him, and you nod. “I’d love that.”

“Is it weird for me to say I’m excited about all of this?” he asks, his chest flushing that rosy pink colour that’s starting to become a signature of his. “I mean… you’re kind of my dream girl.”

“Cheol…”

“I mean it,” he says. “I just… I think this could really work.”

“I think so too.”

“And after breakfast, I want to go to a store and get more treats and toys for Brontë, since she’s the matchmaker behind all of this.”

You laugh, shaking your head at him. “Has anyone ever told you that for a big, burly firefighter, you’re kind of adorable?”

“Don’t tell my coworkers,” he teases.

You melt at his words, a happiness unlike any other overtaking you. As the storm continues outside, you and Seungcheol shower together, basking in the warmth and promise of this new relationship, and for the first time in a long time, you’re excited about what the future may bring. 

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I appreciate those of you who responded to my post about the tough month I've been dealing with. I'm working on posting fics earlier but life has just put me through the wringer lately.

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below! 

🔮 preview.  He’s so sexy, and you look up at him, loving the way the water drips down his chiseled chest, his curls all wet. You like the way his skin flushes, not from the temperature of the shower, but from you working him up with your mouth. The sounds he makes are the true goal, however, and the deep groans seem to echo in the small shower, filling you with confidence as you suck harder on his cock.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, shower sex, oral, pussy eating, blow job, multiple reader orgasms, reader overstimulation, praise, dirty talk, use of sex toy, vibrator, multiple sex positions, fingering, munch/pleasure kink!cheol, big dick! Seungcheol, etc…  I petnames. (hers) princess. 

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 100

🌙 starring. Seungcheol x afab!Reader

bonus

Springtime has so many new wonders now that you’re in a relationship. 

You’ve always kind of morbidly enjoyed the death, decay and antisocial vibes of Autumn, but with Seungcheol, Spring is starting to signify new hope and joy. 

He’s the king of cheesy dates, taking you to flower farms, on picnics, to the minigolf spot, and out for farmers market walks. Seungcheol has also taken to getting you lavender and other beautifully scented plants, and your apartment has truly never smelled so nice.

After months of discussion and relationship growth, the two of you are taking a new step. 

Seungcheol is moving in with you. 

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.3k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

👹 or check out what else is on my patreon here

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general taglist

@gotshinct - @subhyuck - @fraechan - @learnthisfeeling

@runahways - @d-abin - @milkteade - @woogyuhae 

@anothershorthuman - @nihxxy - @vantxx95 - @bangshii

@poutypoutybin - @notbeforelong - @creepybakeoven

@ninetechculture - @yungiland - @suhsfam - @binchangf

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I'm also taggling those who I thought might like this :)

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@axo-l0tl - @blspphr3 - @roseandpeaches

@meowniee -

[cielasolana]

XOXO

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: Steve and Y/N's relationship is still kinda new, so she can't help but feel a bit shy about asking for affection. Steve loves to indulge her though.

Warnings: Use of Y/N, Fluff, Cursing, Kissing, Reader is a bit shy

Word Count: 1.7K

WSQK Radio Station is homey, comfortable. When Robin and Steve had first arrived it had been more of a desolate and empty place, but now it’s got a sort of liveliness to it. 

Y/N liked to visit, lounge on the couch, complete her coursework from the nearby community college— something to busy herself with while the world seemed to end around them. And in the small town called Hawkins now confined to a quarantine, Y/N had been lucky enough to find love in Steve Harrington. Somewhere between the chaos of the crawls and the ongoing search for Vecna, the pair had gotten together. It had only been a few months, still a young romance. But things were going… well.

She looks up, and she can see him through the glass of the booth with Robin. Headphones over his ears as he performs his duties as the radio sound guy. Her gaze flicks over his person, and she can’t help but smile as he tugs at the goofy looking chicken in the booth. He catches her staring, always does— she’s been staring quite a bit recently. Steve offers her a dazzling smile, only to be swatted at by Robin when he fails to follow a sound cue. His gaze flicks back to the array of options before he quickly focuses back on the task at hand. 

Y/N laughs at the sight, her own gaze returning to the textbook she’d been reading mindlessly, looking over the same line again and again. But she hears the door to the booth open shortly after, Steve stepping outside, tugging the headphones off on ear as he steps over to where she is on the couch. “Hey.” He’s a little breathless, a dimpled smile on his face. 

“Hi.” She greets, almost shy as he dips down to peck her cheek. “Break time?”

“Break time.” He echoes back the words as he plops down onto the couch beside her, arm sliding over her shoulders, he gently tugs her closer. She comes with no struggle, pressing her face into his chest, textbook long forgotten. “You good?”

Steve finds it interesting. On one hand, she seems to downright melt into his affection. The second his hands are on her, she’s keening for more. On the other hand, she never seems to initiate any affection of her own. It’s one of those things about new relationships where he doesn't know if he should try to address it or maybe it's just a part of how she is. He can’t help but feel… maybe a bit insecure about it, was there something about him that made her not want to touch him? Steve wasn’t sure. 

She hums, and nods in response. Her eyes flutter shut as she indulges in his touch. “Just tired.” 

His brows furrow at her words, hand coming to pat her head. “I can take you home. I’m sure Robin will manage—” 

She’s already shaking her head. Sighing as she leans back to look at him. “‘M good.” She slips her hand into his, messing with his fingers absently. “How’s it been going in there?” 

Steve starts talking, and again, she’s just… staring at him. He doesn’t notice at first, rambling on about his day so far. But the lack of comments on her end is what pulls him out of it, he trails off and looks at her. Tilting his head a bit like a kicked puppy. “Something wrong?” The words leave his mouth before he can think, his brows furrowed as a hand comes to cup her jaw, thumb rubbing gently over her chin. 

She blinks, her cheeks warming at the affection, eyes fluttering as she shakes her head. “Told you ‘m fine.” She responds, but she’s quiet this time, almost shy. And the answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him at all. 

Steve almost pouts, his brows strewn together, he huffs. “You’re acting weird.” He remarks simply. 

He looks cute. He is cute. And he’s her boyfriend. Her lovely, perfect, very attractive boyfriend. Y/N knows that at this point in their relationship— she should probably be a bit more comfortable expressing her needs and wants. In fact, one could easily argue that her behavior is just a tad unhealthy. But she can’t help it. It’s embarrassing. 

She just really, really, really wants to kiss him. 

It’s something so small, miniscule, really. She shouldn’t struggle with asking, or even just initiating something so simple. But she can’t help but feel… shy about it. Their relationship is still pretty new, and a part of her doesn’t want Steve to think she’s clingy or anything like that. But she can’t help but stare at him and think: she really wants a kiss. 

“Later.” Is the answer she settles for. Because Robin is still in the booth, and she can already picture the ‘ew! Seriously guys?’ and a myriad of other groans in disgust at the sight of any further affection between them. Y/N doesn’t think that’ll help the raging embarrassment she feels for wanting to do something as simple as kiss her boyfriend. 

He frowns a bit at her response. Later? What was later? She’d tell him later? Tell him what? Okay, maybe he’s spiraling a bit. But Steve can’t help but feel filled with anxiety. So, instead, he leans forward to nudge his nose against her cheek affectionately. “Now.” It’s meant to be a demand, but it comes out as more of a request. “What’s on your mind?”

She huffs, scrunching her nose, her face warms a bit. The affection makes her mind go hazy, she can’t help but indulge him and explain her thoughts. “Just…” Her hand comes to his cheek, she smooths her thumb over the skin, eyes darting over his face, taking him in. “I want a kiss is all.” She murmurs softly, almost shy. 

Oh.

Oh. 

Steve’s face splits into a giant grin, he perks up like a dog hearing the word ‘walk’ out of his owner’s mouth. “Yeah?” It’s rare she straight up asks for affection, and hearing that admission leaving her lips makes him feel like he’s struck gold. Steve adores her, he’s more than happy to make her wish come true. In fact, he seems far too eager to make it happen, a shit-eating grin on his face that makes her feel like he’s a cat that’s just caught it’s prey. 

Asshole.

“Don’t make fun of me.” She grumbles, her expression souring. Despite her response sounding like annoyance, her face is warm with embarrassment. The vulnerability of her request washing over her. It’s a simple thing to want, a kiss from her boyfriend. And yet, she feels like she’s asking him to move mountains. Like she’s committed some atrocity by even making the request. 

Immediately, he shakes his head. Quickly realizing that if even an ounce of teasing drips into his tone, he may never get another chance like this. “I’m not.” He insists, shifting on the couch, leaning forwards to kiss her cheek sloppily. “I can give you a kiss, Angel.” He says, head already dipping down, his nose nudges against hers. “You only gotta ask, I’ll always give you what you want.” Because his girl— his sweet girl, had asked him for a kiss. She had asked and he was gonna give it to her. How could he have had it so wrong? Evidently, his beloved girlfriend didn’t dislike his touch. Far from it, she was just too shy to ask for it. He couldn’t allow that, could he? 

He’s going to kill her, she thinks. His words sweet and syrupy, they go straight to her head as her breath stutters from the sudden proximity. She swallows, nervous, as if they haven’t kissed hundreds of times before. 

“Could never deny my girl.” He mumbles, breath hot against her lips. He’s close, so so so close. 

Oh god, she’s gonna die. 

Her eyes flutter, and he swears he can feel her lashes kiss his skin from how close they are. “Can I, sweet girl?” He asks softly. 

She nods, slowly, and his hand comes to cup her cheek before he’s leaning in to kiss her. 

It’s not a peck, nothing too short, nothing that would leave her wanting more. It’s also not a crazy kiss, nothing that would be inappropriate in public. But Steve makes a point to satiate her as his hand slides to her nape, head tilting to the side to deepen the kiss a little. Her own hand drifts to his bicep, eyes fluttered shut. He pulls away after a few moments. 

It’s moments like these that she’s reminded, he’s her boyfriend. Hers. She can kiss him. Whenever she wants. It’s a thought that fills her chest with warmth, a sort of giddiness flooding her system as lets out a breathless giggle. 

Steve hums at the sound, letting out an almost offended noise. “Laughing at me?” He asks, leaning forward to nip at her ear. “Rude.” 

She can only giggle again as he starts kissing her skin. His lips traveling over every inch they can reach: her cheeks, her nose, the corner of her mouth, her jaw. His hands cupping her cheeks to hold her in place while she laughs out his name. The sound is music to his ears, the type of thing he wants to hear for the rest of his days if he can. 

He only stops when he is, rather rudely, interrupted by the sound of a fist banging against the glass of the booth window. Where Robin is mouthing some sort of swear at him and gesturing for him to get back into the booth. He groans in annoyance, sitting up from the couch. “I’ll be back.” He says, hand drifting back to her nape, he leans forward to peck her lips one more time. 

“I know.” She responds, a mumble against his lips. “Go get ‘em tiger.”

He gives the back of her neck a little squeeze, offering her a smile before the banging on the booth window starts up again. He groans and pulls away, offering her a pitiful look before turning around to flip Robin off, who responds in kind. 

He leaves Y/N to her own devices, and she can’t help but feel a warmth in her chest. The type of feeling that only Steve gives her. She stares at him again as he settles back into the booth, headphones returning to his ears as he sorts through the tapes. 

She’s definitely gonna steal another kiss later.

feel free to tip ☕️ — always appreciated, never expected 💛

Note: me 🤝 steve fluff

[earth2starkey]

₊˚⊹ stars in his eyes | steve harrington x reader

summary: steve harrington should be listening while his friends are talking. instead, he’s watching you from across the room, curled up with a book, like he hasn’t been in love with you for years already.

warnings/tags: steve harrington x reader, established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, soft steve harrington, roommates / found family, reader wears glasses, soft teasing, steve harrington being in love, no use of y/n, alternate universe tbh no upside down drama, no spoilers

wc: ~1.3k

cutie lace divider by: @uzmacchiato

Steve Harrington is supposed to be listening.

That’s usually easy enough. This kitchen, their kitchen, has seen enough late-night conversations and half-burnt dinners and arguments that turn into laughter to make listening second nature. He knows the rhythm of it all. Knows Robin’s pacing when she’s mid-rant, the way Jonathan leans like he’s trying to disappear into walls, the way Nancy always ends up holding a mug whether she remembers pouring herself something or not.

They’re roommates. All of them, in one way or another. Technically, it’s Steve, Robin, and you on the lease, the ones who split rent, argue over utilities, and pretend not to notice when the grocery bill gets a little too high. But Jonathan and Nancy are there so often they might as well have their own bedroom and designated mugs in the cupboard. There’s a drawer that somehow became Jonathan’s, a stack of Nancy’s papers that never leaves the counter, shoes by the door that no one questions anymore. Found family stacked into a too-small house with creaky floors and mismatched chairs, a fridge covered in notes that say things like who finished the milk?? and don’t eat this and seriously, Robin.

Robin is currently mid-story, hands moving wildly as she talks, voice bouncing off the cabinets as she recounts some disastrous interaction at Family Video earlier that day. Jonathan’s leaning against the counter, nodding along, occasionally adding a dry comment that makes Nancy snort into her mug. It’s easy and familiar and comfortable in the way only shared history can be.

Steve is physically present.

Mentally, though? He’s gone.

He’s sitting at the small kitchen table, one leg hooked around the rung of the chair, elbow propped up, chin resting in his palm. His eyes aren’t on Robin as she talks, and they’re not on Jonathan or Nancy either.

They’re on you.

You’re curled up at the far end of the couch, tucked into the corner like you’ve always belonged there, which, really, you have. One socked foot is folded beneath your thigh, the other lazily nudging against the armrest. You’re wrapped in one of Steve’s old sweatshirts, the navy one with the frayed cuffs he refuses to get rid of, and the sleeves are pulled down over your hands as you hold your book.

Your hair is still a little messy from the bun you’d had it in earlier, now loose and soft around your face. Big frame glasses sit low on your nose, catching the lamplight every time you shift. There’s a crease between your brows as you read, lips moving ever so slightly like you’re mouthing the words in your head. Every once in a while, you pause, thumb marking the page with a dog ear, gaze drifting unfocused as you think about whatever you just read.

Steve watches like it’s the most important thing in the world.

It hits him the same way it always does, quiet and sudden and overwhelming. That familiar swell in his chest, the one that makes him feel sixteen and twenty-three and something in between, and all at once. Like he’s still discovering you, even after all this time.

Several years together. Shared mornings where one of you wakes up before the other and just stays. fears whispered into pillows. Shared grocery lists written in different handwriting and lazy Sundays spent doing absolutely nothing. Shared silence that never feels empty.

And still, this.

Still the way his heart stutters when you absently tuck your hair behind your ear. Still the way the world seems to narrow until it’s just you and the soft sound of your book pages turning, like the rest of life has dimmed itself out of respect.

“Steve.”

Robin snaps her fingers in front of his face.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Huh?”

Nancy raises an eyebrow, lips twitching in amusement as she takes in her best friend. Jonathan glances past him, follows his line of sight, and immediately understands.

“Oh,” Jonathan says, like something has just clicked into place. His eyes dart toward Nancy and they have a small conversation with their eyes before she also follows his line of sight.

“Oh,” Nancy echoes, amused.

Robin turns slowly, dramatically, like she’s afraid of spooking a wild animal.

“You’re doing it again,” she says.

Steve frowns. “Doing what?”

“The thing,” Robin says. “The staring. The,” she gestures vaguely at his face, “the ‘I have never seen a human woman before in my life’ expression.”

Steve straightens, defensive. “I’m not staring.”

Nancy takes a sip of her coffee. “You haven’t blinked in, like, a full minute.”

Jonathan checks his watch. “Honestly, it might be longer.”

“Kinda impressive, honestly.” Nancy grins from behind her mug.

Steve scoffs, cheeks warming. “You guys are being dramatic.”

Robin grins, one that’s equal parts sharp and knowing. “Buddy, you look like you’re one piano ballad away from proposing.”

That finally gets a reaction out of you.

You glance up from your book, eyes flicking from Robin to Steve. “Proposing what?”

Steve’s ears turn red at that, as if marriage and kids hadn’t already been a familiar topic between the two of you—one that’s whispered beneath the shadows of your shared bedroom.

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “She’s lying.”

Robin gasps. “Wow. Bold of you to accuse me of slander in my own kitchen.”

You smile at their light bickering, soft and fond, the corner of the page still pinched between your fingers. “What were you staring at, then?”

Steve opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

He looks at you, really looks at you, and his expression gives him away entirely. The warmth in his eyes, the way his shoulders soften, as if the rest of the room fades the second you have his attention.

You tilt your head, amused. “Steve?”

Jonathan mutters, “Oh my god,” under his breath.

Steve finally exhales, defeated but smiling. “You.”

Robin throws her hands up, her voice half yell and half laughter. “There it is.”

Nancy can’t help but laugh too. “You’d think after years he’d be over it.”

Steve shakes his head, earnest, as he shrugs. “Never.”

Your smile gentles, something warm blooming in your chest. You place your book mark (a Polaroid of you and Steve from the previous Christmas) between the pages, close your book, setting it aside on the arm of the couch, and stand. You cross the short distance into the kitchen, steps unhurried. When you stop between his knees, it feels like muscle memory on both sides, his hands already lifting, already settling at your hips where they always fit so naturally.

You turn and sink into his lap, sideways, fitting against him like it was always meant to be this easy. One arm slips around his shoulders, the other resting loosely against his chest. He exhales a long and quiet breath, forehead tipping just slightly toward you.

You lean down then, pressing a kiss to his lips, soft, familiar, sweet.

“Hi,” you murmur.

Steve smiles like you’ve just handed him the moon. “Hi.”

Robin watches the whole thing with a dramatic gag. “I feel like I need to leave you two a room. Or maybe the whole house.”

Jonathan snorts but doesn’t move. Nancy doesn’t either, just smiles into her mug, with a look that reads nothing but fondness.

Steve huffs. “Rude.”

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Let him,” you say softly. “I kinda like it.”

Steve’s grip tightens protectively, just a little. His thumb traces absent circles at your hip, grounding himself in the simple fact that you’re real, you’re here, you chose him again today.

Conversation drifts back in around you. Robin keeps talking, Jonathan adding comments, and Nancy listens like always. Life continues, overlapping and warm.

Steve doesn’t stop staring, because he never will, and somewhere in the quiet center of his chest, steady and certain, is the thought that always comes back to him in moments like this:

If this is the rest of his life, shared kitchens and teasing friends and you curled into him without hesitation, then he’s already won.

And honestly?

No one’s even surprised.

[slugbus]

autumn/winter affirmations:

7 p.m. is not late

your day is not over at 7 p.m.

you are allowed to leave your house after it gets dark

7 p.m. is so early

[letsnotandsaywewantedto]

5 p.m. is not late

your day is not over at 5 p.m.

you are allowed to leave your house after it gets dark

5 p.m. is so early

[eggsdoodz]

⋆༄.

[stardustrider]

Lessons in assertiveness

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: based on this request. I cannot express how much I loved it and how much I felt myself being there in this fic 🙈

Warnings: fluff, angst, SMUT 18+ yeah, it's all in again 😅 and a lot of overthinking and self doubt on both sides – lots of mutual pinning between two idiots in love, sub/dom vibes, switchy Bucky, mention of masturbation, oral (m and f receiving), p in v. Thunderbolts timeline.

Word Count: 20K ( I know and I'm sorry 😓)

Summary: Your first day as the Thunderbolts’ lead physiotherapist ends in tears. You’re not cut out for this, not for authority, not for giving orders, not for standing your ground. So when Bucky Barnes unexpectedly offers to help you grow more assertive, you say yes. What choice do you have? Are you playing with fire? Absolutely. The only question is… who’s going to get burned?

The worst part wasn’t the phone call that woke you up in the middle of the night.

It wasn’t even the broken leg, or the muttered apology from Dr. Pierce as he groaned through the painkillers, trying to joke about how “trees are harder than they look” after he had apparently spiraled into one on the last day of his vacation. 

No, the worst part was this – standing in the training gym at 08:00 hours, your clipboard clenched like a life raft, with the Thunderbolts staring at you like you’ve wandered into the wrong room.

Your ID badge felt too heavy, your sneakers were too loud, the white scrubs looked ridiculous on you and your throat was too dry to swallow the ball of panic lodged somewhere behind your tongue.

You were not supposed to be here.

You were supposed to be behind the desk, scribbling notes, typing reports, handing out towels, quietly observing as Dr. Pierce adjusted muscle groups, guided post-mission stretches, or cracked a vertebra back into place with that smug, overconfident smile that was almost his trademark. 

Like the time Yelena came in complaining of a stiff neck, and he applied pressure to completely the wrong trigger points, barely listening to her explanation.

Later, when you gently asked him why he’d chosen those spots, he didn’t even look up from his tablet.

“Oh, that? She’ll be fine. These people throw themselves off buildings for a living. You think a bit of tension’s gonna kill her?”

He chuckled and waved you off.

“I don’t have time to babysit every pulled muscle. They want perfect posture, they can go do yoga. I give it two days and someone will punch her in the face and reset her spine anyway. They’re superheroes. They can take a little pain.”

You didn’t argue, just nodded quietly and made a note, not in his records, but in your own private file: a reminder to order a proper support pillow for Yelena. 

You were just the assistant, the quiet one, the shadow, the name no one ever remembered. How many times had you handed Walker a cooling pack or wrapped his wrist with a pressure band, only for him to glance at you and say, with that same grin, “Hey, are you new here?”

You were the kind of person people tended to overlook, and honestly, you were fine with that, you even liked it that way. You had never asked for this… to be in the spotlight. 

But the fact was – you hadn’t been given a real choice. Dr. Pierce was out for a minimum of six weeks, and apparently, no one else was available, or willing, to step in. 

“Sweetheart, you’ve got the diploma, haven’t you?” Valentina’s voice had sounded more irritated than encouraging. “You’ve been working with the team for almost half a year. You know all the records, so what’s the problem?”

You’d opened your mouth, heart thudding, trying to form the words.

“I just… I don’t have the experience, not really. I’ve never… I mean, I wasn’t supposed to…”

“Bullshit,” Valentina hadn’t even let you finish as her voice cut through your hesitation like a knife.

“Either you take over, or you pack your things and start job hunting. And don’t expect me to write you a glowing reference if you choose the latter.”

And that was it, your fate was sealed with a shrug, and here you were, trying not to drown in your own sweat while facing down a team of intense, battle-hardened, and objectively terrifying people… with nothing but a clipboard clutched so tightly your knuckles had gone white.

"Where’s the physio?" Yelena asked, biting into an apple without even glancing in your direction.

“Dr. Pierce… is prevented…he… he broke his leg,” you murmured, eyes fixed on your shoelaces like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. “Snowboarding accident. Spiral fracture. Tibial shaft.”

Yelena paused, brows furrowing slightly as she took another loud crunch. “Wait. You’re the new physio?”

“I… I’m just stepping in. Temporarily,” you stammered. “He’ll be okay, but I’m… uh…filling in. Just until he’s back on his feet.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Have you done this before?”

“Yes, I mean, I have. I was his assistant. I… still am. Technically.”

You were rambling. God, you were rambling, and you couldn’t stop.

John Walker was already halfway through bandaging his own wrist, watching you with barely disguised skepticism. “You sure you can handle us on your own?”

“I… yes. I’ve been involved in every case file. I know all your baselines, every rehab plan, the progress notes, and…”, you trailed off. 

Fuck, you sounded like you were trying to convince yourself.

Your heart had apparently sunk into your stomach, dragging a wave of nausea with it and having nothing else to hold on you clutched your clipboard tighter, fingers aching.

“You’re shaking,” Ghost observed from the wall, arms crossed. “Are you scared of us?”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be fine,” a quiet but steady voice came from the far corner, and your head snapped toward it before you could stop yourself.

Bucky Barnes sat on the bench, arms folded across his chest, one leg stretched out like he had all the time in the world. At first, he wasn’t even looking at you, just staring straight ahead, unreadable as always, but then, after a pause, his head turned and he winked.

Had he really winked? Or was that just your overheated, sleep-deprived imagination playing tricks on you?

It was quick, casual, like it meant nothing, but you nearly dropped dead on the spot.

Bucky Barnes, the ever-serious, infuriatingly handsome supersoldier you’d had the most hopeless, pathetic crush on since day one, had just winked at you.

Six months of sidelong glances, silent nods in passing, and shared elevator rides, six months where he’d never once shown any sign that he even knew you existed, and now, just like that, he’d smiled at you? And backed you up?

No, no, that had to be… something else. A twitch. Muscle spasms are a thing, right? 

And that smile? Don’t be silly, why would he smile at you, dummy? Just… a polite facial movement, he probably does that to stray cats and malfunctioning vending machines.

God, stop. 

He was being nice because you looked like you were about to pass out. That’s all it was, sympathy, the good soldier stepping in to rescue the trembling disaster of a temp physio.

You were literally stammering like a broken fax machine, and he probably felt bad for you… but still. He winked, like, actual eye contact and everything. 

He may have even seen me.

Oh no. Oh God. I’m so screwed.

Your thoughts were spiraling like a flock of startled chickens, while you sheepishly glanced around the room.

Ghost raised an eyebrow but said nothing, Yelena went back to her apple, entirely unimpressed, and Walker rolled his eyes and muttered something about “babysitters.”

Get it together… you mentally slapped yourself, forcing a breath into your lungs before clearing your throat.

“I… I’ll start with whoever’s free first. We… we could do ROM assessments, then tissue checks. Standard protocol. And… we’ll review any current complaints.”

Your voice trembled, just slightly, but you heard it, and you hated it.

No one volunteered.

Your hand twitched around your clipboard as you looked down on it. “Or… or I can assign time slots…”

“Oh, she assigns now,” Yelena smirked.

“Just pick someone, sweetheart,” John said, already walking off. “We don’t bite.”

That wasn’t even your biggest fear, though honestly, Ava looked like she might.

What you were really afraid of was messing up, you were afraid that they’d see you for what you truly were – nervous, fumbling, voice cracking mess – and it would only confirm what you already had told yourself so many times.

You didn’t belong here.

You actually found yourself praying that someone, anyone, would pull you aside and just say, “Sorry, there’s been a mistake.”

You’d probably kiss them out of sheer gratitude. Well… no, you wouldn’t, you were far too shy for that, but still, the feeling was there.

“Walker,” Bucky said suddenly, cutting clean through your chaotic stream of thoughts. “You’re first.”

John turned, brows raised. “What?”

“You dislocated your shoulder on the last mission,” Bucky replied, calm and firm. “You need her. Stop acting like a dumbass and let her do her job.”

That earned a snort from Yelena, and Walker muttered something under his breath but turned around and started walking toward you.

You blinked, stunned for a beat, clipboard still clutched in your hands, cleared your throat and tried to speak past the lump that had somehow grown just bigger in your throat.

“Um… c-could you follow me to the treatment room? Please. If you don’t mind.”

John raised an eyebrow but shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”

He didn’t seem thrilled, but he followed you anyway as you led the way.

God. Why were you asking if he minds? Do you really think he would prefer to be treated there on the spot, in the gym, on the floor perhaps?

Once inside the room, the door clicked shut behind you and suddenly it was just you and him and a silence that felt way too heavy. You gestured toward the padded table.

“If you could, um… just sit there? Unless you'd rather stand… or maybe you’d prefer to lay down. I can do it like that as well, I don’t mind.”

He gave you a look laced with half amusement and half confusion, shrugged with his shoulders and lowered himself onto the table with a grunt.

You hovered near the equipment cart, pretending to adjust something you didn’t need to, just to delay touching him.

“I’ll just, um… check your range of motion first. If that’s okay? If anything hurts too much, please let me know. Not that I expect it to hurt, but if it does, just… just say something.”

You stepped forward and gently placed your hands on his shoulder, then immediately pulled back.

“Sorry. Sorry, I should’ve said I was going to do that. I didn’t mean to just… I’ll be careful.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re nervous.”

You let out a sound that was supposed to be a laugh but came out like a wheeze. “No… I mean yes… but not because of you, just… everything.”

You guided his arm up, his shoulder definitely wasn’t moving right, but his attention was less on the movement and more on you.

“The other guy… he used to roll the joint out first,” John muttered.

“Oh…um, yes, I know… I mean, I remember... That’s not wrong, just… he did it differently. I was taught to assess the… um … tension first before trying anything else that might … that might worsen the displacement, but we can do it his way if that’s more… if that’s what you're used to.”

You tried to guide Walker’s arm again, but he tensed against you slightly, clearly not following your lead.

“I just need you to let the arm relax so I can see where the… where the glenohumeral joint is resisting, because that’ll help me realign the scapula without triggering the… um… the anterior deltoid.”

John blinked at you. “You’re gonna need to say that in English.”

You wanted to disappear, you could practically feel the heat crawling up your neck and into your ears.

“Sorry… I just… I meant if you could please let it go loose? I’ll… I'll move it. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

He exhaled like this was taking too long but at least he didn’t argue. You moved again, more carefully this time, and despite everything, the rambling, the awkward instructions, you finally found the angle you needed.

With one subtle adjustment and a light pressure shift, you felt the joint slip neatly into place with a soft click.

John flinched and froze.

“Wait. What was that?”

You blinked, wide-eyed. “I… um… I think it settled. I mean, the shoulder, it's back in place.”

He rolled it slowly, then again and his brows lifted.

“…Huh. Damn, that actually feels good and it didn’t even hurt.”

You didn’t hear him, not really.

Great. Just… great.

You rambled like an idiot, confused him, barely gave clear instructions and then panicked halfway through and stood there waving your hands around like you were trying to land a plane instead of fix a shoulder.

So professional. Gold star.

“Let the arm go loose”?  What does that even mean? Who says that? You sounded like a malfunctioning yoga app with a mental breakdown.

And of course,  of course, the ingenious “glenohumeral joint”. Was it supposed to impress him? As if textbook jargon was going to magically distract from the fact that you didn’t explain a damn thing in normal-person English.

He probably thinks you’re all talk and zero clue, and maybe he’s not wrong.

You should’ve just done it Pierce's way. Yes, it was wrong, but at least he didn’t stumble through every sentence like he was asking for permission to exist.

God, what were you even doing? That was a disaster. A full-on clinical disaster.

You couldn’t even keep your voice steady, and you sure as hell didn’t look like someone who knew what they were doing. 

And the worst part? You knew how to do this. In your head, you knew exactly what needed to be done, you’ve done it a dozen times, quietly, carefully, correctly, but the second eyes were on you, the second you were in charge and not just carrying out what the doc said? Gone, all your knowledge turning into vapor.

You blew it, girl!

You couldn’t even look at Walker as he got off the table and left the room, you were too busy scolding yourself and silently preparing to fail again.

Bucky stood just outside the treatment room, staring at the chipped paint on the edge of the doorframe like it might offer him an excuse not to knock.

The hallway was quiet now, the others had cleared out, which left him your final patient of the day, exactly how he’d planned it.

He’d watched Walker exit the room earlier, rotating his shoulder like it was suddenly working better than it had in weeks.

“She’s quiet but sharp. Fixed it by barely touching me. Kinda spooky,” he’d said. Coming from Walker, that was practically a love letter.

Bucky had just shrugged and nodded to Yelena to go first.

“What, Barnes? Nervous about a massage?” she’d smirked before slipping through the door, but when she came out again, her smirk had turned into a real smile as she rubbed the side of her neck, brows raised in disbelief.

“It doesn't hurt anymore. Can you imagine? The pain’s just gone. The girl has magical hands.”

Ava had gone in after that, and when the door opened again, she was actually saying, “Thanks,” out loud and voluntarily, which, for Ava, was basically a minor miracle.

Now it was finally his turn. Bucky exhaled slowly, lifted a hand and paused.

Why was he hesitating?

Maybe because, unlike the others, he didn’t have anything that actually needed fixing. No dislocated shoulder, no tight spine, no aching wrist, his next scheduled check wasn’t for another week.

But somehow, first thing this morning, as soon as he’d heard Pierce was out and being replaced by his assistant, which meant you, he’d lined up for a session anyway. Coincidence? Sure. That’s what he’d told himself.

Bucky wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself, but this? This was the exception. He’d been pretending he didn’t care about the quiet, kind and breathtakingly beautiful physio assistant for months now.

But the truth had hit him early – that first time when Pierce had dismissed his complaints about his back with a lazy “It’s nothing. Walk it off”, and you’d stepped forward just after. Soft voice and even softer hands, hesitantly offering a few careful adjustments.

“Sorry, I just… thought this might help,” you’d murmured, not meeting his eyes.

And it had helped, he’d felt better that same night, he’d slept better and he’d dreamed.  Probably the first time in a long while he had dreamt of something pleasant – of you.

After that, it had been impossible not to notice you, how you scribbled in your notebook with quiet intensity, how you gently challenged Pierce’s treatment plans when something didn’t feel right, even if he waved you off every time, how you paid attention when no one else did, checked in, followed up, adapted routines when patients weren’t improving. 

How you stayed behind after every session, alone in the room, cleaning up in silence like maybe if you left it just right, the room might thank you, might finally see you, even if nobody else did.

You never asked for attention, never took credit, never made space for yourself. You shrank to fit into corners and shadows, and yet somehow, to him, you were magnetic, he couldn’t look away.

The only problem? You never seemed to notice him.

Every time he tried to make conversation, you ducked away. Every time he lingered near you, you kept your eyes on the floor, your fingers twitching nervously at your sleeves like you wanted to disappear into the walls.

So now, with Pierce out of the picture for a while, Bucky had been quietly, selfishly glad. Not because the guy was gone (though he didn’t exactly miss him), but because it meant you finally had a chance, a real one. You were finally getting the space you’d always deserved. 

And maybe, just maybe, if the timing was kind, he might get a chance too, to be seen, or to finally face the truth… that he never really had a chance with you. 

And that was actually the hard part. That was why his hand still hovered in the air, just inches from the door, unwilling to knock. Because maybe he wasn’t ready for the truth, maybe he didn’t want to know.

The door creaked softly as he finally pushed it open, stepped inside and closed it behind him. 

The light in the room was dim, the overheads off, just the soft desk lamp casting a low golden halo across one half of the treatment table.

And there you were, not standing, not cleaning up or scribbling notes like usual, no, you were crouched at the desk, shoulders hunched, arms folded up tight like you were holding yourself together with your own elbows, head in your hands.

You hadn’t even heard him come in and you were crying.

Not loud, not messy, not the kind of crying that demanded attention, this was quiet, exhausted crying, the kind that came when no one was supposed to see. Shoulders trembling ever so slightly, breathing uneven, holding it all in until your body just… gave out under it.

Bucky froze.

His first instinct was to back out and close the door like he’d never been there, like maybe he could give you the moment back, tuck it into silence again so you could fall apart without anyone watching. 

You looked so small like that, folded in on yourself, as if even your own skin was too loud.

A lump rose in his throat and with it, something heavy, guilt, maybe, or helplessness.

He didn’t know what to do. Not here and not like this with a girl he liked, really liked, sitting in the half-dark, crying as quietly as she existed most days.

He had no script for that and still, he couldn’t walk away.

So he just stood there for a second too long, the sound of your soft, broken breathing echoing in his mind, then he cleared his throat softly, not loud enough to startle you, but just enough to announce himself.

You jolted upright like you’d been caught stealing something, wiped at your face in a panic, like erasing the tears might erase the moment, as your hands fumbled for something on the desk – a pen, your clipboard, anything to make yourself look busy.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said quickly, voice shaking. “I… I… didn’t realize anyone was still… still waiting.”

Bucky took a slow step forward, keeping his voice low. “I… I can come back later. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Really, Barnes? That’s all you’ve got?

She’s sitting there, clearly trying to hold herself together with what’s left of her nerves, and you mumble “I didn’t want to disturb you” like you just walked in on someone getting changed?

Smooth. Real smooth.

You should’ve said something better, something real, like how hard she worked today, how you noticed. How you always notice. 

You should’ve told her she didn’t have to be perfect, that it was okay not to be okay.

As much as he wanted to say something else, something more appropriate and heartfelt,  his mouth stayed where it always did when it came to you – somewhere behind his ribs. So instead, he just stood there, helpless and still, watching you try to stitch yourself back together.

“I’m … I’m fine… I just…” you looked down again, blinking hard. “It’s nothing. Really.”

Great. Just great.

You can’t even make it through one day without turning into a human meltdown. Of course he had to walk in now, not ten minutes later, not when you’d had a chance to wash your face or pretend you were just reorganizing supplies or… literally anything else.

Nope, Bucky Barnes had to see you like this – hunched over, blotchy-faced, probably still doing that weird hiccup thing when you try not to cry.

Brilliant. Perfect timing. Really top-tier professionalism.

Why are you like this? Why couldn’t you just hold it together for one more patient? One! 

And now he is standing there, being nice, because of course he is nice, and you are… what? A complete wreck in a sweater you’d already sweat through and a voice that still cracks like a middle schooler’s, messy and raccoon-eyed, snot probably drying on your sleeve.

Cool. Hot. Very attractive.

Not that it matters, not that you ever had a chance with him anyway. That was just your dumb little fantasy to keep your brain entertained laying alone in your bed. But now? If there ever was a chance, even a microscopic, delusional, statistically impossible one – it was gone, torched, laid to rest beside your dignity.

You should fake your own death. Move to Finland. Never speak again.

Still, you tried to fake it, that everything was fine, that you were totally okay. 

Fake it till you make it, right? 

Except… you weren’t making it, not even close.

You stood up too fast, practically jumping to your feet, or maybe the floor just tilted, or maybe it was the mix of shame, tears, no food, no break, and whatever that awful tightness in your chest was, but suddenly the room swayed.

You made a step towards Bucky but your knees gave the slightest buckle and suddenly… warmth… steady hands… strong, calloused fingers catched you just before gravity did its work.

“Hey… whoa, hey. I got you.”

Bucky’s metal arm braced across your back, the other wrapped gently around your arm, holding you upright with steady, unshakable strength. He smelled faintly of leather, weapon oil, and that cologne he always wore – clean and masculine, never too much, not too sweet but not too sharp either. 

You loved it. That subtle, familiar scent made your heart stutter.

The warmth of him, the sheer solidity of him, was almost overwhelming, he felt like stone while you were nothing but a trembling leaf caught in a gust of wind. Heat flooded your cheeks as humiliation surged up fast and sharp.

“I… I’m fine. Sorry. I just… sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” he murmured, gentle but firm, not in a scolding manner,  just soft, steady reassurance. “It’s okay. You just got lightheaded, that’s all. Good thing I was here to catch you.”

You hated this. You hated how good he was, kind and careful, like you were a fragile, small kid, like he saw you, just not in the way you used to imagine on those long, sleepless nights, when your brain wouldn’t shut up.

Not the way you’d pictured him looking at you from the doorway of your bedroom, eyes dark and hungry, arms crossed, silent while you let your hand slip beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.

Not the way you’d imagined him standing close, just like this, murmuring your name while you touched yourself – pretending it was his hand moving lower, his fingers dipping into your wet heat, coaxing you higher and higher towards the edge, his voice growling praise into your ear while you came with his name on your lips.

God, you’d thought about him too many times, fantasized about those hands, the ones now holding you so carefully, pinning your wrists down, pushing your legs apart. About that mouth dragging across your neck, your chest, lower, whispering “so fucking pretty” while you trembled just like this, only from pleasure, not panic.

But this wasn’t the slow-burn, fantasy version of being seen, this was real, raw and absolutely mortifying.

This was him seeing you as a mess, a disaster in scrubs with puffy eyes and shaking. This was him being kind when all you wanted was to disappear. 

You tried to pull away. “I’m okay now. Really. I just stood up too fast, I didn’t mean…”

Bucky’s grip didn’t loosen.

“You didn’t eat today, did you?”

You hesitated.

“…Thought so.”

His hand gently steadied you by the elbow.

“Sit,” he said softly, nodding to the chair. “Just for a minute, there is no rush.”

You opened your mouth, ready to protest, ready to say no, no, I’m fine, let’s just get this over with, but the look in Bucky’s eyes stopped you – not pity, not judgment, just concern and silent plea. 

You sat down stiffly, fingers twisting in the hem of your sleeve, trying to pretend you weren’t two seconds away from dissolving again.

Across the room, Bucky opened the mini fridge tucked near the supply cabinet and pulled out a wrapped granola bar.

He turned, tossed it lightly between his hands, then walked back over and knelt beside you, looking up at you with those steel-blue eyes – God, those beautiful, deep pools of solid blue – that were enough to knock you off balance, even without the emotional wreckage already humming under your skin.

“Here,” he said, holding the bar out. “Eat something.”

You blinked at it. “I… I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” he said, not unkindly. “You nearly collapsed.”

“I didn’t… I just stood up too fast… and … and stumbled…”

“You haven’t eaten,” he cut in gently. “And your hands are shaking.”

You looked down. They really were, you just couldn’t tell what was causing it anymore – the blood sugar crash, or him – his presence, his hand on your knee, his breath brushing your cheek when he spoke, so close you could smell the coffee in it.

“Come on,” he added, unwrapping the bar halfway and holding it out again. “It’s not a five-star meal, but it’s got sugar and some fiber… crisis averted.”

You hesitated, feeling the heat rise in your face and the tears threatening to prick all over again. 

Why? Why were you like this?

Because he was being nice, and you didn’t know what to do with that.

You took the granola bar with trembling fingers and mumbled, “Thanks,” so quietly it barely registered.

Bucky just nodded and stayed where he was, watching carefully as you bit into the granola bar. You nearly choked on the first bite because your throat was too tight.

“Slow,” Bucky murmured, like he knew. “One bite at a time.”

You nodded, chewing carefully, blinking hard to keep everything else at bay.

He’s just being nice. You practically fainted into his arms, what else should he do? Don’t read into it, don’t be stupid. Just eat and get through this.

Another bite, another blink.

You don’t deserve this. You’re a walking disaster. Breathe and try not to fall on him again. He’ll never see you as anything else now. 

“Thank you,” you finally managed, barely more than a whisper, still looking down at your hands.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Bucky didn’t say anything else while you finished the bar, he just settled onto the floor in front of you, trading his crouch for something more comfortable, crossing his legs in that calm way that made him look something like a patient yogi, as if he had absolutely nowhere else to be. 

He didn’t rush you, didn’t push, but he didn’t look away either. He just sat there, watching you like he wanted to make absolutely sure you finished every bite and didn’t secretly stash the thing in the nearest plant pot when he blinked.

You chewed slowly, forcing each bite down past the knot in your throat, and only when the last bit was gone, when the wrapper sat crumpled in your hand and you had nothing else to do with your fingers, Bucky spoke again.

“You feel like talking now?” he asked. “About what happened?”

Your heart lurched.

“I… it’s fine,” you said too fast, too softly. “Really, it’s not a big deal. I was just tired and overwhelmed and I… it was stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said, gently but firmly.

You shook your head, eyes back on your hands. “I’m fine now. Just needed a minute.”

He watched you for a second, then tilted his head slightly. “Did someone say something?”

You blinked.

“Yelena? Walker? Ava? Did someone insult you?”

Your eyes widened slightly. “No! No, they… they weren’t rude or anything. Not really. I mean… I don’t think they meant to be rude. It was just…”

He leaned forward a little, brows gently furrowing. “But they were hard on you.”

“I just… I don’t think I was explaining things clearly. They didn’t really… trust me to know what I was doing, and honestly, I don’t blame them. I was nervous and fumbling and…”

You swallowed. “I should’ve just… been better… handled it better.”

“You handled it fine.”

It didn’t sound like he said it to comfort you, he said it like it was a fact and somehow that was even worse, because it made your chest ache, because you wanted to believe it so badly.

Your fingers crinkled the foil of the granola bar in your lap, crinkling it in your lap as you stared down at your hands. 

You didn’t know why, maybe it was the way Bucky was looking at you, but something in you cracked. The wall you always kept up slipped, just a little, and before you could stop yourself, you were speaking.

“You weren’t there at the start,” you murmured. “I froze, I rambled, I couldn’t even get them to take me seriously.”

Bucky leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees, watching you.

“I saw them walk out,” he said. “Shoulders looser, faces lighter. Yelena said her neck hasn’t felt that good in weeks. Walker stopped complaining for five whole minutes. Even Ava said thank you.”

You let out a small, wobbly breath that might’ve been a laugh. “They were just surprised. That’s not the same as being respected.”

“It’s a start,” he said simply.

You shook your head. “I just… I don’t know how to be that person… the kind that people listen to. I’ve never been that.”

There was a pause, and Bucky sat still, legs crossed, heart climbing steadily into his throat as he listened to the quiet words spilling out of you like they'd been locked behind your teeth for months.

This is it. This is your shot. Your one damn shot.

This was the excuse he’d been waiting for, the one that didn’t feel too pushy, too exposed or too close to confessing the thing he didn’t dare say aloud yet.

No, no, no, it’s probably a bad idea. Don’t overstep, don’t make it weird.

Come on, Barnes. Don’t be a chicken. You’ve jumped out of planes for less than this.

She needs help, and you want to help her. Not just because you care, not just because it’s the right thing, but because you want this, you want more time with her. You want to see what happens when she stops hiding. You want her to let you in.

And if you don’t say something now, if you just sit here like a statue and let the silence fill back in, the moment will pass, and it might not come back.

Bucky swallowed, took a deep breath, and then it was out:  “What if I help?”

You blinked. “Help?”

He gave a small shrug. “Yes, help you be more assertive.”  

Your eyes flicked up. “What?”

“I’m serious. If you want, I could help you work on that, on the confidence, the assertiveness stuff.”

You blinked. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged one shoulder, that casual kind of shrug that always looked unfairly good on him. “Let’s call it a pact.”

“A pact?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said slowly. “I help you to get more comfortable with being in charge…”

He paused,  just long enough for it to be obvious.

“…and in return, you make me your number one.”

You blinked. “Number one?”

There was that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, slow and knowing, like he was fully aware of what he was doing to your pulse. Your throat was dry. Was he serious?

“I… I don’t know what that means,” you stammered, because your mind had already started sprinting in twelve directions, most of which ended with you pinning him against a wall and kissing him breathless. 

Not that you ever would. God, no. You’d die before you dared.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours, and you could’ve sworn, for just a moment, there was something there – not pity and not even mischief – something softer, something almost… tender.

Oh my god, get a grip. Stop imagining things.

You desperately wanted to slap yourself. Hard. But even through the fog clouding your brain, you still had just enough awareness to realise that doing that would probably make Bucky question your sanity, more than he already did, anyway.

“It means I trust you, and I think you’re more capable than you realize,” his tone shifted into something quiet and serious even if what he was saying didn’t make the slightest sense for you. 

“I just want to be the one who always gets an appointment with you … even when you’re too busy. I’m selfish, I guess,” he continued. “You’re good. I’ve seen what you can do and I’ll be honest –  I don’t want that old hack patching me up ever again.”

He held your gaze for a beat, steady and sure.

“I want the best care, and I think you’re the best,” Bucky said, matter-of-fact like he was telling you the sky was blue. “So yeah… I’m just locking in my VIP time slot now before you get famous and end up treating football stars, wrestling champs, or whoever the hell else finally figures out how good you are.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to say something, but nothing came out, because your heart had just exploded into a thousand completely useless butterflies.

Bucky smiled again, just a little crooked. “They can pay way more than the government, so we’ll definitely be out.”

Your heart fluttered, tripped, nearly choked on itself and you felt like you were malfunctioning.

He was joking… probably… maybe… certainly… right?

Okay, wait. No.This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.

VIP time slot? First and most important patient? What kind of fever dream nonsense was this?

Your brain scrambled to make sense of it, because there was no logical reason why Bucky Barnes, literal supersoldier, human embodiment of brooding sex appeal, would want you of all people to prioritize him.

Not unless this was some elaborate joke or a weird team-building exercise. Or maybe he pitied you so deeply after catching you mid-breakdown that he thought this was the only way to keep you from completely falling apart. 

Yeah, that sounded about right.

You wanted to tell him no, to save face, to keep this ridiculous, beautiful offer from turning into a bigger, more humiliating disaster later.

Because of course you would screw it up, you always did. This would end badly, it would crash and burn and leave ash behind. You’d get too attached, start hoping, and then…

Don’t do this.You’ll regret it.It’ll ruin everything.

But… but his eyes looked so sincere, and his voice was so soft when he said he thought you were the best. 

And God, you were so tired of being scared of everything.

What did you really have to lose?

Your dignity? Already gone.Your composure? Ruined.Your heart? Too late – it had been halfway his since month two.

So you looked up at him, cheeks burning, and gave a small, shy nod.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “Yeah. Deal,” 

Instantly your heart slammed against your ribs.

Oh god. Oh no. What did you just do?It’s fine. It’s fine. This is fine. 

Oh my god, this is completely, totally, 100% going to end in flames.

But still, you didn’t take it back… even if it was a mistake… it was the kind you’d been aching to make.

Right before jumping off a bridge.

No, no… that was a joke … no, it wasn’t.

The gym was quiet at this hour. No clanking weights, no snide remarks from John, no dramatic groaning from Yelena as she stretched like she was auditioning for a war movie, not even the echo of footsteps in the corridor.

Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the soft buzz in your own ears, the kind that signalled your anxiety had decided to throw a private rave party inside your ribcage.

You were early. Too early.

Stupid.

You weren’t even sure why you came so early.

No, scratch that, you knew exactly why, because waiting in your office, pacing between the walls, checking the clock every thirty seconds, made it only worse. If you had waited a moment longer, you’d have chickened out. If you didn’t come now, you might not have come at all.

Your sneakers scuffed quietly against the floor as you paced now near the edge of the mat, every glance toward the door ratcheting your heart up another notch, pulse starting to race every time the air conditioner kicked on. 

What am I doing here?

You didn’t have a clear answer, just a memory – Bucky’s voice in your head, calm and steady, telling you he believed in you, that you were more than just a scared rabbit, frozen in the trap, and for one fragile, reckless second you had believed him… you had wanted to believe him.

Because deep down, under all the nerves and self-doubt and spiraling overthinking, you wanted to do better, you wanted to prove, to him, to yourself, that maybe you could do this. Even if you couldn’t quite believe it.

Your palms were slick, you wiped them on your jeans and immediately regretted it. Your stomach flipped like it was training for Cirque du Soleil, and you couldn’t shake off the feeling that you might actually puke.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Yeah, of course – “the best,” right?

He’d just been trying to cheer you up, toss you a few kind words to keep you from soaking his jacket with your sobs.

And you? Of course, you took them like gospel, as if  they meant something.

He probably didn’t even remember saying it. He has better things to do than waste time on a stuttering disaster who can’t even get Walker to shut up without apologizing six times.

Of course he wasn’t serious.You are pathetic. God, how can you be so stupid?

You turned, eyes on the exit, stomach knotting tight like a rope snapping in a storm.

Just leave. Quietly. Slip out, pretend you were never here.

You could text him that something came up. Or not. He probably wouldn’t even notice, or he’d be relieved, if he had intended to show up at all.

You took a step… and the door opened. You froze mid-bolt and looked up like a deer caught in headlights.

Bucky stood in the doorway, his hand still on the handle, eyes flicking down to your feet then back up to your face. 

“Hey,” he said softly, a flicker of confusion in his tone, head tilting slightly.

“Hhh..hi,” you managed, a breathless, humiliated croak, as you tried to backpedal, hands fluttering. “I was just… I didn’t mean to… I came early and…”

“It’s alright,” he said quickly, stepping in and letting the door shut behind him.

The soft click of it closing might as well have been a gunshot, making you jump, literally..

Bucky crossed the floor, stopping a few feet away. 

“Relax,” he said, voice low but not unkind. “It’s just me.”

Exactly. That was the problem. It was him.

“You okay?” he asked, brow creasing slightly. You nodded far too fast, tucking your chin in, shoulders creeping up toward your ears like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

And he saw it, of course he saw it – the slight shake in your arms, the way your eyes kept darting past him to the window, the mat, the door, anywhere but at him, the way your breath hitched as if you were drowning on dry land.

“Okay,” he said quietly, holding up his hands in a slow, open gesture. “Hey. You’re okay. No pressure. Just… breathe with me, alright?”

You blinked at him. What? Was he serious?

But then he inhaled, deep and slow, a breath like he had no worries, like the world wasn’t burning inside your chest, and then he let it out, unhurried, controlled.

You just stood there, frozen, lungs made of stone, ribs unmovable bricks.

He did it again – calm, measured, in and out. 

You coughed, awkward and shallow, trying to follow.

Inhale. Your breath caught halfway up your throat but it was already something compared to the way your lungs had refused to accept even the smallest portion of air just a moment before.

Exhale. Your hands trembled like leaves in a storm.

He kept going, his chest rising and falling in that calm, steady rhythm.

“Don’t look at me,” he said gently. “Look over there. Pick something. The foam rollers. Clock. Exit sign. Whatever.”

You didn’t know why you listened. Was it his voice or the calm? Maybe the warmth that radiated from him. 

You looked at the rack of foam rollers near the wall. 

“Blue one,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Good. Focus on that. Describe it, tell me what you see.”

You blinked again, mind trying to slow down as you stared. “It’s… dark blue. With little ridges. Looks like someone chewed on it.”

His lip twitched. “Probably Walker.”

That earned the smallest, most reluctant twitch of your own mouth.

“Good. You’re doing really good,” Bucky’s voice was gentle, but solid, like the gym floor beneath your feet, so real, steady, unmoving, even when you felt like your entire nervous system was trying to levitate off the ground.

“Let’s call that your first lesson,” he said, eyes flicking to yours, or near yours, since you couldn’t quite meet his gaze yet. “When you feel like the world’s closing in, look for something real. Doesn’t matter what, just anchor yourself to it.”

Your hands were still twisting the hem of your shirt like you were trying to wring water from it, but your breathing had slowed a little and you risked a glance toward him, almost his face, but your eyes landed somewhere on his shoulder instead. Close enough. Progress.

Bucky gave you a small nod, as if to say see, not so bad, and then continued, just as calm and matter-of-fact as ever, like you hadn’t just been seconds from either vomiting on his shoes or dissolving into tears on the mat.

“So, before we start... we need a safe word.”

You blinked.  “A… what?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the smallest smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “A safe word. Just in case it gets too much, and I mean at any point, you say it, and I stop. No questions, no delay. Everything stops.”

Your brain short-circuited for a second and you just stared. Then, despite yourself, you blurted: “Isn’t that kind of… a sex thing?”

Oh God. Oh God, you said that out loud.Why did your mouth even have access to your brain right now?

Bucky paused, his lips twitching like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I mean... yeah,” he said slowly, “it can be but it’s really about trust.” His voice softened. “It gives you full control, remember that. You call the shots. If something feels totally off, you say the word, and I’m out. No questions.”

There was definite amusement behind those steel-blue eyes, as they watched you carefully, and you nodded quickly, embarrassed. “Right, sorry. I just… stupid thing to say.”

“No, not stupid,” he said gently. “Just honest.”

You couldn’t even look at him, you were too busy trying to turn into vapor again.

“Pick something,” he added. “Anything. Just not ‘stop’ or ‘no.’ Has to be something you wouldn’t normally say.”

You scanned the room like your life depended on it. Which, emotionally, it sort of did.

“…P… peach,” it came out barely above a whisper.  “Like the fruit.”

“Peach?” He tilted his head, like he was trying to hold back another smile.

You shrugged, mortified, “It’s just the first thing that popped into my head.”

“Alright,” he nodded. “Peach it is. That’s your out, okay? You use it if you need it. There’s no failing here. It’s just communication.”

You nodded again, though part of you was still internally screaming. Peach. Peach?!God, why not a toaster or exit sign or something equally stupid but at last not sounding like a flirtatious emoji? Wait… what was it for again? To stop? Right.

Can I use it already? Please?

“But just so we’re clear,” Bucky added, his voice dipping slightly lower, “I’m not gonna go easy on you.”

That made your stomach drop, not in a bad way, but in the oh God what now way.

“You want to learn? Then learn,” he continued. “If you can command me, you can command anyone.”

His body shifted subtly, just a minor readjustment, nothing overt, no flexing, no swagger, but somehow it changed everything, his shoulders squared, his weight leaned forward, and then he stepped into your space.

Not touching but there, all heat and steady strength and quiet confidence, a wall of solid man who moved like he belonged in every space he entered, especially yours.

Your breath hitched, he was close, way too close. Not in a threatening way, exactly, but enough that your pulse took off like a startled bird, and your throat… forgot how to be a throat.

He didn’t speak at first, just watched you. And God, those eyes – they were peeling back every layer you tried to hide behind.

“First task,” he said finally, his voice didn’t raise, didn’t sharpen, it didn’t have to, it made your knees buckle just like that. “Tell me to move out of your space.”

You tried to force your voice into obedience, tried to make it climb out of your lungs and to exist.

It died on arrival.

Right. That’s all. Just order around a trained assassin who could probably crush your skull with two fingers. No pressure.

He waited, patient and still.

You swallowed and took a shaky step back.

He followed.

Another step back.

He followed again, quiet and unhurried, until your spine bumped the wall behind you and you jolted.

You hadn’t even noticed how skillfully he’d placed himself, cutting you off any possible escape route. Your eyes darted, finding the only exit on the other side of the room, behind Bucky Barnes’ impossibly broad back.

He didn’t move. He was waiting. And you… were not ready.

Panic bloomed, loud and sharp as you scrambled again for your ability to speak.

And God… why did he have to smell so good?

“C-could you maybe… I mean, if it’s not… if you don’t mind… maybe step back a little?”

It wasn’t a command, not even a request, it was a barely-there breath of anxious syllables wrapped in apology.

Bucky didn’t move. Instead, his weight shifted forward, just enough to make the air between you hum. He didn’t touch you, just braced a hand flat against the wall beside your head, but his presence instantly  seeped into your skin.

Instinctively you pressed yourself tighter against the wall and flinched. 

His scent turned your already scrambled thoughts into mush and you were trying, you were trying so hard not to drown in it. You could feel your pulse hammering in your neck, your chest, your fingertips, and you hated how your eyes began to sting.

Oh god. Oh god, you were going to cry. Right here. On lesson one. This was such a mistake to agree on this. 

You looked like you were about to break, or just bolt away or cry. Maybe both.

Your back hit the wall, breath shallow, shoulders trembling, and Bucky saw it, all of it. The way your hands clenched at your sides, the way your mouth opened like you wanted to speak but no sound came out. The sheer panic rising in your chest, inch by inch, like water filling your lungs.

He stepped in closer, deliberately, his hand bracing on the wall beside your head, and you looked up at him like he could destroy you just by breathing wrong.

And he hated it. He hated that this was what it took, that to help you find your voice, he had to play the one thing he never wanted to be with you – intimidating.

Because the truth was, Bucky would have done anything to make this easier for you. 

He would’ve wrapped you in his arms, whispered that it was okay, that you didn’t have to prove anything, that he’d seen your worth from the moment you offered him that ridiculous towel posture trick that actually worked, that you didn’t need to be strong or commanding or anything else – not with him, that he would always protect you, always be there for you.

But he knew that wouldn’t help you, not in the long run. He couldn’t always be there and maybe… maybe… you didn’t even want him to be.

It was driving him mad. He couldn’t say any of that, not now, because this wasn’t about comfort, this was about power – your power. The kind he knew you had but were just too afraid to use.

He clenched his jaw, not because he was angry, but because the scent of your shampoo and that soft sound your breath made when you tried not to cry was wrecking him, and the way your eyes flicked up to his, wide and unsure, made something inside his chest squeeze painfully tight.

He almost backed off – almost. 

But he knew if he did, you’d never believe you could do this. You’d never believe in your own strength, and dammit, he needed you to see it. You were so much more than the shaky hands and soft voice, so much more than your self-doubt. Ha had to stay put, pushing you just far enough to the edge that you’d have no choice but to climb and fly.

He just hoped you wouldn't notice the way his pulse jumped, or that unmistakable bulge growing in his pants and making them almost unbearably tight, that you wouldn’t notice how badly he wanted to drop the act, kiss you breathless, and tell you that no one – absolutely no one – had ever made him feel the way you did, just by standing there and gathering your courage.

You couldn’t breathe. The air around you felt thick, like it had folded in on itself the moment Bucky leaned in, bracing himself on the wall just inches from your head. His presence swallowed the room whole, heat radiating off him in waves that curled around your skin, sank into your bones, made your knees tremble.

Your throat had closed up entirely, sealed tight by the weight of his gaze, by the pressure blooming in your chest like some awful storm cloud. Your fingers itched for an exit, for something to grasp – a handle, a lever, a miracle.

Say it. Just say it.

Peach.

The word clawed at the back of your throat – your life raft, your out.

Just say it.

It was right there, and still, your mouth wouldn’t open.

Say it, dammit. Say it before you break down again, before he sees you fall apart again.

If it had been anyone else, you would have said it already. Some agent from another unit, a faceless instructor, a training officer –  you’d have folded like paper and mumbled the word with shame curling up your spine.

But this wasn’t anyone. This was Bucky. The one person whose opinion of you actually mattered. The only man who had looked at you, really looked, and called you capable, who’d seen your shaking hands and said you can.

You didn’t just want to prove him right, you wanted… you wanted… 

Girl, stop lying to yourself… you want him… badly…

How many nights have you imagined those broad hands gripping your hips, that low voice rasping your name against your neck?

How many times have you come whispering his name, fingers sinking into your own heat, aching for something that could never be real and then hated yourself for it? 

Because it was ridiculous. He could have anyone. You had seen the looks women gave him –  hell, half the medbay would probably spread their legs if he so much as crooked a finger. 

And you? You weren’t confident or sexy, or smart. You were not good enough for him. And yet you couldn’t let him see you break. Not again. 

Clutching with bloody fingers at the frayed edges of your self respect, you refused to let him see you giving up. Not because it would change how he looked at you, but because it would ultimately and forever change how you looked at yourself. 

Your fingers curled into your palms.

Bucky still hadn’t moved, not an inch, his closeness was suffocating, like his body knew exactly where your fear lived and wanted to test its limits. 

You swallowed hard. It scratched like sandpaper. 

You tried again. “Bucky, please… I…” 

It came out too soft. It was not a command, not even close, just a whisper, fragile and uncertain, the kind of sound that would fold like paper in a storm. Your voice cracked like old wood, and the syllables dissolved in the thick air between you before they could even land.

He didn’t move, didn’t mock you, didn’t smirk, but his eyes narrowed, just a fraction, and he leaned in half an inch closer.

“That’s not a command,” he murmured. “I see you shaking. You can use your safe word if it’s too much for you,” he continued.

It was nothing cruel, not even harsh, just a quiet reminder, firm and honest, but somehow, that hurt worse than any insult. He didn’t believe you could do it.

You felt it then – the way your shoulders were curling in, the way your fingers clenched so tightly into your shirt that your knuckles had gone white. The pressure in your chest had bloomed into something full and breathless, your pulse hammering behind your ears like fists on a door.

You were pressed against the wall, breath shallow, hands shaking, eyes darting. The same way you’d been a dozen times before in front of a patient, a superior, a hallway full of judgment – always shrinking, always folding. 

God, you wanted to disappear, your body even flinched like you might. You could say the word. It would end it. He’d back off, and you would crawl home and pretend this never happened. 

Except that you couldn’t.

The only thing you could force yourself to do was to raise your eyes and look at him and in that short moment you saw something else too. You saw the way he stood, still and waiting. He wasn’t looming. He wasn’t mocking you. It was your own fear that had made almost a monster of him. 

There was still so much space between you both. If he had wanted he would have really pressed you to the wall, instead he was giving you space. Space to fail, or rise. 

He was still waiting, even if the look in his eyes told you he didn’t quite believe it anymore that you would make it. 

And in that moment something cracked in you – something old and sore.

It was almost imperceptible at first, just a breath, just a shift of weight from one foot to the other. It wasn’t dramatic, no lightning bolt, no sudden rush of power, just the smallest, quietest flick of a match in the dark.

Your body went still, your breathing slowed, your hands released your shirt, slowly, fingers aching. Your shoulders peeled away from the wall, not all at once – just a few inches, but enough to feel the difference, enough to realize you weren’t trapped. You had chosen to stand there. You’ve always had a choice…

You lifted your chin, not high, not like a hero, not fully, not defiantly, but just enough to see his collarbone, the sharp line of his jaw, the part of his throat where his pulse thudded steady and slow.

Actually not so steady and slow… but anyway…

Your body burned with adrenaline, with shame, with something dangerously close to want, but under it all, there was a flicker of something else – control.

You drew in a breath, a shallow, a bit shaky, but yours, and let it out through barely parted lips. Your eyes met his, his gaze didn’t shift, but you saw it, that subtle widening of his pupils, the flicker of surprise. Your voice came low, steady, and without trembling or doubt.

“Move.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

“Back off. Now.”

Your words sliced through the space like the crack of a whip, no stammer, no apology, no folding and in the next moment Bucky… stepped back.

He didn’t even seem aware he’d done it, as if he moved on instinct – an immediate, unquestioning response, like your command reached a place in him deeper than thought.

Three steps. Just enough.

Air returned to your lungs like a gift. Your knees nearly buckled with it, but you didn’t collapse. You stood. You had made him move. You’d said it. You’d done it. You had taken the reins, just for a moment, and the world hadn’t ended.

Bucky’s lips parted slightly, his jaw flexed, but he just kept staring at you, at your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your hands still curled at your sides like they remembered the fear but refused to live in it anymore.

Jesus Christ. 

You said it – not asked, not begged, not whispered.

Bucky had been prepared for a lot. He had expected the trembling, the panic, the frozen-in-place and barely-breathing you. That’s what you always showed the world, and he’d braced himself to hold steady through all of it, to be your wall until you could find your footing.

But this? This was something else entirely. You hadn’t shouted, you hadn’t even raised your voice, but somehow it hit him harder than a punch to the jaw.

His body had reacted before his brain did, stepping back hadn’t been a real choice, it was a command obeyed. Instinct. Reflex. You said move and every cell in him moved, just like that.

And now he stood there, blinking, trying to slow the wild thud of his heart as he watched you breathe through the aftershock – shoulders still tense, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you couldn’t believe what you’d just done.

God, you were fucking beautiful.

Not in the polished, picture-perfect way, not soft or posed, but radiant, fierce, jaw set, cheeks flushed, still fighting off the tremors from pushing past your own panic and finding something solid underneath it.

And he was hard.

He was so fucking hard that his stomach clenched and his hands twitched at his sides, and his jaw locked just to keep from groaning aloud. 

Shit. Yeah – the usual quick round in the shower isn’t going to cut it tonight. 

He wanted to say something, anything, but there was a lump in his throat the size of a fist and the words just wouldn’t come. So he just stood there, breathing, watching, praying you didn’t notice how tightly his fists curled or the way he subtly shifted to hide the very obvious strain in his jeans.

God, if you knew the kind of thoughts running through his head right now… the kind of thoughts that started with your name and ended with you gasping into his mouth.

The kind where you were in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, his hands on your hips as he whispered how goddamn proud he was of you between slow, deep kisses that made you claw at his shirt.

The kind where you straddled him and whispered: “Fuck me, now,” in that same, steady, calm but commanding voice you’d just used.  

Shit. Shit. SHIT. Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose.

Damnit, if you kept looking at him like that, wide-eyed and stunned by your own strength, he wasn’t making it to that shower.

Your fingers fumbled with your clipboard as you turned, trying to pretend like the sterile treatment room didn’t suddenly feel too warm, too quiet, too charged. You’d spent hours here before, you worked here. 

This was your room. 

But tonight? Tonight, it felt different and not yours at all. It felt like his space now, because he was in it and he was watching you, arms folded, casually leaning against the padded table, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than let you flounder under the heat of his gaze.

You cleared your throat, eyes flicking to the treatment table, then to Bucky, then to the floor.

“Um… so…” you swallowed hard. “This is… this is supposed to be about posture guidance, using physical cues for correction. That’s… that’s what we agreed on last time, right?”

You didn’t dare look at him again.

Bucky heard your voice, but barely.

Posture something. Physical… cues. Right. Sure. Whatever.

His brain was too full of other things.

Like how your fingers kept fidgeting with the clipboard. How you licked your bottom lip mid-sentence, the same way you always did when you were nervous.

How the heat in his pants had already started to pulse in a quiet, steady rhythm the moment you stepped in and said hi.

Stop it.Focus. She’s talking. Pay attention.

It was impossible. That voice, soft and velvety, it went straight to his spine and curled around something primal in his body, and those lips… full and pink, and slightly parted…

God, the things he’d imagined them doing… the things he wanted to say if he wasn’t terrified of making you run for the hills.

Jesus, Barnes. Get it together. You’re just standing there staring at her collarbone like a creep.

Posture guidance, remember? Hands-on correction. Focus, dumbass.

His eyes betrayed him, dropping lower again, just for a second, to the curve of your waist, disappearing into your jeans. He was pretty sure you didn’t wear anything sexy under there, probably something plain, comfortable, soft, something like you…

It would all come off so slowly… with his hands at your hips… and you, flushed and breathless against the wall, ordering him to take them off. 

Shit.

The image hit hard and fast: you straddling his lap right there on the padded table, panting into his mouth, your hands in his hair, that nervous voice now a needy moan as he rocked up into you, deep and slow.

He nearly groaned aloud. He had to glance away, jaw clenched, arms folded tighter just to hide the twitch in his hands, the pressure in his jeans, getting nearly unbearable.

And then, like the universe was testing him, you licked your bottom lip again, just a flick of your tongue, nervous and unaware…

That mouth… fuck, that mouth.He had imagined it, too many damn times, wrapped around his fingers first, then his cock, your eyes heavy and glassy with need, taking him in so willingly, so sweetly.

Fuck. Stop. Stop it, Barnes.

He shifted again, arms folding tighter across his chest. 

Girl, you lick that lip again, I swear … you’ll find yourself bent over that padded treatment table… FUUUCK, no, no, of course not…

Focus, Barnes! It’s a training session! Remember? You offered her this.

Right! No, hell, this was torture – beautiful, self-inflicted, slow-burning torture.

And all he could do was to nod once, slow and steady. “Okay.”

“I thought… I mean, if it’s okay with you, maybe you could… um… sit here… and I’ll…” your hand lifted awkwardly toward the treatment table – the very same table, the one Bucky had absolutely not just been imagining you bent over, jeans pushed down just far enough to…

“You want me to sit?” he offered, straightening up.

God, why did he move like that, like some jungle cat, slow and deadly and beautiful without even trying?

You nodded quickly. “Yes. If… if that’s okay.”

There was the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth, a half-smile, subtle and slow, and it sent a traitorous flutter through your stomach, while your knees revised their contract with gravity.

“I’m yours,” he said simply, and you choked on your own breath. “I mean, for this... lesson. You can… do whatever you need.” he added the correction quickly, the flush creeping over his cheekbones almost invisible beneath that scruff.

Your heart punched your ribs as you nodded, half-blind and flustered, you waved vaguely at the table like you were directing traffic in a dream.

 “O-okay. Just, um… sit. Please.”

And then he smiled. That smile.

“Remember the last lesson, doll.”

Doll. Oh fuck! Where did that come from, Barnes? Since when did you get to call her things like that? 

Thankfully you didn’t even register the nickname he had just given you, it was already hard enough to knock loose the very not professional image of him wrapping a strong arm around your waist and dragging you closer, lifting you, laying you flat and whispering in that low rasp, “Look at me while I make you feel good, sweetheart.”

Stop. STOP. Not what you’re here for.Why not? Shut UP…

“Oh, yes, right,” you cleared your throat, and forced your voice into that tone, the calm, commanding one, the one he’d pulled out of you last time and that still didn’t feel like it belonged to you, except it did. 

“Sit down,” you said, steady this time. “Right there.”

And Bucky obeyed, instantly, without a word, moving with that impossible grace until he was perched on the edge of the table, legs parted, hands on his thighs, watching you.

Your palms were damp and you wiped them quickly on your thighs, praying he hadn’t noticed. Of course he had.

“Alright,” you said. “So… the first step is to… to give tactile feedback for posture corrections. I’ll put my hands on you to guide you into the right alignment, if that’s okay.”

He raised a brow. “You tell me.”

Right. Right. You’re in charge.

Jesus, this is so much worse than lesson one. 

You were supposed to be a professional, you were trained for this. You had treated him before, but somehow nothing felt the same anymore.

You took a step forward, then another. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink – just watched you, curious what you’d do next, waiting for you to decide, like nothing would happen unless you made it happen.

You raised your hands and suddenly lost control over them as they stayed hovering in the air near his shoulder, fingers flexing uncertainly. He didn’t lean into it, didn’t even try to help. And that was the point, wasn’t it? He was letting you take control, letting you lead.

Look for something real, anchor your mind, you repeated his advice from previous and your eyes darted around before landing on the small crack in the wall behind him. 

It will do. 

Holy shit.

He was so warm. So solid. Your fingers trembled at first, and you hoped, prayed, he wouldn’t notice, even though you knew he did. The subtle shift of his shoulder beneath your palms, the flex of muscle when you adjusted your stance… it was like touching live current. Heat coiled in your gut, low and tight.

You swallowed. “Posture starts here,” you said, fingers brushing along his spine, trying to remember the damn protocol, the clinical detachment, the professionalism.

Bucky tilted his head just slightly, enough that his cheek nearly brushed the inside of your wrist and your breath caught. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, he just let you touch him, trusting you to lead, to guide, to take control.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was letting you and somehow that felt even more intimate than if he had grabbed you and kissed you breathless.

You slid your hand down the line of his arm slowly, carefully, your fingertips grazing over fabric, tracing heat, curling faintly around the muscle of his bicep. You weren’t sure what possessed you to look up then, but you did.

And God, the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in the room, like you could snap your fingers and he’d move mountains for you, like he was holding himself back with every ounce of willpower he had.

“I’m…” you licked your lips. Mistake. His eyes dropped to your mouth and darkened in a way that made your stomach flip.

“I’m just going to adjust your spine angle,” you managed to say, moving one hand to his lower back. He arched slightly under your touch, like a cat chasing warmth. Your fingers dipped lower than they needed to, brushing where the shirt met the waistband.

He didn’t stop you. Didn’t flinch and you heard the soft exhale through his nose.

“I thought you said this was about posture,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing and dangerous.

“It is,” you whispered, but all you could think was how badly you wanted to feel that mouth on you, to hear a groan rattle through his chest, to pin him back and ask him why he was looking at you like that if he didn’t mean it.

“I’m not fragile,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“If you need to push harder,” he said, holding your gaze, “you can.”

You stared at him. His words echoed inside you, low and quiet, but somehow louder than your own thoughts.

If you need to push harder… you can.

Something flickered in your chest, a spark, a ripple of heat. 

You liked it. You liked the way he said it, not as a tease, not as a dare, but as permission. 

You let your palm flatten between his shoulder blades again, this time with more weight, more confidence, as you pressed your fingers along the column of his spine, slowly, deliberately, tracing vertebrae like piano keys, feeling for something that didn’t quite sit right until they actually found it.

“Your neck must be a little stiff,” you said, surprised by the sound of your own voice, so low, steady, decisive. “The vertebra here needs correcting.”

A shiver ran through you, subtle but electric.

Bucky just nodded once. “Go ahead.”

“Hands behind your head,” you said, steady and low.

His gaze lifted to yours, no hesitation, no confusion, just a quiet kind of obedience that made your stomach somersault. He moved slowly, fluidly, raising his arms and lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows wide, chest open, throat bared.

You didn’t let yourself think too much about what that did to your insides. You stepped closer, bracing your knee between his thighs for balance. His breath hitched but you didn’t let it distract you. 

Your hands found his head, fingers weaving into his hair, tilting him just right. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the quiet thrum of energy just under the surface, but he didn’t resist, not even a fraction.

He let you take him.

You drew a slow breath, then pulled, fast, precise, practiced. There was a small pop, the vertebra slotting back into place with a satisfying click.

Bucky exhaled, eyes fluttering closed for just a second. “Hnh,” he murmured. “That’s the one.”

You could’ve stopped there. Should’ve stopped there, but your hands didn’t move. They stayed curled behind his head, fingertips buried in his hair, and he didn’t pull away.

And God, it felt good.

No, it felt exhilarating.

You didn’t recognize this version of yourself, this woman with steady hands and smirking lips, who held a trained killer between her palms like she knew exactly what to do with him. Who didn’t flinch, didn’t shrink.

You could feel his breath, shallow and hot, brushing your collarbone. His arms stayed right where you had told him, his mouth slightly parted, eyes dark and heavy, staring up at you like you were something sacred or dangerous, or both.

Your hands slid down, over his scalp, along the thick muscles of his neck, across the rise of his shoulders.

Still, he didn’t move.

You felt it everywhere, the low, pulsing thrum of arousal in your chest, in your throat, in your thighs. Between your legs, your body was clenching around nothing, desperate, slick and aching for friction.

Your breath caught. You were wet. Soaking. And he didn’t even know, or maybe he did.

“You can relax your arms,” you said.

He obeyed, slowly, arms lowering, elbows pulling in, but his eyes never left yours.

You stepped in again, closer. 

You were between his thighs now, your hips brushing his knees. The heat from his body soaked into yours and his hands curled around the edge of the table.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You didn’t move.

Bucky sat in front of you, open, obedient, breathing hard through parted lips. His eyes heavy-lidded, almost dazed, like you had done something to him, like he was waiting for whatever came next.

And you were so close, so goddamn close. Your hands hovered near his ribs, barely touching, but you could feel his rapid, desperate pulse, echoing your own.

He looked like a fantasy come to life, sitting between your hands like that, like you could do whatever you wanted with him and God help you, you wanted everything.

You wanted to push him back against the wall, straddle his thighs, grind against the thick, hard heat you knew was pressing tight behind that zipper right now. You wanted to drag your mouth down his throat, suck bruises into his skin and hear him groan your name in that low, ruined voice.

You wanted to slide your hands down his chest and feel every hard ridge of muscle tremble beneath your touch. You wanted to unbuckle his pants, slowly, teasingly, just to watch his face when your palm finally wrapped around him.

You wanted to hear what kind of sounds he made when you kissed the tip of his cock, wanted to feel the weight of it on your tongue, thick and pulsing and leaking for you.

You wanted to see him lose control, for you, because of you. You wanted him panting, whimpering, moaning mess, bucking his hips into your touch.

And most of all?

You wanted to order him to stay still while you rode him until he begged.

Your thighs squeezed together and a tremor ran through your core so violently it nearly buckled your knees.

Jesus Christ. What were you doing?

Your body was burning, your mouth was dry, your heart was a mess of erratic thuds against your ribs. You could feel your arousal soaking through your underwear, and it terrified you, because he hadn’t even touched you yet.

And worse – he would, if you asked, if you told him to. You knew he would. You could see it in the way he looked at you.

His breath was hot against your cheek, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes like he was both starving and willing to wait until you said the word.

You moved, inch by inch, you leaned in, slow, certain, reckless. Your face hovered just a breath from his, so close you could taste him in the air. 

You didn’t even know when your hand had slid up to his jaw, fingertips grazing the stubble along his cheek. His lips parted, almost like he was going to lean forward, like he wanted to chase the heat.

He tilted his head, just enough. An invitation.

Your stomach dropped and your pussy clenched like wild. 

Now, your mind screamed. Just do it. Kiss him. Take him. Let him take you.

What if he doesn’t want it? What if this isn’t what you think? What if this is just training to him and you are about to make a complete fucking fool of yourself?

The burn in your chest collapsed into panic, you yanked your hand back as if his skin had burned you.

“That’s it,” you blurted. “Thanks. For the lesson.”

Bucky’s eyes widened as you took two steps back and turned, hands shaking, pulse pounding.

You didn’t look back. You simply couldn’t. You bolted from the room with the echo of his breath still brushing your skin, his scent still clinging to your clothes, and the fire burning between your thighs. 

Bucky stayed frozen. The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence that followed was so heavy, it might as well have been screaming. His hands were still braced on the table’s edge, knuckles white, muscles locked like a wire had been threaded through his spine and someone had yanked it tight.

He exhaled hard through his nose, dropping his head back against the wall behind him with a dull thud.

Fuck. What just happened?

You had been right there, soft and strong and beautiful and flushed, standing between his thighs like you fucking belonged there.

Your fingers had threaded into his hair and the way you’d held him steady, the way you pressed your body in closer without hesitation, the pressure of your knee between his thighs… your hands, your voice, the way you moved… it had all gone straight to his cock, fuck, fuck, fuck… it had pulsed so hard it was a miracle he hadn’t finished in his pants like a fucking teenager.

His body still hummed from it, from the way you had looked at him with pupils blown, flushed cheeks, confidence lighting up your face, from the way your hands had lingered. The way your body had pressed right between his legs, your fingertips sliding along his shoulders like you were claiming him.

And he would’ve let you. God, he would’ve let you do anything.

He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath when you leaned in, so close, your lips just inches from his. And when your fingers touched his ribs? He swore every single nerve in his body lit up in flames.

He’d wanted to feel your mouth on his, to feel your teeth on his lip, your body tightening around him as you straddled him on the table and fucked the tension out of both of them. He’d wanted your voice in his ear, not whispering hesitantly, but commanding, saying his name like it belonged to you.

Touch me there, Bucky.

Faster, Bucky.

Don’t stop, Bucky.

He could practically see it – you, flushed and wild, riding him with that same fire you showed tonight, one hand tugging his hair, the other clawing down his chest, telling him what you needed, what you wanted, what to do. 

Did he scare you? Did you regret touching him like that?

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair, staring at the door in the futile hope it might open again.

You barely made it into the hallway before your legs threatened to give out.

The door clicked shut behind you, and it was like the air you’d been holding back finally roared in, loud and heavy and full of everything you didn’t know how to name.

You didn’t dare to stop walking, down the corridor, around the corner, just somewhere that wasn’t there, that wasn’t him, wasn’t that room where you’d just stepped into a version of yourself you didn’t even recognize.

Finally, you ducked into the storage closet near the end of the hall and shut the door behind you, pressing your back to the cold metal shelf.

You breathed, or rather tried to because your breath came in short, shuddering bursts, your palms flat against your thighs, still tingling from where they’d touched him.

You dropped your head back against the shelf and closed your eyes.

“What the fuck,” you whispered to no one, voice barely a rasp.

Your fingers trembled as you brought them to your face, touching your lips as if you could still feel the phantom pull of his breath.

You had nearly kissed him. No, fuck, not nearly, you wanted to kiss him. You’d leaned in, you had been a heartbeat away from losing yourself completely, from climbing into his lap and riding out every desperate fantasy you’d ever had.

The ones you swore you’d locked away. The ones where his hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, where he tilted his head and kissed you hungry and deep, like he meant it, like he’d been thinking about it as much as you had.

The ones where he whispered your name against your throat while he slid into you, slow and thick, stretching you open with a groan.

FUCK!

You covered your face with both hands and sank down along the edge of the shelf until you were sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. 

You were shaking, and the worst part wasn’t even the fact that you ran. The worst part was that you didn’t want to, not really. You wanted to stay, to touch him again, to feel that power in your hands.

You let out a sound that was part whimper, part laugh, muffled by your sleeve.

Jesus Christ, what were you doing? This was Bucky. The ever brooding supersoldier that could snap your spine with one finger. Someone way out of your league, someone who could have anyone, who probably already had.

And yet… he hadn’t stopped you. He’d let you guide him. Let you stand over him. Let you touch him. He didn’t mock you, didn’t pull away. He looked at you like he wanted you and that was the part that terrified you most.

Because if you were wrong, if it was all just in your head, you had just thrown yourself off a very high cliff with no hope of landing intact. But if you were right… if he actually wanted you too… 

You swallowed hard, your eyes fixed on your lap. No. No, shit, don’t go there. Don’t start spinning fantasies.

It’s not real. It’s never real. Nobody wants you like that.

You pulled your knees tighter to your chest, trying to steady the ache crawling up your throat. You’d have to apologize to him later. You just weren’t entirely sure what for. For touching him? For running away? For wanting it all too badly?

It was late, and you were pacing. Again.

Your quarters in the Thunderbolts tower weren’t large, but tonight they felt both too small and too vast, walls closing in around you while your thoughts stretched out, long and frantic, like shadows under a flickering bulb. The silence pressed against your ears, broken only by the soft whisper of your bare feet across the floor and the restless hum of your pulse.

You’d waited a week – a full damn week. You'd told yourself it was to give him space, to let things cool, to pretend you hadn’t nearly climbed him like a tree in a treatment room, but deep down, you knew the truth.

You’d been hiding. You hadn’t been ready to see him again, not after how close you came to letting your body act out all the things your mind had been imagining in secret for months, not after bolting like some guilty schoolgirl caught with her hands down her pants.

But still… you’d known you had to face him. So yesterday, after seven days of rehearsing nonchalant greetings in the mirror, you’d dragged yourself down to the canteen and walked in like it was any other day.

Bucky had been sitting at the far end of the table, fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug, sleeves pushed up, looking so casual it was almost infuriating.

You didn't know what to say. You were not even sure he would acknowledge your existence.

But the moment his eyes found you, he smiled, that easy, warm smile, like nothing had happened at all. Like you hadn’t nearly kissed him. Like he hadn’t looked at you like he would’ve let you do anything.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and steady. “Looking good. How’re you doing? Ava told me yesterday you were real firm about her knee exercises. Said you even snorted at her. I think you’re getting there.” A pause, then, with a casual sip of his drink: “Still up for the final lesson?”

Like he was asking if you wanted to split a pizza. Like the last lesson hadn’t rearranged every nerve in your body and left you aching in places no amount of stretching could fix.

You’d mumbled something, you weren’t even sure what, just enough for him to smirk, nod, and go back to his drink like he hadn’t just casually cracked open your ribcage with six words and a shrug.

And now you were here – pacing, spiraling, almost climbing the walls of your room.

You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes and groaned.

The final lesson.

You didn’t even remember agreeing to one. You probably had, back in that adrenaline-soaked haze after the first lesson, back when your pulse had still been a runaway train and you were drunk on the high of making Bucky Barnes obey your command.

But now? Now it felt like agreeing to step off another cliff with no idea what waited at the bottom.

Was he serious? Was this just training to him? Maybe some kind of mean joke? Was he still just helping you learn to be assertive, to take control… or was it something else now?

You weren’t sure, and that not-knowing burned like fire under your skin. You stopped pacing and stared at your reflection in the darkened window.

“Get it together,” you whispered to yourself. “He said it like it’s no big deal. You can handle this – one more lesson, one more chance.”

Your hand curled into a fist at your side – one more chance to see what this really was. And maybe… maybe one more chance to feel his hands on you, even if only by instruction, even if just to pretend.

You turned for the door, heart thudding. Ready… or not… 

The knock came exactly when he said it would, but the answer was still: no.

No, you were not ready, not even after spending the last hour pacing across your room, wiping your sweaty palms on the sides of your leggings, then deciding you hated your leggings and changing into something else. Twice.

You knew you had agreed, he’d offered to hold the next lesson here, in your quarters, to make it more comfortable for you, and you had said yes.

You just hadn’t expected the quiet knock to hit like a battering ram.

Your fingers hovered over the handle for a second too long. 

Fuck it, we ball! 

You opened the door, and there he was – Bucky Barnes, loose grey sweatpants, tank top.

Nothing could have prepared you for that sight, not even your filthiest daydreams.

The hall light caught on the sharp lines of his chest, his metal arm glinted faintly and he looked casual, calm, as if this wasn’t the most charged situation in the entire fucking tower.

"Hey," he said softly. 

You nodded, or at least you hoped that’s what your head did although it felt more like a full-body jolt.

His eyes flicked past you, scanning the room. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” you stammered, stepping back to let him pass.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, voice gentle, cautious. “I mean, we can reschedule or move somewhere else if this doesn’t feel right.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I mean, no. I mean… it’s okay.”

The flicker in his eyes told you he’d caught the tremor in your voice, but he didn’t call attention to it, instead, he stepped inside.

The lights were low, you’d dimmed them earlier, hoping it would make things feel less clinical, less blinding, but now you regretted it. It didn’t feel neutral anymore, it felt soft, private, too intimate, too I want you to fuck me senseless on that couch.

It was warm. Too warm? Probably. Or maybe it was just you. The air smelled like your air freshener, a hint of citrus body wash… and now, him.

God, he smelled like heat and leather and something clean and masculine, the scent filled the space too fast and too completely.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, you felt it more than heard it.

He stood there for a moment, hands still tucked in his pockets, pretending to take in your space, but in reality, he was buying time.

Friendly. Stay friendly. You don’t want to scare her off again.

He cleared his throat. “You’ve got a nice setup here. Cozy.”

Cozy. Jesus. What a dumb word.

But you smiled faintly anyway, your shoulders still tight, but not retreating, not running. He counted that as a win.

“Thanks,” you said. “I like to keep it... calm. It’s the only space I can control.”

He nodded, slow and understanding. “I get that.”

You looked away, trying to hide the nervous twist of your fingers and he saw it, all of it, every flicker of tension in your eyes, every time your tongue darted out to wet your lips. His brain went fuzzy for a second.

God, you were gorgeous, and you were here, with him. 

You’d come to him in the canteen after a full week of silence. Seven long, torturous days of replaying your voice in his head, the heat in your eyes when you touched him, the way your fingers had curled at his scalp and pulled.

And then you’d run.

He’d waited, patiently, like some fucking monk, hoping you’d come to him, hoping that it had meant something to you too, that he hadn’t imagined it, that he wasn’t the only one who left that room hard and aching, fists clenched and stomach twisted, fighting the need to hunt you down and beg for a taste of your mouth.

So when you’d approached him in the canteen, face flushed, lips pressed together, trying not to fidget, it had taken everything in him not to kiss you right then and there, with everyone watching. 

Instead, he’d smiled, easy and light. 

He hadn’t told you that he’d been counting every day since you bolted out of that treatment room. That he’d stared at the empty doorway for too long after you left. That he hadn’t worn jeans for a week because the thought of you, your breath in his ear, your hands on his chest, your voice, had his zipper straining with every damn memory.

And now, standing here in your softly lit room, the way the shadows kissed your skin, the curve of your ankle just visible beneath the hem of your pants, the faint citrus scent clinging to the air, it was driving him up the fucking wall.

He glanced down at his tank top, suddenly hyper-aware of the way it clung to his chest.

Shit. Did I overdo it? Should’ve worn a hoodie. Something safer. Something that didn’t scream “let’s fuck!”. Because this? This told exactly what his brain had been looping on for days.

But that wasn’t what he wanted to say to you, not like this, at least not the first thing after entering the room, even if, yes, every inch of him burned to do exactly that.

He couldn’t stop picturing how you’d look straddling his lap on that couch, dragging his hands where you wanted them, tugging on his hair, telling him to stay still while you took what you needed from him. God, he wanted to give it all to you – every inch, every groan. 

Fuck that couch – he hadn’t even sat on it yet and it was already the star of every fantasy rushing though his mind. You bent over its armrest, legs spread, breath caught in your throat as he sank into you from behind. You on your knees between his thighs, looking up at him with fire in your eyes, not innocence, not fear – power.

He shifted, barely resisting the urge to adjust himself. His cock was already stirring, half-hard just from standing in your living room. Loose sweatpants had seemed like a safer option, but now even the soft fabric was suffocating him.

Jesus. Get a fucking grip, Barnes.

Don’t scare her off. Don’t ruin this.

He drew a slow breath, forcing his hands to stay in his pockets. You were watching him now, and there was something in your eyes, not your usual doe-eyed look, not even uncertainty. Your gaze was steady, curious, purposeful and that look did things to him.

He tried for casual. “You, uh… redecorated?”

Your brows lifted. You looked around like you’d forgotten where you were for a second. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know … the lighting may be or the couch… have you moved the couch?”

You snorted softly, nervous but smiling. “Barnes, you’ve never been in here.”

Oh. Right.

His brain short-circuited for a second and his mouth went dry. For all his experience, all his history and age, Bucky suddenly felt like a schoolboy – completely, hopelessly, stupidly in over his head.

“Do you want something to drink?” you offered quickly, moving toward the small kitchenette. “I’ve got water. Tea. Um… emergency whiskey.”

“Tempting,” he said, a faint chuckle under his breath, “but maybe we keep the lesson dry tonight.”

Dry. Oh god. Your brain went there. And then very there. You bit your lip hard to keep a soft curse from slipping out as heat pulsed low in your belly, wetness already pooling in your panties. It was ridiculous how fast your body betrayed you. 

Your cheeks flared with heat.

Bucky didn’t miss it, of course he didn’t, his brows lifted slightly and he tilted his head with that quiet, infuriating curiosity. 

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said too fast, too high-pitched. “Totally fine. This is fine.”

You cleared your throat and forced your legs to carry you toward the chair, the big, soft, dangerously cozy one near the sofa. The one you definitely weren’t imagining him filling with his broad body… while you bounced on his cock with no self-control. Nope. Not at all. 

“So… right,” you said, your voice steadier now. “Tonight’s focus is on holding power. Instead of making you do something, like last time, I’m supposed to make you stay still. Not move. That’s what we agreed on, right?”

“Right,” Bucky echoed, his voice lower now, following you in slow, measured steps.

He stopped beside the chair and turned toward you, and then he did that thing, that goddamn thing, lifting his arms, rolling his shoulders, stretching like he was working out a kink in his neck. The hem of his tank rode up, just a little, just enough to show you a flash of golden skin, a sharp dip of muscle, the teasing glimpse of the faint line of hair that disappeared beneath his waistband.

You swallowed, hard. How the hell were you supposed to hold power over that?

He looked at you, a glint of teasing in his eyes. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

Were you? Absolutely not, but backing out now would feel like peeling off your own skin. You’d come too far, given too much. You were going all in tonight.

You lifted your chin, your heartbeat a drumroll in your throat, and narrowed your eyes just enough to steady yourself, your voice didn’t shake this time.

“Are you?”

His smile flickered, just for a second, but you noticed it.

“I guess we’re about to find out,” he smiled, gaze meeting yours with full intent.

Your breath caught and your heart flipped, actually flipped, and your palms began to sweat again, but this time, it wasn’t nerves. It was raw, crackling, impossible-to-ignore electricity.

Bucky stood in front of the chair, hands loosely at his sides, watching you in the dim light of your room. Shadows slid over the lines of his body, the tension already building in his shoulders despite his stillness.

You were barefoot and you liked that detail, you liked the quietness of your steps, the grounding sensation of the floor beneath your feet as you walked slowly toward him.

His breath caught slightly when you stopped in front of him.

Your hand came up, not shaking, not uncertain –  steady, and you placed your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. You felt the solid muscle, the rise and fall of his breath, the slight hitch when you pressed just a little firmer.

His gaze locked on yours, and then, you pushed – not harshly, but firmly. He didn’t resist. He let it happen, his body eased backward like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. You followed him, step for step, until he landed in the chair, thighs spread, arms resting on the sides, open and inviting.

Yours.

You didn’t pull back, you continued the motion, and  leaned in slowly.

One knee pressed to the edge of the cushion between his legs, boldly brushing against his crotch, one hand braced against the backrest behind him, the other still firm on his chest. Your body hovered over his, your breath touched his cheek. You were close enough to feel the tension ripple through him.

You saw his lashes flutter, his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip, and you saw something else, something you had spent days convincing yourself wasn’t real – the want, etched in every line of his face, in the storm behind his beautiful steel-blue eyes. 

He tilted his head up toward you. Waiting. 

You leaned in further, breath grazing the edge of his mouth, close enough to taste him, to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. His lips parted slightly, and you felt it, how his body tensed under yours, how he withdrew his breath.

You could’ve kissed him. God, you wanted to. But you didn’t.

Instead, you slid your hand from his chest to his shoulder, fingers brushing the thick curve of muscle, feeling the strength coiled beneath his skin.

You dipped your head just slightly, lips hovering near his ear.

“Don’t move,” you whispered, your voice low, steady. “Not until I say so.”

His breath left him in a harsh, shaky exhale and a sound punched from his chest before he could stop it – rough and guttural. 

Jesus Christ, that voice.

There was nothing he could do about it, the sheer sound of it, each fucking sullable shot straight to his cock, making it twitch, and a low, shamefully desperate groan escaped him before he could stop it.

The heat of your body surrounded him, your knee pressed boldly between his thighs, your breath ghosting over his cheek.

You leaned in a fraction more, lips grazing the shell of his ear enough to make his pulse stutter. You shifted your weight, tilted your head, studying him, watching the smallest flickers of restraint in his jaw, his throat, the way his hands clawed at the chair’s arms, and a slow  realization crept in right in the center of your chest – you had leverage. 

Fuck you liked that feeling. Adrenaline surged in your veins, but it wasn’t panic, it was something wilder, something sharper. It was like a high, like flying, like tipping off the edge of a cliff with wings made of fire.

You didn’t move back, not yet, you let him feel it, your frame above him, your presence, and then your lips dipped again, brushing against his ear.

“You keep still,” you murmured, your voice low and deliberate, tinged with a wicked edge you didn’t quite recognize, with no idea where it came, except that it was yours. “And if you manage, I’ll reward you. I’ll give you what you crave.”

You felt him shiver beneath you, breath staggering, and his throat bobbed in a hard swallow. 

You didn’t move away, you just let your fingers slow and exploratory drift down the line of his neck, tracing the tendons beneath the skin, feeling how tight they’d become. His breath was shallow, but he didn’t move. Not a twitch.

You circled behind the chair, your touch ghosting along his shoulder, then his collarbone. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to track your movement. You leaned in close behind him, lips near the curve where his neck met his shoulder, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

“Still,” you whispered, tangling your fingers into his hair and pushing his head back to its initial position.

Bucky’s chest rose on a sharp inhale, but he obeyed. He had long since run out of curses to mutter in his head.

You weren’t even really touching him. Just the ghost of your breath against his cheek, the lingering heat of your knee brushing the inside of his thigh, and that low, wicked promise curling in his ear like smoke. But the small, wet patch slowly forming on his sweatpants, right above the hard, unmistakable bulge beneath, spoke volumes.

Stay still.And if he did, you'd give him what he craved.

Fuck. He didn’t even know what the reward was supposed to be, but he’d crawl through fire for it.

At this point, he wasn’t even sure who was giving the lesson anymore. His skin prickled with the phantom sensation of your hands. His cock was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, painfully hard, straining beneath the soft cotton, damp and aching.

He didn’t move. He wouldn’t.

Because this was you, and God, you were stunning when you took control.

You weren’t the trembling, flustered girl who used to duck her head when he caught your eye. You weren’t whispering apologies for taking up space. You weren’t asking for permission anymore.

You were claiming it, claiming him, and it was the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

His jaw clenched, his fingers curled tightly around the arms of the chair. His thighs ached with the effort of staying still, of not grinding up into the soft pressure of your leg, not chasing more of your weight, your heat, your breath.

Now you were circling him, slow and deliberate, like you had all the time in the world, like a lioness watching her prey, not in a rush, just… choosing where to sink her teeth first.

Jesus. How the hell had you done this to him?

You’d flipped a switch deep inside, one he didn’t even know existed, and now the only thing he craved, the only thing he desperately wanted was for you to keep going. 

He’d stay still as stone if that’s what it took. Hell, he’d do anything you asked of him.

You smiled.

Your fingers trailed down the slope of his chest next, deliberately slow, not to soothe, to tease. You moved in front of him again, standing between his legs, watching his eyes follow the path of your hand as it slid down the center of his tank top, pausing at the hem.

You didn’t lift it, you just toyed with the fabric. Your thumb grazed just under the edge, finding warm skin, tracing the faint trail of hair there. His abdomen twitched under your touch, and still he didn’t move.

But oh, he was fighting. 

You could see it – the small, subtle movements, the way his hands gripped the arms of the chair, how his thighs strained slightly under the fabric of those loose sweats. 

“You’re doing so well,” you murmured. “But I wonder… how much longer can you keep still?”

You bent forward and placed your palms on the arms of the chair, caging him in. Your chest hovered just above his, your lips near his jaw now, and his eyes – God, those eyes – were black with want, pinned to your mouth like it held salvation.

You tilted your head and let your lips hover beside his ear again, just barely brushing it.

“Are you starting to regret that deal, Sergeant?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, he inhaled shakily through his nose, a beat of silence followed and then…

“No, ma’am,” he rasped.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Something clicked in your spine at the sound of that, something deep and sharp and hungry.

Your breath stuttered, and your thighs twitched with the need to squeeze together, anything to soothe the growing throb between your legs. Your pussy pulsed with an aching want, the kind that crawled up your spine and made your mouth go dry. The urge to grind your hips into something, anything, was so strong it nearly stole your focus, but you held your ground.

“All right,” you murmured. “Let’s raise the stakes, then.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, just slightly, you felt it under your hand still resting on his chest. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and blown, mouth parted as if on the edge of a gasp he refused to let out.

You moved one hand lower, down his torso, down past the waistband, and then lower still to the inside of his thigh. Your touch was slow, firm, deliberate. Your palm dragged across dense muscle, warm and solid beneath the soft fabric of his sweats.

Bucky’s entire body locked up beneath your hand, a tight coil of tension and desire wound so taut, you were certain he’d snap at any second. And the truth was… you wouldn’t even mind.

You swallowed, slow and thick, trying to ground yourself before you did something reckless –  like drop to your knees and beg him to fuck you.

Instead, you stroked your palm over his thigh again, firmer this time, just shy of his cock.

“Still with me?” you asked softly, your lips barely parting, your fingers inching closer to the heat you could feel radiating off him. Your thumb brushed the waistband of his sweatpants, just a whisper of skin-to-skin contact, and his whole body flinched. 

You watched his eyes flicker from your face, to your mouth, to your throat, then lower and lower still, lingering at your collarbone for a heartbeat too long before snapping back to meet your gaze.

You didn’t move. You let him look. Let him ache.

“Do you want me to touch you?” you flapped your lashes as if that was the most innocent thing to ask. 

His lips parted, but no sound came out at first, just a ragged exhale.

“I…” he swallowed. “Yes.”

Your thumb traced the waistband again, a little slower now, your other hand braced lightly on the backrest, holding your position, watching him squirm beneath you.

“Say it,” you murmured, voice softer now, but firmer too. “I want to hear you say it.”

His hips shifted just a fraction,  just a fraction, before he caught himself and went still again. 

“I want you to touch me,” he said, hoarse and low and aching. “Please.”

God. Please.

That word sent a throb of heat through your core, thick and dizzying. Your pussy clenched, soaking through your panties, your own body vibrating with want.

Your hand slid lower, down past the waistband, slow as a melting candle, your fingers slipping beneath soft cotton and brushing along his skin, hot and tight and twitching with every stuttered breath he couldn’t suppress.

He gasped, a small, broken sound that punched straight into your core.

You didn’t rush, you took your time wrapping your fingers around him, adjusting to the sheer heat of him, the heavy weight, the way his cock twitched and pulsed against your palm. 

You were dizzy, maybe as much as him, as every ragged breath, every tremble in his arms, every pulse of his cock in your hand – all of it sent waves of heat through you. 

You gave him a slow stroke from the base to the tip, and Bucky groaned through clenched teeth, head snapping back against the chair, throat bared, jaw locked tight. His chest heaved under your other hand, muscles drawn taut like wires strung to breaking.

Yet, he didn’t move, didn’t thrust, didn’t buck.

You exhaled slowly. “Good.”

That was all you said, but it shattered him.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, dark, warm and hungry.

“No,” you murmured, thumb dragging up the underside of his length in one maddeningly slow motion. “I’m going to reward you.”

And God, the way he shuddered when you said that, the way his hips flexed and then froze again like he remembered your rule just in time, the way he blinked up at you, lips parted, pink tongue barely visible as he fought for control.

It was everything.

Your touch grew firmer, more confident, exploring every inch of him with care and hunger. Every twitch, every hiss, every whisper of your name from his mouth made your thighs clench tighter together, made your pulse throb between your legs like a drum.

You watched him, watched how close he was to falling apart, the flush on his cheeks, the sweat beginning to bead at his temples, the way his abs fluttered beneath the strain of keeping still while your hand worked him in slow, sinful strokes.

You went down, slowly, not letting go of him, you sank to your knees between his spread thighs.

Bucky’s eyes flew open.

The noise he made, low and wrecked, like it had been clawed from his throat, nearly undid you. You settled between his thighs like you’d always belonged there, your palms firm against his knees, pushing them further apart.

His cock twitched in your hand, thick and heavy, red at the tip. It was leaking for you, and your mouth watered just from the sheer sight of it.

You looked up, and held his gaze.

“You can move now,” you said, voice barely more than a breath.

The relief that passed through his body was visible, like something inside him cracked open, flooding him with everything he’d held back. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair like he might fall through it and his hips jerked just once, involuntary, desperate.

You leaned in and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, so hot, flushed and already slick

He choked on a groan.

His hips lifted again, this time with purpose, need overriding everything else. You let him, let him fuck into your mouth with short, trembling thrusts, let him lose himself. He’d earned this, every inch of this.

You moaned around him, let your tongue swirl, let your fingers grip his thighs and hold him steady as he fell apart for you.

It didn’t take long. He was already so close.

“Fuck… fuck, I…” his hand shot down, metal fingers brushing through your hair as he fucked your mouth with fast, sloppy thrusts.

“Please,” he whispered, voice shaking, “please, baby, I’m gonna…”

You didn’t stop, you hollowed your cheeks, took him deeper, let your moan vibrate around him  and that was it, his entire body went taut and the breath left his lungs in a strangled, desperate sound as he came, hot and thick on your tongue.

You swallowed it all, didn’t flinch, didn’t stop until he sagged back in the chair, chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow.

Slowly, carefully, you released him from your mouth, your lips parted with one last swipe of your tongue, and then you looked up at him, and he swore under his breath.

Your eyes were glassy with heat, your lips wet and swollen, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth like you knew exactly what you’d just done to him, like you were proud of it. 

He was wrecked. Absolutely destroyed.

His head dropped back against the chair with a soft, broken sound he didn’t even recognize as his own. His lungs were useless, barely keeping up, his heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out, like it couldn’t take what had just happened.

His thighs trembled and his fingertips tingled. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping the armrests until he forced himself to let go. His flesh hand flexed with a stiff creak of the chair beneath him. The metal one… it was still in your hair, loose now, cradling the back of your head like he didn’t want to let go.

You were still on your knees between his legs, looking up at him.

Holy fuck. He blew out a shaky breath, dragged a hand over his face, chest still heaving like he’d run a marathon. He tried to think. Tried to speak. Nothing came.

Only the memory, the image of you just before you dropped to your knees – that calm, that fire, that voice. 

God, that voice was going to live in his bones forever.

It had been so worth it, every second of waiting, every burning pulse under his skin, every minute of being still while you circled him like you were deciding whether or not he was worthy.

And when you’d touched him? When you’d stroked him, tasted him, taken him into your mouth like you claimed him, like you owned him? 

He exhaled again, slower this time, jaw slack, pulse still galloping like it didn’t know the ride was over.

Fuck… fuck… fuck…. that was the most mind blowing orgasm he had ever had… ever… 

He would stay still for you a thousand more times if this was where it led.

He let his head roll to the side, eyes heavy-lidded, still drinking in the sight of you with flushed lips, chest rising and falling, your hair a little messy from his grip.

You were so fucking beautiful like this. 

You rose slowly, your knees trembling, breath still uneven, lips tingling with the taste of him.  Heat crept up your neck and across your cheeks in a wave, threatening to chase away the high you were still floating on. 

You had just… dropped to your knees… dropped to your fucking knees and taken him apart with your mouth like…  fuck, you didn’t even know how to describe it… like you’d been possessed, like someone else had climbed into your skin, someone bold, someone in control, someone who actually belonged in this moment with him.

And now, what? What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do?

You glanced down at your hands. You could still feel him in your mouth, still taste the heat of him on your tongue.

What if he didn’t like it?

Girl, he just came on your tongue!

But what… what if it wasn’t  right?  What if he came too fast and now he was embarrassed? What if he was just sitting there, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into?

God, you’d never done anything like that before, not like this. 

You’d given head, sure. You weren’t a virgin, you knew how to suck a dick.

But this wasn’t just any dick. 

This was Bucky Barnes' dick.

This was the man who haunted your dreams…

He probably thinks you’re easy, desperate. Just some girl who lost her mind for five minutes.

Your first instinct, as always, was to run, to retreat, to put distance between yourself and whatever this had just become. 

You took a step back, panic rising like a tide, but before you could go any further, his hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist. You froze, breath hitching in your throat, every nerve ending going still.

He tugged, not harsh, not demanding, just firm. He pulled you forward, and suddenly, you were in his lap, straddling his thighs, his arm wrapping around your waist like he’d been waiting for you to try and leave again.

“Don’t you dare run away,” he rasped, voice rough and wrecked and so full of heat it made your spine lock. “There’s still one more lesson.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs.

“One more?” you breathed, voice barely audible.

“Yes,” he nodded, his forehead tipping against yours, his flesh hand rising to cradle your jaw while his thumb brushed your cheek.

“One more,” he repeated, softer now, like both a promise and a plea.

You blinked, dazed, the world tilting on its axis. “And what’s it about?”

His gaze darkened, mouth twitching in a smile that barely made it to the surface. He didn’t answer.

Instead, in one smooth, practiced motion, he rose to his feet, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. You gasped, a sound caught between surprise and a breathless laugh, but it vanished the moment he pressed his mouth to your temple.

“Lesson four,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear as he set you down gently, turning to  face the chair, your back pressed against the heat of his chest.

You barely had time to think.

“Lesson four,” he whispered, “is about telling me what you want.”

His hands ghosted over your arms, down your sides, skimming your hips like a sculptor memorizing every line.

You trembled – a slow, deep shiver that started in your stomach and spread outward.

His nose brushed your neck, breath hot on your skin. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he said, the word dragging like velvet. “What do you want?”

Your whole body answered before your mouth could. The ache between your thighs, the flutter of your pulse, the heat blooming in your chest – it was all him now, every breath, every thought.

His hands slid up, slow and steady – over your stomach, your ribs, your breasts – until one hand cupped your jaw and gently tilted your face back toward him.

He kissed you, soft, deep and slow, tasting himself on your tongue.

You gripped his forearms like a lifeline, lips parting beneath his, letting the kiss pull you under, as your chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling breaths.

When your lips broke apart, your voice came out in a whisper, shaky at first, but real.

“You,” you said, then repeated, louder. “You.”

He exhaled like you’d just given him air, like you’d given him everything.

“Good girl,” he breathed, voice ragged. “So fucking good.”

His mouth crashed into yours again, hungry this time, fierce. He licked over your lips before his tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you with the kind of intent that made your knees feel unreliable. You moaned into him, and the sound tore a low groan from his chest, deep and wrecked.

His hand moved to your hip, fingers digging in tighter, pulling you against him. You rolled your hips, teasing, aching, and he rewarded you with a sharp inhale.

You didn’t even realize how you moved, just knew that a second later, you were up on your knees in the chair, pants shoved down your thighs, the room spinning slightly from how fast it was all happening.

Bucky’s hands slid down the backs of your thighs, spreading you, steadying you, and then his mouth was on you.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your folds, and your whole body shuddered, a strangled sound slipping past your lips as your fingers gripped the backrest.

He groaned into you like he couldn’t help it, like the taste of you knocked something loose in him. You felt it the way he devoured you, like a man starved, like this was what he’d been waiting for.

His tongue worked you over with agonizing precision, slow at first, like he was mapping every inch of you, like he didn’t want to miss a single flick, a single stroke that made your breath catch. Then it got firmer, deeper, breaching your entrance and slipping inside you in steady rhythm until your thighs trembled, and you let out a broken, pleading whimper.

“Bucky…” you gasped, your voice thin and breathless, forehead pressing to your forearm as you gripped the chair harder, chasing the edge he was dragging you toward.

He didn’t stop, if anything, he doubled down, flattening his tongue, then drawing it tight against your pussy, licking fast like a cat.

You cried out, high and raw, heat flashing through your belly and low into your spine.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmured, breath hot against your slick skin. “I want to hear you.”

His mouth returned back like it belonged there, wet, hungry, possessive.

Your body bucked before you could stop it, instinct taking over as your hips rolled into his face. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you there, and he groaned into your cunt like it turned him on even more to feel how close you were.

It was overwhelming, his mouth, his hands, his voice. Everything.

You were going to fall apart. You knew it.

“Please,” you choked out, one hand flying back blindly, searching for him, needing something to anchor yourself to. “Please, Bucky, I… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he growled against you, his voice soaked in heat and pride and something rougher underneath. “Let go for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

That broke you and you shattered on his tongue, your whole body seizing up with the force of your orgasm. Pleasure tore through you like blinding, loud, relentless fire. You sobbed out his name, legs shaking, hands fumbling for anything to hold on to as he worked you through it, fucking you with his tongue, slower now, gentler, worshipful.

He didn’t stop until your thighs trembled with oversensitivity, until your breath was ragged and your body slumped over the back of the chair, feeling liquid, like your bones had melted beneath your skin.

You felt Bucky’s hands grip your hips, firm and certain, pulling you back toward him, closer, wider, until you were spread perfectly for his eyes alone. With a low, satisfied hum vibrating through him, his flesh hand slid down, fingers collecting the slick arousal dripping from your pussy, you felt the sound more than heard it.

Bucky ran his metal hand over your hip, tracing around the curve of your lower back, gliding over the soft swell of your ass, slow and reverent.

His cock was already hard again, thick and pulsing, and he used your wetness to stroke himself once, twice – slow, deliberate passes of his hand, his eyes locked on the way your body trembled for him.

God. He’d imagined this, dreamed it, but nothing in his fantasies compared to the sight of you now, bent forward, back arched, ass round and soft, up in the air and glistening for him. You looked wrecked and ready, undone and craving for more.

It was the most beautiful fucking thing he’d ever seen.

His cock twitched hard in his hand, painfully eager to feel you wrapped around him, as he pressed the thick and hot tip against your entrance, and your hips rolled back in a greedy, instinctive motion.

He leaned in, his chest flush to your back, his breath hot on your ear. 

“Lesson number four,” he murmured, voice dark and wrecked. “If you want me to fuck that tight, pretty pussy now, you need to tell me. Tell me this is what you want,” Bucky whispered into your ear, and you let out a soft gasp unable to form any coherent words from how much you wanted him, more than air, more than anything.  

“Yes… yes… please, Bucky, I want it. I want you… I want you so bad,” you finally mewled, breathless and broken, your ass pushing back at him, in a needy attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.

His groan of satisfaction vibrated against your spine.

“Good girl. Learning fast,” he growled, and his hands clamped down on your hips, steadying you as he began to push inside, inch by inch.

You gasped, biting down hard on a moan that still slipped from your lips, broken and breathless, as he stretched you open, deeper, and deeper, until he was fully seated, buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned at once, a tangled, desperate sound that vibrated through the air.

Bucky nearly lost it right then, your pussy gripped him like a vice, hot, soaked, welcoming, and he couldn’t stop the surge of emotion that hit him like a wave.

It was better than any of the wet dreams he’d had in the last few months, better than any fantasy he had ever had.

This felt like home, like the place he belonged, like heaven.

“Fuck, so tight,” Bucky groaned, staying still for a moment savouring the feeling of your walls squeezing him before giving you first tentative thrust, then another and one more.

You moaned, loud and unrestrained, as he started to fuck into you with steady force, slow and hard, keeping your ass locked in place while his cock buried deeper and deeper within you with every snap of his hips. Each drag along your walls set you ablaze, each slap of his balls against your pussy made your body jolt.

It was like he was rearranging your insides, hitting every perfect spot, and all you could do was take it, moaning, trembling, falling apart under every thrust.

Your eyes rolled back into your head, your jaw slackened, drool wetting your lips, and your fingers clawed into the backrest for support.

“Good girl,” Bucky groaned behind you, speeding up his pace, his cock driving in and out of you faster, harder, your body rocking forward with each thrust. “Such a perfect, tight pussy… fuck, the best in the whole goddamn world and all mine.” 

His metal hand slid down, cool and skilled, fingers slipping between your thighs until he found your clit and started rubbing slow, tight circles, in perfect rhythm with his hips.

“Fuck!” you cried out, voice pitching high as your legs buckled slightly beneath you.

“Look at you,” he moaned, his breath hot against your back, still not slowing down. “Taking me so fucking well as if you were made for this. I knew you were made for me.”

Your whole body shuddered at his words, every filthy syllable crawling under your skin and igniting something feral inside you. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, trying to hold back another moan, but it was useless, his touch, his voice, the way he filled you, it was all too much.

He was pounding into you, and you were taking it, all of it, savoring every stretch, every rough thrust, every fucking inch of him. You were wide open for him, needy and wrecked, and he was giving you exactly what your body begged for.

Bucky’s flesh hand left your hip and slid up, fingertips grazing your side before slipping under your bra. He pushed the lace aside, just enough to expose your hardened nipple, and rolled it between his fingers with a firm pinch that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

His metal hand never stopped, the cool pads of his fingers working your clit in fast, relentless circles. The contrast between the soft heat of his palm on your breast and the sharp chill of vibranium against your swollen clit made your stomach seize, your whole body tensing with the slow-build pressure coiling in your gut.

It was coming.

Your muscles tightened, your thighs trembling, the orgasm building in the deepest part of you, hot, wild, all-consuming.

Bucky felt it, he knew, felt the way your pussy clenched hard around his cock, the way your ass pushed back into him, chasing more, chasing every fucking inch of him.

It set something off in him, he groaned low and dark, his hips snapping faster, harder, losing that last ounce of restraint as he fucked you towards your impending high.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he growled, voice strained. “That pretty pussy gonna make a mess on my cock?”

“Yes, yes… please, Bucky, I’m so close… don’t stop,” you mewled, voice wrecked with need.

And fuck, he was right there with you.

With a growl, he pulled you flush against his chest, his arm banding across your middle, locking you in place as he started thrusting up into you harder, deeper, relentless and that was the last bit you needed.

Your mouth dropped open, a strangled gasp escaping, as your orgasm slammed into you, blinding and all-consuming. Your entire body convulsed in his hold, trembling violently, your cunt spasming around him like it was trying to pull him even deeper.

He didn’t stop, Bucky kept fucking you, holding you tight, whispering praises into your ear – “So good, so fucking perfect, such a good girl for me” – savouring every shudder of your body, every ragged moan rolling over your lips until your strength gave out and you went boneless in his arms again.

Just a few more hard, ragged thrusts and he followed with a shuddering curse, his hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside of you, cock twitching with every pulse. His cum flooded your aching pussy, warmth blooming through your core, as he buried his face in your neck, panting hard, his body shaking against yours.

The room was quiet now, save for the ragged sound of your breathing tangled with his. Your body was limp in his arms, boneless, floating, his chest rose and fell against your back, slick with sweat, his arms still wrapped tight around.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered into your neck, voice hoarse. He kissed the damp skin there, once, then again and again. “You’re mine now.”

You blinked slowly, still dazed, your brain trying to catch up to your body. Mine. The word seeped into you like a hot steam, electrifying, dangerous, too good to believe. Your body hummed with the afterglow, but your mind… well your mind was…

Don’t make a big deal out of it. He doesn’t mean it. He’ll regret saying that the moment this haze lifts. 

You can’t seriously believe that Bucky Barnes would want someone like you… Yes, as a short and steamy fling maybe, but not more…

Bucky’s lips found your temple, and the tender, soft press of his mouth to your skin suddenly silenced the noise in your head like flipping a switch. 

“You’re doing it again,” Bucky murmured, his metal arm wrapping tighter around you.

“Doing what?” you asked quietly.

“I can see it, the way your gaze shifts and turns inward, I can see those little wheels in there spinning too fast. Please don’t. Don’t do that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, wide and open and devastatingly sincere.

“Speak to me. Tell me what you want, what you think,” his voice cracked just slightly, and it caught you off guard. “And don’t run from me again, okay? You don’t get to give me this and then bolt… please…” 

You swallowed, throat tight, emotions all tangled together and stuck somewhere between disbelief and hope.

“Well…” you managed, voice thin, a bit shaky, but laced with a crooked smile, “I was just thinking I’m not entirely sure I got that last lesson right.”

Bucky blinked at you.

You shrugged. “Might need a refresher or maybe even an intensive course.”

He huffed a sound caught between a laugh and a groan. 

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see the way his mouth curved at the corners and the impossible softness in his eyes that he didn’t even try to hide.

His hand slid slowly up your stomach, warm and steady, settling just beneath your breast as he pulled you back against him. His lips softly and unhurriedly brushed your shoulder, pressing a kiss into your skin that made your breath catch.

“Alright, smartass,” he murmured, his voice laced with affection and just a hint of a smile. “Lesson five… coming right up.”

You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, a small sigh escaping your lips as your arm reached up and behind you, your fingers slipped into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until his mouth was nestled against your throat.

And for once, your mind was silent, utterly, blissfully, contentedly silent.

[svtcatcafe]

[iamthatonefangirl]

reader that's too shy to be vocal during sex..bucky coaxing sweet noises out of them..but in a condescending manner.. hello😕..

"come on, doll. you can do better than that," he coos in your ear, deliberately fucking into you as deep as he can, trying to force it out of you

you're just kind of breathy and a little whiny, but for the most part, nothing. you're holding your breath as you hold back, maintaining your composure fairly well even as he rails the shit out of you

but oh he's not having that, no. not at all

and so he's going harder and deeper, watching your facial expressions as we works on breaking you down to finally give him what he wants

and when it's not working,

"i'm gonna fuck it out of you one way or another, you know that?" he hisses, pulling out and turning you onto your stomach, hitching your hips up to his

and oh my god when he pushes back in, harshly, you let out a little noise

and then

"that's a start," he whispers before leaning over you and wrapping his arm around your neck from behind

he's giving you the meanest backshots of your life and you're helpless to the way the noises just start falling from your lips as the feeling takes over

"much better, finally moaning like the little whore you are."

[killerplink]

INFECTED

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader x Jason Todd

Plot: What was supposed to be a simple mission to stop Ivy takes an unexpected turn when her latest scheme leaves you, Jason, and Dick trapped, and at the mercy of some very potent pollen. With your minds hazy and bodies burning, boundaries blur, and well... things escalate fast.

A/N: I don't know if this is what y'all had in mind with this spicy pollen fic, but as you might've noticed, I'm a yapper. I don't do 'let's get it and leave' type of shit. No, we're diving deep into the filth and the feelings. So yeah... this turned out way longer than expected, but your girl loves details 😭

The warehouse stinks of damp wood and fertilizer, the air thick with the scent of Ivy's latest eco terrorist bullshit. You, Jason, and Dick move quickly through the dimly lit space, scanning for the so called "pollen bombs" that intel suggested she was planting all over Gotham.

"God, it reeks in here," Jason grumbles, wrinkling his nose behind his helmet. "What the hell is she even tryin' to do? Make the city smell like a goddamn greenhouse?"

"Could be worse," Dick muses, flipping acrobatically over a crate before kneeling beside a sleek metal canister. "Could smell like Killer Croc's lair."

Jason makes a gagging noise, and you fight back a laugh as you crouch beside them, eyeing the canister. It looks pretty standard—small, about the size of a fire extinguisher, a simple pressurized trigger system on top.

"Think this is one of them?" you ask.

"Either that or the world's most industrial lookin' Febreze bottle," Jason mutters.

Dick scoffs, running his gloved fingers along the side of the canister. "Ivy's getting sloppy. This is—"

PFFT.

The release is instant. The three of you barely have time to react before a thick, pale green vapor hisses from the canister, spreading out around you in a slow, curling cloud.

"Shit," Jason curses, jerking back, but it's already too late.

Instinctively, he pulls you with him, yanking you closer to his chest as if that could shield you from whatever the hell is happening. His arm wraps tight around you, his body stiffening as the vapor swirls around all three of you.

The gas spreads, clinging to your clothes, sneaking past your masks. You inhale before you can stop yourself, and—

"Wait," you murmur. "Why does it... smell good?"

Jason and Dick freeze, both of them taking tentative sniffs. The air is thick with something warm and sweet—notes of honey and spice, deep and rich like fresh blooms in the summer sun. It's nice. So nice, in fact, that for a second, the three of you just... stare at each other, confused.

Jason exhales sharply, waving a hand in front of his face. "Okay. What the fuck?"

Dick coughs, looking around at the dissipating mist. "Maybe it's, uh... a trap? Some kind of knockout gas?"

"We'd be on the floor by now, Grayson," you point out.

There's a beat of silence. The three of you just stand there, letting the last wisps of the pollen drift away, waiting for some kind of reaction—dizziness, nausea, anything.

But nothing happens.

Jason huffs. "So lemme get this straight. Ivy had all these bombs set up, and instead of droppin' us where we stand, it just..." he gestures vaguely, "Makes Gotham smell better?"

The absurdity of it hits you all at once. A soft giggle bubbles up in your throat, and then another, until you're actually laughing, shaking your head.

"Damn," you say, breathless. "Deadliest eco terrorist in Gotham, and she really just gave us a perfume sample."

Jason snorts. "The horror."

Dick rolls his eyes, standing up and dusting himself off. "Okay, well, if this was supposed to be some big master plan, I think we can call it a bust. Let's get back to the cave and let Bats know."

Jason claps a hand on your back, steering you toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah, before Ivy shows up and actually does somethin' dangerous."

None of you notice it yet. The subtle heat creeping into your limbs, the faint buzz just beneath your skin. By the time you're in the Batmobile, it's in you.

The car hums beneath you, the quiet rumble of the engine filling the space as Gotham blurs past the tinted windows. Jason's driving, one hand gripping the gear shift, the other draped lazily over the wheel. Dick's in the passenger seat, his mask still on, head tilted slightly like he's lost in thought.

And you? You're burning up, but not in a sick way. Not in an oh God, something's wrong way. It's just... heat. Low and thick, curling beneath your skin, settling deep between your thighs in a way that has you shifting uncomfortably in your seat. You tug at your collar, brows furrowing, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.

It's all there, wrong but right at the same time, pooling in the pit of your stomach, thrumming between your legs. Your thighs press together, the friction sending a sharp little spark up your spine.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare out the window, pretending like you're not embarrassingly close to squirming in the backseat of the goddamn Batmobile like some desperate, needy mess.

Maybe it's just—God, maybe it's just them. Jason and Dick, sitting up front, broad shoulders filling out their suits, muscles flexing with every shift of the steering wheel, every casual movement.

That's it, you tell yourself. That has to be it.

This is just because you've been down bad lately, right? Because let's be honest, you've spent way too many nights with your hand or your toys between your thighs, gasping their names into your pillow. It's ridiculous how often it happens, how they've completely hijacked your brain.

Jason, with his sharp mouth, broad chest, big hands. That stupid smirk that makes your stomach flip. His voice, rough and lazy when he calls you "doll" like it's the easiest thing in the world.

And then there's Dick. All smooth charm and soft lips, stupidly pretty even when he's bleeding, the kind of guy who can talk anyone into anything. That boyish grin, those ridiculous acrobat's hips. The way he looks at you sometimes, all teasing and playful but just sharp enough to make you wonder.

Truth be told, you're painfully under fucked. Gotham's dating scene is trash, and while you could technically take the edge off yourself, your current stash of sex toys is... underperforming. No matter what setting, what angle, it's just not enough. Not enough pressure, not enough stretch, not enough them.

Because the worst part? The part that keeps you up at night, panting into your pillow, legs shaking from overstimulation?

You don't think about some faceless, nameless fantasy. You think about them.

Jason, his big hands pinning your wrists down, his voice rough against your ear as he stretches you open. Dick, slick with sweat, his mouth everywhere, moaning into your skin as he fucks you deep.

Sometimes—fuck—sometimes, it's both. One of them eating you out while the other fucks your mouth, one stuffing you full while the other whispers the filthiest things in your ear.

Your fingers have been the next best thing, but they always leave you wanting. And now, sitting here, feeling hotter by the second, it's all rushing back—every desperate, aching thought.

No. You shake your head, pressing a hand to your cheek. Get a grip. You are not about to get horny in the goddamn Batmobile. Except... you already are. And you're not the only one.

Up front, Dick shifts in his seat, biting the inside of his cheek, his fingers curled into fists on his thighs. His suit is... well, not built for this. The material is thick, durable, but not forgiving. His cock is already half hard, twitching every time the car hits a bump in the road, the sensation sparking something hot and needy down his spine.

His jaw tightens. His thoughts have already turned against him, flashing back to every moment he's ever had to force himself not to look at you, not to stare too long at the way your suit hugs your curves, not to think about how sweet you probably sound when you moan.

But now? Now it's like those thoughts are pumping through his veins. He shifts again, pulling his hand over his lap, casually resting his elbow on the car door, tilting his head like he's just relaxing. But his fingers curl into his thigh, his cock throbbing against the fabric, and shit, he can't stop thinking about you.

He clenches his jaw. This is fine. He can just breathe through it, ignore it. Right?

Because it doesn't make sense. One second, he's fine, the next, his skin is tight, his pulse is loud, his body thrumming like it's been wired wrong. His mind flashes back to the warehouse, to the smoke. Shit. Okay. Okay, this is fine. Except it's not fine because he chances a glance in the rearview mirror.

And that is a mistake. Because there you are, brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your lip, looking so warm and soft and pretty.

He forces his gaze forward, but his dick throbs insistently against the fabric of his suit, demanding attention, aching in a way that has him pressing his thighs together and shifting in his seat, trying to be subtle about it.

But Jason notices, because of course he does. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers flexing as he watches Dick shift uncomfortably in his seat. The way his chest rises and falls a little too fast. The way he adjusts himself as subtly as he can.

Jason grits his teeth. Goddammit. This is already bad enough. He's used to getting hard, and that's not really news, considering he's around you.

It's embarrassing at this point. He's used to this constant, low level problem whenever you're near. The way his body responds to you like some fucking reflex. A glance, a laugh, a casual touch, and suddenly, he's half hard in his jeans like a goddamn teenager.

But this? This is different. This is fucking brutal. The heat is unbearable, his whole body buzzing with tension, his dick pressing uncomfortably against his pants. And fine, maybe he shouldn't be thinking about you right now, but his brain isn't listening.

It's giving him vivid fucking images—your lips wrapped around his cock, your pussy stretched around his fingers, the little gasps you'd make if he spread you open, if he fucked you just right. He exhales through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the road. Not now. Not fucking now.

And then there's Dick. Sitting there. Shifting around. Acting all innocent, but Jason knows. He sees the way Dick's jaw is clenched, the way he's hiding behind his fucking hands, the way his shoulders keep tensing like he's fighting something off.

And that's a whole other problem. Because Jason does not get hard around Dick. But now? Now, his cock is aching, pressing insistently against the inside of his jeans, and it's fucking weird because Dick is right there.

No way in hell he's acknowledging this. He focuses on the road, breathing in through his nose, willing the heat to settle, willing the blood to go anywhere but his dick. It doesn't work. His suit is hot, the collar too tight, his whole body buzzing with restless, frustrated energy.

His fingers flex against the wheel. "Goddamn it," he mutters under his breath.

Neither of you hear him, and that is concerning. And then, Jason chances a glance in the rearview mirror, and you're squirming.

Not a lot, but enough. Shifting in your seat, pressing your thighs together, lips parted ever so slightly, brows still drawn like you don't even realize you're doing it. He forces his eyes forward, gripping the wheel tight enough to hurt.

Oh, this is so fucked. And he knows—knows—it's about to get worse.

The second the Batmobile rolls into the cave, you're out.

"Okay—" you blurt, voice higher than usual. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."

You don't even wait for their answers before you're practically sprinting toward the locker room.

Jason clears his throat. "I think there was somethin' in that fuckin' smoke bomb."

"Yep," Dick says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking like he wants to say more but physically cannot.

Jason glances away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Y'know what, maybe she's right. A shower wouldn't hurt. Maybe wash these clothes, too, given whatever the fuck was in that shit is on us."

"Yep," Dick repeats, and then, without another word, both of them hurry toward the showers.

The locker room is sleek—clean lines, dark tiles, recessed lighting that casts a soft glow instead of that harsh, clinical brightness most locker rooms have. It's modern but comfortable, not cold or uninviting, just functional.

The walls are lined with neatly organized gear, each section personalized to its owner, creating a sense of quiet efficiency. Even the air has a faint hint of something metallic, like fresh tech waiting to be put to use. It's a space that serves its purpose, but it also feels like it's built for those who belong, making it almost... homey in its own way.

The showers are set up in a row, each with tinted glass dividers that fog up easily with the heat—not fully clear, but not enough to hide everything, either. No doors, no curtains, just a spacious, open layout that suddenly feels like the worst possible decision Bruce could've made.

Not that you're thinking about that. Nope. You're focused on the water cascading over your skin, the steam curling around you, the way your body still burns in a way that has nothing to do with the hot spray.

And okay, fine. You might be a little slow on the uptake, but even you have to admit now that this? This is not normal. You've never felt this desperate before. Not even after a dry spell, not even after the nights you spent aching between your sheets, body wired with need that just wouldn't settle. This is different. Worse.

You exhale sharply, pressing your palms against the cool tile as the water rushes down your back. Okay. Deep breaths. Just... get through this. It'll wear off.

But then you fucking hear it. Jason's low muttering as he steps under the spray, the deep groan he lets out when the hot water crashes over him. Dick exhaling hard, shifting around, the slap of water against skin as he pushes his hair back. And now, somehow, this is fucking worse.

Because your brain? Yeah, it's not helping.

It's giving you images. Images of Jason, big and broad and dripping, water sliding down his chest, over those stupidly defined abs, down to his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

And Dick, all lean muscle and smooth skin, his own cock probably flushed and aching, his face tipped back under the spray as he runs a hand over his body, slicking up every inch of himself.

You squeeze your eyes shut. No. Nope. Not doing this. Not right now.

But the heat between your legs is unbearable. Your fingers twitch at your sides, your clit throbbing, aching for relief, and fuck it, you slip your hand between your thighs.

Your breath stutters, thighs trembling as you press your fingers against your puffy, soaked clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles. And God, you're so fucking wet. Soaked. You can feel it, slicker than you've ever been, dripping down your thighs, mixing with the hot water as you rub yourself with quick, jerky movements.

This should do. Probably. Hopefully.

You bite your lip, forcing your moans down, listening, but the water covers any sound, the steady rush of the showers masking the way you whimper when your fingers slide lower, teasing at your entrance, dipping inside just enough to send a shudder up your spine.

This is fine. They can't hear you. They don't know. Right?

Dick exhales sharply, bracing one hand against the tile as the hot water rushes over him. His body is wired, his skin flushed, his cock still painfully, achingly hard even after scrubbing himself down, after doing everything in his power to focus on literally anything else.

But it's not working. It's. Not. Fucking. Working.

His jaw clenches as he glances down, swallowing hard at the sight of his cock—thick and heavy, desperate, the tip drooling precum as it twitches in the air. Okay, he can fix this.

It's just... the pollen. That's what this is. Not him, not you.

It's just a chemical reaction, and the fastest way to get this out of his system is to handle it. Quickly. Before it gets worse.

So he wraps his fingers around himself and gives a slow, experimental stroke. The relief is instant.

A shudder rolls down his spine as his breath hitches, his hand tightening just slightly as he jerks himself once, twice, watching the way his cock twitches, the way another thick bead of precum leaks from the tip, slicking up his palm.

Fuck, this is bad. Because now, now that he's touching himself, now that he's letting himself feel it—you're there. Well, not right next to him. Not really.

But in his head? You're everywhere. Your mouth on his, warm and desperate, your hands roaming down his chest, slipping lower, wrapping around his cock, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes.

Your breath, hot against his ear as you whisper his name, your tits pressed against him, soft and warm, your nipples dragging over his wet skin as you shift in his lap, grinding against his cock, your pussy so wet he can feel it even through the heat of the shower. His pace stutters, his breath turning ragged as his hips rock forward, fucking into his fist like a desperate, needy idiot.

Because fuck, he is needy. And the worst part? You're. Right. There.

A few feet away, just behind that glass divider, water rushing over your body, slicking up every inch of your skin, dripping down your tits, your stomach, your thighs.

And he wants you. Has for a long time.

But now? Now, it's not just want. It's need, and it's fucking unbearable. His hand moves faster, breath catching as his muscles tense, his balls pulling tight, his whole body thrumming with the need to cum.

Because he just needs to cum, and then this will be over. Right?

Jason has the exact same fucking thought.

Because his dick? Yeah, it's not going down. Not even slightly. His head tips back against the tile, a slow, heavy breath hissing through his teeth as he fists his cock, thick fingers wrapping tight around the swollen length. He's had plenty of inconvenient boners before.

That's just part of the package when he's got you in his life—skintight suits, little smirks, the way you fight like you own the city, like no one can touch you.

Yeah, he's used to being hard when you're around. But this? This is fucking ridiculous.

His whole body feels wired, too hot, like there's an electric current running under his skin. His dick hurts, heavy and flushed, leaking against his knuckles as he starts to stroke himself, slow and firm, the pressure making his breath hitch. This should help. This has to help.

He forces himself to think about other things—literally anything else—but his brain? Yeah, his brain is not cooperating.

Because all he can see is you. Your body under the spray, your tits glistening with water, your ass round and perfect, your thighs slick and parted just enough for him to see the way your pussy clenches, desperate and aching.

And fuck, you're right there. Right. Fucking. There.

So close he could just step over, press himself against your back, run his hands down your body, feel the way your slick little pussy drips against his fingers.

Fuck. His strokes get faster, hips bucking up into his own grip, stomach tightening as he groans under his breath, low and rough, trying to chase that sharp, bright edge of relief.

Because yeah, if he just gets this out of his system, if he just cums, then maybe he won't be thinking about how he wants to bury his cock inside you so fucking bad he's starting to lose his mind.

You rub your clit in tight little circles, slick and needy, but it's not enough. The ache between your thighs burns hotter with every second, but you can't tip over the edge. Not like this.

Not with Jason and Dick right there, close enough that your mind keeps conjuring them instead of whatever weak fantasy you were trying to focus on. You bite your lip, hips shifting slightly as your fingers work faster, but it's no use, because all you can think about is how good their hands would feel instead.

Jason's fingers, thick and rough, stretching you open. Dick's tongue, wet and eager, lapping at you until you're a trembling mess. Fuck. You let out a shaky breath and force yourself to stop, frustrated beyond belief, body pulsing with need that refuses to be satisfied.

Meanwhile, Jason is in his own personal nightmare. Fisting his cock was supposed to help. He thought if he just got off, the unbearable need would settle. But no, he's still rock hard, twitching in his grip, and he's gritting his teeth so hard it's a miracle his jaw hasn't snapped.

It's worse because you're right there. He knows you're showering only a few feet away, completely naked, slick water running down that perfect fucking body of yours, and it's driving him insane. His strokes slow, and he tips his head back against the tiled wall, a groan tearing from his throat before he can stop it.

And that's when Dick stiffens. Not just in the obvious way, though yeah, he's still rock hard, still throbbing, and still aching for more, even after cumming. His skin is flushed, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, and his cock hasn't softened at all. He's still leaking, still desperate, and it takes everything in him not to wrap his fingers around himself again and just keep going.

Then Jason groans again, and it clicks. Dick's movements still. His brows furrow slightly. And before he even thinks it through, his gaze shifts—just barely—toward Jason's stall.

Jason, who is definitely still jerking off. Heat rushes up Dick's spine, a mix of embarrassment and something else—something dangerous—curling deep in his gut. They're both fucked.

Jason must feel the stare, because his grip falters. He huffs a breath, tilting his head to the side just enough that their eyes meet through the fogged up glass, and... oh. Oh, fuck.

The realization is heavy between them, thick with unspoken tension. Dick's lips part slightly, his fingers twitching at his side, and Jason—still flushed, still panting—grits his teeth, dragging a hand down his face like this is somehow his fault.

"This shit is fucked," Jason mutters, voice rough and strained.

Dick sways awkwardly, still pulsing with unbearable heat, and nods. Jason swallows hard, and when his gaze flicks to Dick, he finds the same wide eyed, panting, wrecked expression staring back at him. They're both so far gone it's pathetic. And if they're this fucked, then you must be even worse.

And then? You step out of the stall.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel, beads of water dripping from your skin, steam curling around you like a fucking wet dream. And when you lift your gaze and see them, your breath catches.

Jason is still gripping his cock, hand frozen mid stroke, his whole body stiff. Dick is still hard, still flushed, his eyes wide and dark as he takes you in. The tension is suffocating.

You all know what's happening here at this point. You swallow hard, your body throbbing with heat, and realization slams into you: none of you are getting through this alone.

The silence is thick, the kind that clings, all steam and heat and unsaid words hanging heavy in the air. All three of you just stand there, dripping wet, but you're the only one still clinging to any semblance of modesty, wrapped in a towel that suddenly feels too tight, too hot against your skin.

Dick and Jason? They're just there. Naked.

And maybe you'd all just keep standing here, awkward and unbearably turned on, if Dick didn't clear his throat and break the silence.

"So, uhm..." His voice cracks a little, and he grimaces before trying again. "There was something in the—"

"I know," you cut him off, and your voice is not as steady as you'd like it to be.

Jason, ever the blunt one, just snorts. "Yeah, so jerkin' off isn't doing shit."

That gets a laugh out of you, sharp and a little breathless. "You don't say."

And you really shouldn't be looking. You shouldn't. But they're right there. And when you finally, really let yourself look, trailing your gaze over bare skin, all toned muscle and broad shoulders and glistening tattoos, your eyes flicker down to their laps.

Fuck.

Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself, trailing down to where they stand, cocks heavy and thick against their stomachs, hard and mouthwatering, flushed at the tip.

Jason's hands flex at his sides, itching to reach for you.

Dick sways forward slightly, like he's barely restraining himself, like he wants to drop to his knees right then and there. And you whimper. A soft, needy little sound you cannot take back, and it feels like the air gets sucked out of the room.

Jason notices first—of course he does, always the one to pick up on the filthiest shit—and his eyes darken as his fingers twitch like he's about to grab you.

"So," he starts, voice thick, rough, the kind that settles low in your gut. "Maybe we should, uh... try and help each other out?"

You snap your gaze up to his face so fast your neck nearly cracks, and when you glance at Dick, he's already looking at you.

There's no denying it. There never has been. The attraction between you three has always been there, simmering under the surface, never acted on, never spoken out loud. You've thought about it. Of course you have. Working alongside them, running into them on patrol, spending late nights at the manor or in Jason's safe house—how couldn't you?

You know they like you. They know you like them. But friendship has always come first.

You know you're all good; you get tested regularly, a necessity when you're constantly fighting Gotham's worst, and besides, you're on birth control. You could walk away, end this right here, but they're right there. Naked, wet, needy, dicks that have no business being that fucking big, let alone rock solid.

And you want them so bad. So you do the only thing that makes sense: you let the towel slip from your fingers and drop to the floor.

The second it hits the tiles, their eyes devour you. It starts at your face, flicking down over the curve of your neck, the soft swell of your tits, the dip of your waist, the plush of your thighs, until finally, finally, both of them are staring straight at your bare, aching pussy, slick already glistening between your thighs.

And they look wrecked just from seeing you. Jason's jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and Dick sways slightly on his feet, but neither of them speak, too caught up in the sight of you until Jason finally breaks the silence.

"Fuck," he rasps, voice rough and thick. "You're fuckin' gorgeous."

Your face burns hotter, if that's even possible, heat rushing to your cheeks as they reach out almost in sync, hands gripping the knobs on their respective showers, twisting the water off in one smooth motion before stepping out.

And shit, they're even bigger up close.

Not just big, but big. Tall, broad, all muscle, sleek and strong, shoulders wide, thighs thick, every part of them defined—from the solid lines of their chests to the way their abs flex as they move, glistening wet, drops of water trailing down their skin in slow, teasing paths.

But it's their dicks that have you aching, twitching hard, flushed, heavy, and when Dick's cock gives a sharp throb, you bite back a moan so desperate it nearly chokes you.

Jason steps in first, heat radiating off him as he cups your cheek with one big, calloused hand, tilting your head up, eyes dark and hungry as he leans in.

And then he's kissing you. Hard, deep, hungry. His lips move against yours, hot and insistent, tongue sliding into your mouth like he's been waiting for this, starving for it, and fuck, he kisses like he fights—possessive, dominant, all consuming.

His other hand doesn't hesitate, palms smoothing over your skin, rough fingers sliding straight down to your ass, grabbing a handful, squeezing tight, yanking you up flush against him until his cock presses firm against your belly.

You moan into his mouth, body shuddering as heat coils in your gut, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, every inch of him burning against you.

Behind you, Dick curses under his breath, and you can feel the heat of his stare, feel the way his breath comes out sharp, ragged, as he watches Jason kiss you like he owns you.

Dick steps up behind you, heat radiating off his body, slick skin pressing against your back, and you melt between them. Sandwiched, trapped, caught between two broad, solid bodies, both of them flushed and aching, cocks hard and hot against your skin. Jason groans when your tits press into his chest, and then Dick—fucking Dick—lets out the softest, neediest little exhale against your ear as his hands slide up your sides.

His fingers trace over your ribs, then higher, cupping your tits, thumbs rolling over your nipples, teasing, stroking, making you gasp as Jason leans in and kisses you again.

It's not like before. This kiss is slower, deeper, Jason taking his time to drink you in. His tongue licks into your mouth, lazy, hungry, and his hands roam, one gripping the back of your neck while the other settles on your waist, fingers flexing like he can't decide whether he wants to pull you closer or just hold you there and enjoy every shaky breath you make.

Behind you, Dick's mouth is everywhere—pressing open mouthed kisses to your shoulder, up your throat, teasing your ear as his hand dips lower. Fingertips ghosting down, past your belly, until they finally find your puffy, swollen clit.

You twitch at the contact, a sharp little gasp escaping against Jason's lips, and Dick groans, louder this time, pressing a little firmer, rubbing teasing little circles as he mutters, "You're so fucking wet."

Jason pulls back just enough to watch your face, brushing his thumb over your kiss swollen lips.

His voice is strained, rough as he asks, "You okay with this? With whatever's about to happen?"

His eyes are dark, intense, filled with want but laced with concern, because they need this, need you, but not like this, not unless you want it just as badly. You nod quickly, already breathless, but Dick? Dick's not having it.

He dips his head lower, mouth brushing right against your ear as he whispers, "Use your words, love. We don't wanna push you into anything."

It's almost cruel, the way his fingers slow down, teasing, playing, rubbing lazy, barely there strokes over your clit when all you want is more.

"Yes," you gasp, pushing into his touch. "Please."

That's all it takes. Jason and Dick lock eyes, silent for a moment, and then? Dick nods once, sharp, decisive, and says, "Sauna. Now."

Jason groans. "Jesus fuck, Dickie-bird."

But he doesn't argue. He just watches as Dick takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, guiding you toward the sauna with Jason trailing behind, adjusting the settings so it's warm, comfortable—not stifling, just enough to chase away the cold still clinging to your damp skin.

And the sauna? Yeah, of course it's luxurious as hell. Bruce built it, after all. The benches are smooth, made from high quality wood, wide enough to lie down comfortably, and the warm lighting overhead makes everything feel softer, deeper. It's the kind of place you usually use when you're sore and beaten up after patrols, when you need to relax and let the heat soothe your body.

But tonight? Yeah, you're about to use it for something very different.

Before you can even process what's happening, Jason spins you around, hands everywhere, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing.

You yelp, legs spreading instinctively as he hooks his arms beneath your thighs, locking you open, exposing you, presenting you, and Dick fucking drops to his knees.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes, eyes locked on your dripping pussy, hands already reaching, fingers brushing your inner thighs as his mouth parts in awe. "Look at you."

Jason groans behind you, rolling his hips up just enough to grind his cock against your ass, kissing the side of your head, whispering, "You should see what you do to him, baby. He's fuckin' mesmerized."

And Dick? He kind of is. His chest rises and falls in shallow, desperate breaths as he stares, like he's starving, like he can't decide if he wants to taste you or just kneel there and worship.

Dick's hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing firm, grounding himself as he leans in, eyes fixed on your swollen, dripping pussy. His breath stutters out, warm against your slick skin, and he groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, this is so much better than he ever imagined.

And he has imagined it. More times than he'd ever admit. Nights spent fisting his cock to the thought of you, to the way your suit hugs your curves, to the way you smell when you're close, the teasing, flirty little smiles you send his way. He'd always wondered if you'd taste as good as you look.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice shaky.

With two fingers, he spreads you open, watching your slick drip, glistening in the dim heat of the sauna, and his tongue flicks out, hungry, catching a taste before he can stop himself.

And it wrecks him. His mouth seals over your cunt, tongue pushing deep, groaning as he devours you, hot and wet, lapping up every drop like he's been starving for it. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you steady as he buries himself between your legs, tongue stroking, circling, pushing in deep before dragging back out, flicking against your clit in slow, teasing swipes.

And the sounds you make? Insane.

Breathless, needy, these little gasps and whimpers that make Jason groan behind you, arms flexing as he adjusts his grip, holding you up like you weigh nothing. Solid and so hot against your back, his cock pressing thick against your ass, twitching every time you moan.

"Fuck, Grayson," Jason mutters, voice strained. "She's gonna lose it."

And you are.

Because fuck, Dick knows how to eat pussy. He's skilled, dedicated, every lick and suck sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He moans into you, the vibrations making you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together, but Jason's grip doesn't let you move.

"Feels good, huh, baby?" Jason murmurs, lips brushing against your ear, his tone all smug and filthy, like he's enjoying this just as much as Dick is.

You can't even speak. Your fingers tangle in Dick's damp hair, clutching hard, back arching against Jason's chest as Dick flicks his tongue against your clit in quick, teasing strokes, like he knows exactly how to unravel you.

Jason groans behind you, his arms tightening around your legs. When your head falls against his shoulder and your eyes meet his, he kisses you.

Hard, deep, like he's claiming you, like he needs you just as much as Dick does. His tongue licks into your mouth, swallowing your moans, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, bruising.

You whimper against his lips, and he groans, rolling his hips against your ass, grinding his cock against you, needing friction, needing something, because fuck, this is too much.

And Dick? He just moans against your pussy, tongue fucking into you, making you shudder so hard Jason has to tighten his grip just to keep you steady.

"So fucking good," Dick mutters, pulling back just enough to flick his tongue over your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making you sob his name. "So sweet. Fuck, I could eat you for hours."

Jason breaks the kiss just to groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Christ, Dickie, you're gonna kill her."

Dick grins against your skin, licking another slow, teasing stripe up your pussy, savoring the way you twitch, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way your little gasps turn into full whimpers, desperate and broken.

His fingers ghost over your entrance, teasing, barely there, making your pussy clench on nothing. You squirm in Jason's hold, breath hitching as anticipation coils tight in your stomach, but Dick takes his time. Watches the way you drip for him, spread open and helpless, Jason's arms locked under your thighs to keep you wide and vulnerable.

"Fuck," Dick rasps, his voice thick with arousal, his breath hot against your pussy. "You're soaked."

His thumbs part your folds, and he groans at the sight—slick, glistening, so fucking pretty. His tongue flicks over your clit again, and your whole body jerks, a whimper spilling from your lips.

Jason tightens his grip, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his cock twitching against you as he murmurs, "Easy, baby. Let him take care of you."

And fuck, Dick does take care of you. His mouth works you over, tongue lapping at your swollen clit, lips wrapping around it to suck, firm and slow, drawing needy little noises from your throat. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady, keeping you from writhing too much even though all you want to do is grind against his face, chase the pleasure that's building fast.

Then his fingers press at your entrance again, just the tips, teasing, and you moan, the need to be filled overwhelming. He chuckles against you, the vibration sending another pulse of heat through your core before he finally pushes a finger inside.

It's so much thicker than yours, so much longer, stretching you just enough to make your walls flutter around it. He eases it in, lets you adjust, then curls it up, searching, until—

"Fuck—" you gasp, back arching as he finds that spot, rubbing against it before sliding another finger in beside the first.

The stretch burns just a little, but the way he moves them—God, the way they scissor inside you, slick and warm, thrusting deep—has your mind blanking.

"Feel good, sweetheart?" Jason murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw, hands adjusting their grip on your thighs as he holds you steady.

You nod frantically, but it's not enough. Not when you feel like you're unraveling from just this. "More," you breathe. "Please."

Dick groans like the plea physically pains him, but he doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, stretching you open as his lips wrap around your clit again, sucking just right, tongue flicking against the swollen bud.

Your thighs tremble, pleasure tightening, the slick sounds of his fingers fucking into you obscene, messy, wet. You're dripping, leaking down his hand, onto his wrist, but he doesn't care. His cock is throbbing, leaking against his stomach, but he doesn't fucking care.

All he wants is to make you cum on his tongue. And God, you're close. You can feel it winding tighter and tighter, pleasure curling deep, building fast. Your mind is spinning, flooded with heat and hunger, desperate to feel them everywhere. Their mouths, their hands, their dicks stretching you wide—

Fuck, you're gonna cum.

It hits you fast. A sharp, electric snap of pleasure, burning through every nerve, sending you spiraling. Your whole body locks up, and then, you're cumming, and it's so much. Your cunt tightens around Dick's fingers, pulsing, fluttering, sucking him deeper as wave after wave of heat crashes through you.

It's almost too much. Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and a broken moan spills from your lips as your orgasm drags you under, pleasure rippling through every inch of you. You don't know if it's that fucking pollen messing with you or if Dick just knows how to make you come undone like this, but it feels insane. Shattering, like you're falling apart in Jason's arms, completely helpless to the pleasure tearing through you.

But Dick doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, thrusting his fingers deep, curling them just right, rubbing against that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. His mouth stays locked around your clit, sucking, flicking his tongue over it, dragging you higher, stretching out your orgasm until it's too much, too intense.

All you can do is choke out a breathless, "D-Dick, wait—"

But he doesn't.

Your body jerks, overwhelmed, but he doesn't stop. His fingers work you open, deep and relentless, his tongue still lapping at your clit, pushing, pushing—

And then you gush. A sharp, full body shudder racks through you as hot, slick arousal pours from your cunt, drenching his fingers, his wrist, his fucking face.

It splashes against the sauna floor, and heat flares in your chest, embarrassment creeping up your spine as you gasp, "S-shit, I'm s-sorry—"

Jason lets out a rough groan, voice thick with arousal. "Fuck. A squirter, huh? That's so fuckin' hot, doll."

Dick doesn't care. He doesn't stop. His mouth stays on you, licking up every drop, his fingers fucking you slow, coaxing another trembling aftershock out of your spent, twitching cunt.

Your body is wrecked, boneless in Jason's grip, but Dick soothes you. Soft kisses pressed to your puffy clit, to your inner thighs, murmured praises against your overheated skin.

Jason groans against your ear, nipping at your jaw as he murmurs, "So pretty when you lose it, baby."

Dick finally pulls his fingers from your soaked pussy, and you whimper at the emptiness, body still twitching in the aftermath. He stands up, lifting his hand between you, watching the way your slick drips from his fingers before he licks them clean, moaning like he just tasted the best thing in the world.

And then he's kissing you.

It's not like Jason's kisses—Jason devours you, rough and desperate, all teeth and tongue. Dick? Dick takes his time. His lips move slow over yours, teasing, coaxing, his tongue sliding into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him.

His cock grinds against your swollen, soaked pussy, dragging thick and leaking between your folds, and you feel the heat of Jason against your back as he presses closer, lips finding your neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving marks.

Dick pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with need.

"You still with us, love?" he murmurs, voice low, sweet, but so thick with hunger.

And you are. But you need more. Jason slowly lowers you to the ground, careful, like he knows your legs won't hold you up yet. And he's right. The second your feet touch the sauna floor, your knees almost buckle, but they're right there.

Jason's strong hands steady your waist, while Dick's arms wrap around you, letting you melt against his chest, your cheek pressed to his flushed, sweat damp skin. His heartbeat is racing, just like yours.

They try to soothe you, even though they're still buzzing with need, cocks aching, pulsing, leaking against your skin. You can feel it, how hard they both are, how they're holding back, muscles tensed like they're barely keeping themselves together.

Dick's fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head up as he murmurs, "You okay?"

His voice is strained, rough with hunger he's barely keeping in check.

You nod, breathless. "I need more. I want you both, I want—"

Jason groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, his dick hurts, throbbing, hot, swollen with need. He's usually not like this—he's got control, he can push past anything, but this?

That fucking pollen? His logic is gone. The only thing left is the raw, aching need clawing at his gut, the sight of you, flushed and needy, still dripping from what Dick did to you.

"You sure?" Dick asks, voice tight, hesitant, because they care, because you're friends, because this is everything all at once.

"Yes," you gasp. "Fuck, I can't—I need more."

They try to resist. Try to be good, to be the men who have held themselves back all these years, who have ignored the teasing, the tension, the way you've always looked at them.

But it's too much. You're naked, hot, trembling between them, still soaked with slick and sweat, so fucking desperate for them, just like they are for you.

They exchange a look, like they're about to actually say something, like they're going to make one last attempt at self control.

But you're having none of it.

You grab both their hands, lacing your fingers with theirs as you guide them toward one of the benches, the air thick with tension, steam, and the undeniable pull of something you've all been trying to ignore for too long.

You stop in front of Dick, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes as you say, "Sit down."

And he does, because of course he does. Because he knows better than to fuck with you when you've made up your mind, and even though you're smaller than both of them, you've always had a way of getting what you want.

You grab a few towels, spreading them on the floor in front of him because, honestly? Your body is already gonna be wrecked when this is over—bruises, hickeys, everything—and you really don't need your knees all fucked up on top of it.

Then, slowly, you kneel between his legs.

Jason is still standing behind you, watching, stunned, because sure, you've always been bold. You've flirted, teased, laughed in their faces when they tried to resist you, but this? This is something else.

You turn your head, looking up at Jason through heavy lashes, and say, "I need you to fuck me while I suck Dick off."

They both go still. Like their brains just short circuited. Like they can't quite believe what the fuck just came out of your mouth.

And you can see it happening, the exact moment something inside them snaps, because they've both fantasized about this, both thought about it more times than they'd ever admit, and now? Now you're on your knees, looking up at them, demanding it.

Dick swallows hard, his cock twitching, leaking against his stomach. His hands clench at his sides like he's trying so fucking hard to keep control. Jason? Jason just lets out a rough, breathless laugh, shaking his head, because fuck, you're gonna kill him.

Your ass wiggles as you shift into position, and behind you, Jason groans, deep and rough. "Fuck, look at you."

His big hands settle on your hips, hot and firm, fingers flexing like he's trying so hard to keep himself in check. And he can't help it, so he slaps your ass, the sharp sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your cunt.

"Oh—"

You gasp, thighs twitching, and Jason smirks, rubbing the mark he left behind, soothing the heat with his palm. "You like that shit, huh?"

You nod, looking over your shoulder at him with wide, glassy eyes, and his grip tightens.

"Got it, baby."

Then you turn back to Dick, gaze dropping to his cock. And God, he's just as long as Jason, maybe a little thinner, but just as pretty, thick and flushed, the veins along his shaft standing out against the hot, velvety skin. Precum beads at the tip, glistening, and when you lick your lips, Dick shudders, his breath hitching in his throat.

Behind you, Jason's hands slide lower, thumbs dragging over the curve of your ass before he spreads you open, groaning when he gets a good look at you.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, almost dazed, like he can't believe what he's seeing.

You're so wet, swollen, your slick dripping down your thighs, smearing against the inside of his fingers. And your pussy? Fuck, it's the prettiest fucking thing he's ever seen—hot, flushed, clenching around nothing, like you're begging for something to fill you up.

His head tips back for a second, like he needs to pull himself together, but when he looks down again, when he sees your cunt flutter around nothing, aching to be fucked?

He's fucking gone.

Because he knows you're gonna squeeze his dick like a glove, knows you're gonna be so fucking tight, so hot and wet around him that he might actually lose his mind. You're perfect. And this? This can't be real.

But oh, it is.

You shift your weight onto your knees, looking up at Dick, and he looks like he's about to lose his fucking mind too. Especially when you wrap your fingers around his cock. He sucks in a breath, head falling back against the bench as your grip tightens, your palm gliding over his length, slow and teasing.

Then you lean in, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses to the inside of his thigh, and Dick whimpers. The sound makes your cunt throb, pleasure sparking up your spine, because he looks so good like this—so flushed, so desperate, so pretty.

His cock pulses in your hand, leaking all over your fingers, and you purr, "Poor Grayson," before pressing a soft kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to lap up his precum, tasting the salt and heat of him.

Behind you, Jason curses under his breath, and then you feel the hot, thick weight of his cock press against your dripping cunt.

You gasp, back arching as he rubs the wet head of his dick over your slit, dragging it up and down, teasing your swollen, puffy folds, mixing his precum with your slick until you're soaked in it.

And you? You're trembling. Because you need this. You need them. The second your lips part, taking Dick's cock into your mouth, his hand tangles in your hair. His fingers thread through the strands, tugging just enough to make your scalp tingle, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his other hand cradling your cheek.

You moan around him, the sound vibrating through your throat, and he hisses, his head tipping back against the bench. "Fuck—"

You take him deeper, inch by inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate his length. He's thick, hot, the weight of him pressing against your tongue as you hollow your cheeks and suck. His thighs tense under your palms, muscles jumping when you bob your head slow, teasing, testing how much of him you can take.

His fingers tighten in your hair, his hips twitching—just barely—but you feel it, the way he wants to thrust, to fuck himself down your throat, but he waits, panting, letting you set the pace.

Behind you, Jason is shaking. Shaking.

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, his whole body tight, because fuck, your ass is wiggling, pushing back against him, grinding against his cock like you're trying to drive him insane.

And it's working. His dick throbs, thick and aching, leaking against your soaked, swollen cunt as you shift again, tilting your hips just right, and Jason snaps. He lines himself up and starts to push in, slow, deliberate, even though his whole body is telling him to fuck you, to take you, to split you open and wreck you.

But he waits. He has to wait. Because he knows he's big, and with how tight you are—so hot and wet, squeezing around just the tip—he can't move, not even if he wanted to.

His whole body trembles as he leans over you, pressing his chest to your back, grounding himself as much as he's grounding you. His big hands smooth up and down your sides, soothing, steadying, feeling the way your breath shudders as you try to relax, try to take him deeper.

But he waits, even though every muscle in his body is coiled tight, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, because even through the pollen haze, Jason cares. He needs you to feel good.

Your walls stretch around him, clutching at him, and he slides in so easily, your pussy welcoming him, pulling him in. He sinks in slow, inch by inch, splitting you open until he's fully sheathed inside you, buried to the hilt, and you can't help but moan. The vibration makes Dick's hips jerk, a curse tumbling from his lips as his fingers tighten in your hair.

And Jason?Jason groans, burying himself inside you, his forehead dropping against the back of your shoulder.

"Breathe, baby," he mutters against your skin, his lips trailing slow, soft kisses along your shoulder, his body trembling as he forces himself to stay still, to let you adjust, even though he wants to move so fucking bad.

He gives you time, even though his entire body is screaming at him to fuck you, to finally lose himself in the heat of your cunt.

"You're doin' so good," he rasps, voice strained, like the feel of your pussy wrapped around his cock is driving him straight to the fucking edge.

You slide off Dick's cock with a gasp, a line of spit still connecting your lips to his flushed tip. Your fingers tighten around the base, stroking him as your head dips forward, and Jason groans behind you, eyes clenching shut, breathing through it, fighting against the way your pussy is milking his cock.

You can't breathe. You can't think. The feeling is overwhelming, his cock pulsing deep inside you, stretching you so wide you feel full. Too full, almost, but Jason soothes you through it, his lips trailing soft, slow kisses along your skin.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, his jaw clenched, his whole body so tight he thinks he might snap in half.

And then, finally, you shift against him. A tiny moan leaves your lips, and Jason can't wait any longer. Slowly, he pulls out, his cock dragging against your sensitive, fluttering walls, making your whole body tremble. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, filling you up again, stretching you, claiming every inch of your cunt.

It burns. It aches, just a little. Your whimper is soft, almost inaudible, but Jason hears it.

And he shushes you, kissing your shoulder again, whispering, "You're doin' so fuckin' good for me."

Jason's grip tightens on your waist, fingers digging into your soft skin as he starts to move, slow and deliberate, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, filling you up again, making you moan.

It's too slow, too teasing. You need more.

So you refocus, letting yourself drown in the heat of Dick's body, the way his cock twitches in your grip, thick and flushed and leaking all over your fingers. You slide your tongue over the tip, swirling around the slit, savoring the salty taste of his precum before taking him back into your mouth, sinking deeper this time.

The stretch is obscene, your lips stretched wide around him, your jaw aching as you push further, inch by inch, your throat tightening as he hits the back of your mouth. You gag, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin, but you don't care.

You love it. It's better than every fantasy you've ever had, better than every late night thought of them, better than you could've ever imagined. Because they feel so good, sound so good, and you know you're not coming back from this.

Dick is gone. His fingers tangle in your hair again, watching the way you take him, the way you look up at him with glassy, desperate eyes, and fuck, you're so pretty like this, drooling all over his cock, taking him so fucking deep.

His whole body tenses, muscles tight, abs flexing, the veins in his forearms standing out as he tries to control himself, to hold back, but Jesus Christ, you're making it so fucking hard.

Jason is just as wrecked. His pace is still slow, but he's obsessed, his mind fuzzy with how good you feel, how tight you are, how fucking perfect your pussy is wrapped around his cock, gripping him like a vice.

He has to see it.

So he moves his hands from your waist, big palms spreading over the curve of your ass, gripping the flesh before pulling your cheeks apart, groaning when he gets a clear view of your soaked cunt stretched so tight around his dick.

His cock twitches, a groan slipping from his lips because fuck, you're swallowing him whole, your pussy gripping every inch of him, making a mess all over his cock, slick glistening along his length.

This is the best pussy he's ever had. But he knows it's you. It has nothing to do with that pollen. It's you.

And he's so fucking gone over you.

You whimper around Dick's cock, your eyes flicking up to meet his, watching the way his chest rises and falls in quick, desperate pants. And then, slowly, you let him slip from your mouth again, gasping for air, your hand tightening around the base as you pant.

"Fuck my mouth."

Dick freezes, his breath hitching, his lips parting as his brows furrow, like he's not sure he heard you right.

"W-what?"

You lick your lips, eyes heavy lidded, spit glistening along your chin as you repeat, slow and clear. "Fuck. My. Mouth."

His whole body shudders, and he doesn't even think. Doesn't hesitate. He does it.

His grip tightens in your hair as he tilts your head back, and then he's pushing in, slow but firm, guiding his cock past your lips, groaning as the heat of your mouth wraps around him.

And behind you, Jason hisses, his fingers tightening on your ass before landing another sharp slap, making you jolt forward.

"Shit," he groans, his voice thick with arousal, dark with want. "You're freaky as fuck."

Dick's grip tightens in your hair as he starts to move, slow at first, thrusting shallowly, watching the way his cock glides over your slick tongue, the way your lips stretch around him, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"God, baby," he groans, voice strained, wrecked, his abs flexing as he pushes deeper, testing your limits, his hips jerking when you moan around him. "You feel so good—fuck, you're perfect. So sweet for me, taking me so well."

His words make your pussy clench around Jason's cock, the praise making your head spin, making you drool more as you relax your throat, letting Dick push deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of your mouth. Your eyes flutter, heat sparking in your core as he fucks your mouth in slow, deliberate strokes.

His breath is ragged, his voice thick as he murmurs, "Just like that, pretty girl. You're doing so good. Such a perfect little thing."

Behind you, Jason groans, his grip bruising as he watches you take it, eyes dark, hungry.

"Fuck," he rasps, his voice rough, thick with need. "Look at you. So fuckin' nasty, baby. Goddamn, you're gonna make me lose my shit."

His hands slide over your ass, squeezing, spreading you open so he can watch the way your pussy stretches around his cock, gripping him like a fucking vice, sucking him in, milking him.

"You're so tight," he groans, his cock twitching inside you, his jaw clenching. "So fuckin' wet. Jesus Christ, this is the best pussy I've ever had."

The words make your walls flutter, make your body throb, and you can't help yourself. You push back against him, grinding your ass into his hips, moaning around Dick's cock as Jason curses, his fingers tightening on your ass.

And then he snaps. His patience shatters, his control slipping as he slams into you, knocking the breath from your lungs, making your eyes roll back.

"Fuck, yeah," Jason growls, dragging you back onto his cock, setting a relentless rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the steam filled air. "That's what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to fuck you like this? Shit, you're so fuckin' needy, baby."

Your moans vibrate around Dick's cock, making him groan, his hips stuttering.

"Jesus Christ," he gasps, his fingers tugging on your hair, his head tipping back as he watches you, his cock throbbing as you swallow around him. "You're so fucking good, baby."

Jason groans, his cock dragging against your walls, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure skittering down your spine.

"Look at you," he rasps, voice low, dark, wrecked. "Gettin' your mouth fucked, gettin' your pussy fucked—shit, baby, you're drippin' all over my dick."

His words send a sharp throb through your core, making your walls squeeze around him, making him curse.

"Yeah, you like that? You like bein' a messy little thing?"

His words mix with Dick's soft, sweet praise, the contrast making your head spin, making your body ache for more, more, more. You're soaked, you're gone, and you're about to cum so hard.

Dick's fingers clench tighter in your hair, his whole body shaking as you take him deeper, swallowing him down until your nose brushes against the soft patch of hair at the base of his cock. His moans grow louder, ragged, his hips jerking forward, his self control slipping between his fingers.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his voice wrecked, shaking. "You're—shit, you're gonna make me—"

You hum around him, hollowing your cheeks, sucking him harder, and that's it. That's all it takes for him to lose it.

His cock twitches on your tongue, the thick veins pulsing against the heat of your mouth as his orgasm slams into him, ripping through him like a live wire.

"Oh, fuck—"

His breath catches, his whole body locking up as the first hot pulse of his cum spills onto your tongue, thick and heavy, coating your throat as he shudders, trembles, his head tipping back against the wall, his lips parting in a wrecked, shaking moan.

You swallow it all, every last drop, your throat working around him, and it's too much. His thighs tense, his abs flex, his breath coming in sharp gasps as his hips jerk, his cock throbbing, overstimulated, as you keep sucking, drawing out every last spurt of his release.

"Jesus Christ, baby," he whimpers, his grip tightening for a second before his hand slips from your hair, his body melting, shaking, spent.

You finally let him slide free with a soft, wet pop, licking the last traces of him from your lips, and when he finally cracks his eyes open, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and a dazed, blissed out expression, he groans.

"God," he breathes, still catching his breath, his thumb stroking along your bottom lip, cleaning up the mess he left behind. "You're so fucking good."

You only have a second to grin before Jason grabs you. His arm wraps around your waist, yanking you up, pulling you against his chest as he slams his cock back into your pussy, the force of it making you gasp, your body arching as he fills you up again, stretching you all over.

"Fuckin' shit," Jason growls, his voice low, desperate, his breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you, his cock hitting deep, slamming into that spot inside you that makes your whole body tremble.

His free hand slides down, finding your clit, rubbing in quick, tight circles, his fingers slippery with your arousal.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he grits out, his voice dark, wrecked. "Gonna soak my fuckin' dick?"

You whimper, nodding desperately, your nails digging into his arms, your whole body coiling tight, every thrust, every press of his fingers sending you closer to the edge.

Your head tilts back, your lips parting, and Jason takes it as an invitation. His mouth crashes against yours, the kiss filthy, messy, his tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the steam thick air.

It's too much. The way he's pounding into you, the way his fingers are rubbing your clit, the way his mouth is devouring yours—it's all too much.

You shatter. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, your body locking up as your walls clamp down around Jason's cock, your pussy spasming, milking him as you moan into his mouth, your whole body shaking from the force of it.

But he doesn't stop.

"Yeah," Jason groans, his pace relentless, his fingers still working your clit, pushing you higher, keeping you right there, shoving you into another orgasm before you can even catch your breath.

"Oh—fuck—"

Your whole body seizes, and then you gush, hot, wet, soaking his cock, the mess dripping down your thighs, pooling on the towels beneath you as your mind goes blank. Jason groans, his grip bruising, his voice full of awe and lust and pure fucking greed.

"Shit, baby," he growls, his hand sliding up your stomach to cup your tits, squeezing, his hips still slamming into you. "You're so fuckin' hot—goddamn, look at this mess you're makin'."

You're gone, trembling in his arms, panting, whimpering, still coming, your body wrecked, and he loves it.

But even after you've soaked his dick, even after you've cum so hard your legs shake and your body trembles, he just keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing his own high, refusing to let you catch your breath.

Your thoughts are a mess, a haze of heat and pleasure and pure, desperate need. Every time he thrusts back inside, it knocks the air from your lungs, sending another sharp jolt of electricity up your spine, making your toes curl.

His dick is so big, so hot, so thick, stretching you to your limit, the swollen head hitting your cervix with every deep, brutal stroke, the impact sending sparks of pain-laced pleasure licking up your spine.

Jason groans, his breath hot against your ear, his big hands sliding from your waist to your tits, squeezing, kneading, rolling your sensitive nipples between his fingers.

"Fuck, baby," he moans, voice wrecked, breathless. "You feel so good—tight little pussy's so fuckin' wet, takin' my dick like a fuckin' dream."

His voice is a growl, his breath ragged, filthy, and it makes you clench around him, your body reacting to the sheer, raw hunger in his voice.

"Drippin' down my fuckin' balls, makin' a mess all over me," he mutters, his pace getting faster, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin filling the air. "Such a fuckin' good girl, lettin' me fuck you like this—shit—"

His moan is deep, gritty, his lips brushing against your neck, and it makes your brain melt.

You can feel Dick watching.

His heavy, ragged breathing, the way he groans softly under his breath every time your tits bounce from the sheer force of Jason's thrusts, the way he's still hard, his cock resting heavy against his abdomen as he watches Jason destroy you.

Jason buries his face in your shoulder, his pace stuttering, and then his voice turns urgent, desperate. "Shit," he pants. "Where do you want me to cum, doll?"

The words slip out before you even think.

"Inside," you whimper, the plea ragged, breathless. "Inside me, please."

Jason groans, his arms tightening around you, his body shaking. "Fuck."

He grabs your waist, slamming into you, fucking you like a man possessed, like he's starving for you, like he needs to be as deep as possible, stretching you wide, filling you to the fucking brim.

And it's like something in Dick snaps. He drops to his knees, his big hands sliding up your thighs, and then his fingers find your clit.

"Oh—fuck—"

Your whole body seizes—Jason's cock splitting you open, fucking you deep and hard, pounding into your soaking cunt while Dick's fingers rub your puffy, far too sensitive clit, quick and precise, pushing you higher, driving you insane.

Then Dick leans in, his lips brushing against yours, swallowing your moans, devouring them, and God, this has to be the hottest fuck of your life.

His tongue, hot, wet, messy against yours, kissing you like he needs you, like he's starving for the taste of your pleasure.

And shit, these two men—hot as fuck, sweaty, desperate, ruining you. They are going to wreck you for anyone else for sure.

Jason groans, his pace brutal, his cock pounding into your swollen, soaked pussy, stretching you so wide, splitting you open, filling you so deep you can feel him in your stomach.

He's right there, right on the edge, voice rough, breath ragged as he mutters, "C'mon, baby, I'm so close. Fuck, gimme one more, let me feel you."

And then, Dick starts slapping your clit slightly. It's sharp, the sting mixing with the unbearable pleasure of Jason's cock fucking you stupid, and that's it, you snap.

Your whole body locks up, your pussy clenching down hard around Jason's cock, milking him, your legs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, drowning you in wave after wave of pure, burning pleasure.

Your mouth falls open in a wrecked, wordless moan, eyes rolling back, sweat dripping down your skin as you shake, your whole body on fire, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids, your clit throbbing, your walls spasming around Jason's thick cock.

And he loses it.

"Fuck—" His breath punches out of him, a deep, desperate groan rumbling through his chest, his grip on your hips turning bruising as your pussy chokes his cock, squeezing him so tight he can't hold back.

He buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep, grinding so fucking deep, and then, he cums. Thick, hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, painting your walls, filling you up so much you can feel it, dripping out around his cock, mixing with your slick as he lets out a deep, wrecked groan.

But he doesn't stop.

Even as his dick throbs, even as he pulses inside you, he grits his teeth and fucks it deeper, slow, deep rolls of his hips, making sure every last drop stays buried inside you, making sure you feel it.

Dick's fingers never stop, still rubbing your aching clit, making you whimper, making your whole body jolt, your thighs quivering, your nipples aching, your pussy so full and sensitive that every little movement makes you twitch.

And then Dick finally lets you breathe.

He breaks the kiss, his lips swollen, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark with lust as he soothes you, his hands smoothing up your back, down your arms, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your temple, whispering soft praises against your skin.

Your breath shudders out of you, your head dropping forward onto Dick's shoulder as Jason stills behind you, his chest rising and falling, sweat slicking his skin, his grip still tight on your waist, grounding you as you tremble in their hold.

Jason does the same, his big hands rubbing slow, warm circles into your waist, his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath deep, calming, as he lets you come down.

But it's not enough. You still need more.

Your whole body buzzes with it, aching with it, and before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, the words tumble from your lips, breathless, desperate, "I need... I—w-want you both at the same time."

Jason freezes. "Fuckin' shit."

His arm tightens around your waist, his cock still buried inside you, twitching just at the thought of it.

And Dick? His breath catches, his fingers tightening against your skin, his lips parting as his brows furrow, something unreadable flickering across his face before he cups your cheek, pressing soft, sweet kisses all over your flushed skin.

"Love, maybe we should—"

"No," you shake your head, chest heaving. "I need it. I—fuck, I need more."

Dick hesitates. "But we'd need lube, and—"

"I have some," you gasp. "In—in my locker. In my bag."

They both freeze. Jason raises a brow, his lips twitching, while Dick blinks at you, head tilting slightly.

"...You what?"

Your face burns. "I just bought it—I was gonna take it home, but I kept forgetting—"

Jason smirks, shaking his head, while Dick huffs out a quiet laugh before turning on his heel.

"I'll get it."

Your thoughts swirl, still dazed, still high from pleasure. It's really just a coincidence, something you bought last week and forgot to leave at home, but now? Now, you're just grateful you have it.

The second Dick is gone, Jason leans in, his lips brushing against yours, slow, deep, his tongue dragging along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth. You moan softly, body pressing into his, heat still pooling low in your stomach.

When he pulls away, his smirk is sharp, eyes dark.

"You just bought it, huh?"

Your eyes dart away, face burning, and he chuckles. Then Dick is back, the bottle of lube in hand, and he's grinning, but there's something in his eyes, something darker, something hungrier.

He tosses the bottle onto the bench, his gaze flickering between you and Jason before he murmurs, "That's real convenient, sweetheart."

Jason's lips brush against your neck, hot and damp with sweat, his breath still ragged as he drags his mouth along your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses to the flushed heat of your throat. His hands slide down your waist, holding you, still keeping you close, as if he doesn't want to pull away just yet.

But then he does. His cock slips free, and the loss makes you whine, your walls clenching around nothing, feeling so empty after being stretched and filled so deep.

Jason chuckles, low and rough, pressing another slow kiss to your shoulder before he straightens, his hands steady on your waist as he helps you up, keeping you from collapsing completely. And then, his cum starts dripping out of you.

Thick, warm, messy, streaking down your thighs, slick and obscene, mixing with your own wetness, making your skin glisten under the dim lights.

Jason groans, watching it, his fingers squeezing at your hips before he turns you around, cupping your face with both hands, tilting your chin up so you have to look at him.

He kisses you, deep, messy, wet.

His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, curling against yours, dragging along the roof of your mouth, swallowing the small gasp you let out as he dominates the kiss.

It's all spit and heat, his grip firm, his fingers digging into your jaw as he devours you, groaning into your mouth, his own hips twitching forward instinctively, as if he's not done with you yet.

And maybe he's not. When he finally pulls away, your lips are slick with spit, swollen and tingling, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps.

But Jason just smirks, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip as he murmurs, "Took me so fuckin' well."

The praise sends a shiver down your spine, heat coiling in your belly, but you don't even have time to dwell on it because you're already turning to Dick, your whole body still thrumming with need.

"Lay on the bench."

His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but he doesn't question it. He grabs some towels first, spreading them out so he can sit more comfortably, before laying back, his cock still hard, standing thick and flushed against his stomach, twitching slightly as he watches you, pupils blown.

You barely give him time to think. You climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and the moment your soaked pussy presses against his cock, dragging along his length, he groans, his head falling back slightly.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up to cup your ass. "That pollen fucked us up badly."

You nod, whimpering, rubbing yourself against him, smearing Jason's cum and your own slick all over his cock, making it all slippery, all hot, and then, Dick grinds right back.

His hands tighten on your ass, his hips rolling up against yours, rubbing the thick, leaking head of his cock against your throbbing clit, making you moan, making your thighs tremble from the overstimulation.

But you need him inside. Now. Lifting yourself up, you barely hesitate before sinking down onto his cock, and it's so easy. You're soaked, dripping, stretched wide and ready from Jason, and Dick slides right in, filling you up in one smooth, wet motion, the thick length of him pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.

Dick gasps, his fingers flexing against your ass, his chest rising sharply as his brows furrow, his mouth falling open in a soft, breathless moan. His thoughts are a mess.

He's inside you. He's inside you, and you feel so fucking good. So tight, so warm, so fucking wet, and it's all for him.

Well, for him and Jason, all of you caught up in this fever, this unbearable need, and fuck, he never thought this would happen, never thought he'd get to feel you like this, but now... now he can't stop thinking about it.

Can't stop thinking about how you feel around him, how you're squeezing him, how your slick drips down his length, coating his cock, making it so easy to slide deeper, making it so fucking hot.

"Jesus," he groans, his head tipping back, his fingers gripping at you. "Baby, you feel... fuck, you feel so good."

Dick can't stop kissing you. It's like he's obsessed, like he needs his mouth on you just as much as he needs to fuck you.

Every time his hips drive up, his cock sinking deep inside your dripping cunt, he's pulling you down to meet him, his lips crashing against yours, groaning into your mouth like he's drunk on the heat of you, the taste of you, the way your walls grip him so tight every time he moves.

"God, baby," he pants against your lips, voice breathless, wrecked, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts up into you again, harder this time, his cock rubbing against every tender, sensitive spot inside you. "I can't stop, I can't—"

You moan, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him, feeling every shift of his muscles, every snap of his hips as he fucks into you with slow, deep, needy strokes.

And across from you, Jason watches. His lips are slightly parted, his chest rising with each heavy breath, his eyes locked on the way Dick's cock sinks in and out of your soaked, used pussy, slick noises filling the sauna, making his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, his grip tightening around his cock, stroking himself slowly.

His breath catches as he watches the way your body takes it, how easy it is for Dick to slide into you after he already ruined you, stretching you out, leaving you so wet that it's effortless.

His free hand slides up your back, fingers tracing along the sweat slick curve of your spine, following it down to your ass, where he grips the flesh and spreads you slightly. The moment he does, he groans at the sight of Dick's cock fucking into your pussy, your hole clinging to him, soaked and messy, your juices dripping down to your thighs, making the whole thing so fucking filthy.

You hear the slick pop of a bottle being opened, and then, his fingers, cool and slick with lube, gliding over the rim of your other hole. A soft, teasing touch.

Your breath hitches, a shiver running through you even as you grind down onto Dick's cock, making him groan, his hands flexing against your hips. Jason smirks, rubbing slow circles around your rim, massaging the tight muscle, teasing it, not pushing in just yet.

"Gotta stretch you open first, doll," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the dip of your spine. "Don't wanna hurt you."

You nod, panting, pressing back into his hand as he finally, slowly, pushes in the tip of his finger. Your body twitches at the stretch, a sharp inhale escaping you as your walls flutter around Dick's cock at the same time, making him groan, his brows furrowing as he tries to keep himself from losing it.

Jason waits a moment, watching the way you react, his other hand rubbing slow circles along your waist, his voice softer this time when he asks, "You okay, baby?"

You exhale shakily, nodding, your body adjusting to the new sensation, the slight pressure of his finger stretching you open.

And then he starts to move.

Slowly, teasingly, fucking you with the single finger, slipping it in and out in careful strokes, feeling the way your body responds, the way your walls tremble around him, your moans growing softer, more desperate as he adds another finger.

A low, drawn out out moan escapes you, your body twitching, your walls fluttering around Dick's cock again, making him groan, his fingers gripping your hips harder.

"You're so fuckin' tight," Jason mutters, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as he works his fingers in deeper, stretching you open, his cock twitching at the way you pulse around him.

His movements stay patient, calculated, letting you get used to every single sensation, letting you feel it, your body reacting to both him and Dick at the same time, your nerves lighting up from how much stimulation there is, how they're everywhere all at once.

By the time he slides in a third finger, you're trembling, panting, your nails digging into Dick's shoulders as he groans at the way you keep clenching around him.

"You're doin' so good, baby," Jason murmurs against your back, pressing a slow kiss between your shoulder blades, fingers curling inside you, stretching you wider.

Dick keeps kissing you. He can't stop.

His lips keep finding yours between every breathless moan, every shaky exhale, every soft noise that leaves your lips as Jason's fingers work you open, stretching you wider, preparing you for his dick.

You can barely think. Your body is trembling, nerves buzzing, your mind foggy with want, with need, your hands gripping Dick's shoulders as he pants against your lips, "You feel so good, sweetheart, I—fuck, I need to feel you."

Jason growls against your skin, his fingers sinking deeper, pushing past the tight ring of muscle until he's knuckle deep, fucking them in and out in slow, filthy thrusts. He watches you shudder, listens to the way you gasp, the way your thighs tremble when he curls his fingers just right.

"Relax," he murmurs, dragging his teeth over your neck, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you still. "You're already takin' me so fuckin' well, baby—bet you'll stretch around my dick like a dream."

He spreads his fingers, stretching you wider, dragging them back just to push in again, deeper, rougher, wetter. The slick, obscene sounds of it make heat curl in your belly, make your whole body tighten, aching, desperate.

"Fuck, you feel this?" Jason grunts, his fingers twisting, pressing, stroking in slow, teasing circles. "So tight, so fuckin' perfect—gonna ruin you, baby."

Dick presses another kiss to your lips, then another, then another, each one deeper, more desperate, more needy, because he has to. He has to taste you, has to feel you, has to lose himself in you while Jason kneels behind you, his cock hard and aching, the tip glistening as he slowly, carefully pulls his fingers out of your ass.

A low groan rumbles in his chest at the sight, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you slightly, watching the way your body twitches, the way your ass clenches, still slightly open from how deep his fingers had been.

"Relax, doll," he murmurs, his breath warm against your spine as he slicks himself up with lube, rubbing the tip of his cock against your hole, teasing, pressing just slightly to gauge your reaction.

Your whole body shudders, and Dick cradles your face, kisses you slow, deep, as he whispers against your lips, "Breathe, pretty girl. I got you."

Jason presses in. Slowly. The stretch is immediate, intense, your body clenching around him as he sinks in, inch by inch, his jaw tight as he groans, hands gripping your hips, feeling the way you shake as you adjust to the sheer size of him, to the way he's filling you.

Dick can feel it too. Your walls clenching around his cock, getting tighter just from how Jason is stretching you open, making him groan, his hands flexing against your waist.

"Fuck, baby," Jason grits out, his breath coming out shaky as he finally bottoms out, his forehead pressing against your back, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths. "You feel so fuckin' good."

You're a mess. Your breath is shaky, your pulse racing, your body overwhelmed in the best way possible, stuffed full, stretched wide, both of them inside you, filling you to the absolute brim.

Still, it's not enough. You need more. And the moment you shift, rolling your hips slightly, feeling the way it makes Jason's cock nudge deeper, Dick lets out a sharp, wrecked sound and tightens his grip on your hips.

"Hold still, love," he breathes, his voice low, strained, adjusting his grip on you, making sure you don't have to move, don't have to do anything except take it.

And you will. You'll take all of it. Because they need this just as much as you do, and neither of them can hold back much longer.

Jason exhales hard through his nose, his grip steady on your hips, his cock pulsing, buried deep inside your ass as he presses his chest flush against your back.

His lips graze your shoulder, his breath warm, voice low and gruff when he murmurs, "Good? Still with us?"

You nod quickly, too quickly, your brain foggy, words barely forming as you pant, "M-Move, please..."

Dick is the first to obey. His fingers flex at your waist, his muscles tensing beneath you as he rolls his hips up, fucking into your soaked cunt slow and deep, dragging a moan from your throat as the thick length of him stretches you open all over again.

Jason groans at the sight, at the way your tight little hole clenches around Dick's cock, the way your body shudders when Dick fills you to the hilt, rubbing against the spots that make you gasp, make you shake.

And then, Jason moves. It's slow, deliberate, his hips grinding forward, easing himself out just to push back in, filling your ass just as Dick fills your pussy, the slow stretch making your breath catch, making your fingers curl against Dick's chest.

Your mind is blank. Absolutely fucking blank. You can barely register the words Dick is whispering, his voice soft, warm, each praise making you clench down tighter, "God, sweetheart, you feel so good—so tight, so perfect—taking both of us so well, baby, so fucking good—"

His words make your breath stutter, make your walls squeeze around him, make Jason groan, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs stroking your skin as he kisses your back, your shoulders, your neck, his lips soft, reverent, even as he fucks you.

And you can barely breathe. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your body trembling as they thrust into you, stretching you, filling you, overwhelming you with the sheer amount of pleasure you're drowning in.

Jason's hand slides around you. Finds your puffy little clit. Presses down. You wail.

Your whole body jerks, your breath shattering as Jason grins against your skin, his fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, slow and cruel, all while his cock grinds deep into your ass, making your walls clench around both of them.

Dick chokes on a moan, his hips jerking, his fingers digging into your waist, his cock stuffing your pussy, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that makes you keen.

Jason groans at the reaction, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, muttering, "Fuck, baby, that's it—take it—"

And you do. You take everything. The stretch, the pressure, the fullness, the filthy praise whispered into your ear, the heat of their bodies against yours. The way their cocks move inside you, making your vision swim, making your mind blank, making your whole body tremble as they keep fucking you.

And there's nothing—nothing—you want more.

Jason's fingers keep working your clit, slow and teasing one moment, rough and insistent the next, rubbing tight little circles that have your thighs trembling, your body caught between the steady drag of his cock in your ass and the deep, devastating thrusts of Dick's cock inside your pussy.

Your breath shatters, your body taut, stretched wide, so full, their cocks filling you over and over, slick and hot, the filthy sound of it echoing off the walls, slick wet noises mixing with your gasping moans, their groans, their praises.

Dick slides a hand up your waist, warm and firm, fingers trailing the sweat slicked curves of your body, before moving higher, higher, until he cups your breast.

A strangled moan gets caught in your throat as he palms you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, his grip firm, possessive, desperate, his hips never slowing, cock driving deep, kissing your cervix with every thrust.

Jason groans behind you, his cock throbbing, pulsing inside your tight, hot ass, his grip almost bruising at your hip as he watches Dick squeeze your tits, watches how you whimper and twitch, body so fucking responsive.

"Fuckin' hell," Jason rasps, pressing his forehead against your back, panting, "You're so tight, baby—grippin' me so good—"

Dick is all needy and breathless as he mutters, "You're so perfect—so wet, so fucking soft—"

And fuck, fuck, it's too much.

Your whole body tenses, muscles coiling, pleasure spiking, your slick dripping down, coating Dick's cock, soaking his thighs, Jason's fingers still rubbing your clit, still teasing, still playing with you.

Your vision blurs, your mouth falls open in a silent moan, and then you snap. Your orgasm rips through you like a fucking supernova, a shuddering, gut wrenching explosion of white hot pleasure. Wave after wave crashes into you as your pussy clenches, gripping Dick's cock so tight he chokes on a groan, hips faltering, hands gripping your waist to hold you there, fuck you through it, hips rutting up in messy, desperate thrusts.

Jason curses loud and filthy, his free hand digging into your hip as your ass tightens around him, milking his cock, making him throb, his jaw clenched so tight it aches as he rubs your clit faster, dragging out your orgasm, making you whimper, tremble, shake.

"That's it, doll," Jason growls, voice rough, filled with lust, "Fuck—look at you, so fuckin' messy, so good—"

Dick is moaning beneath you, his grip on you tightening, his cock still buried deep inside your spasming cunt, still rutting up into you, and it's so much, too much, your whole body a trembling, sweaty, soaked mess.

"M-more—"

Your voice is a broken little whimper, barely a sound at all, your body hot between them, overstimulated and fucked senseless, but still, still, you beg for more.

"H-harder—fuck—p-please—"

And that's it. That's it. Jason curses under his breath, and Dick's fingers tighten on your hips as something inside them just snaps, and they ruin you.

Jason grips your waist, holding you steady as he slams into your ass, hips snapping forward with messy, needy thrusts, cock stretching you wide, stuffing you so full, his abs flexing, sweat dripping down his chest.

Dick isn't any better. He's never fucked like this before, never felt like this before, usually so careful, so sweet, because he likes making love, likes taking his time. He's usually all slow, sensual touches and soft whispers, but the pollen, the fucking pollen.

You're soaking his cock, clenching around him, your pussy hot and wet and so fucking tight, making these little whimpering sounds that make his brain short circuit, that make him lose every single ounce of restraint.

He pounds into you, moaning, hips driving up to meet yours again and again, his mind blank, wrecked, obsessed with how you feel around him, how good you take it, how you keep begging for it.

"Yes—yes—yes—more—fuck—"

You can't stop babbling, pleading, brain melting under the push and pull of their cocks inside you, their hands gripping you, keeping you in place, using you, fucking you.

"More—more—more—"

You're whimpering, gasping, trembling, bouncing between him and Jason like you belong to them.

"F-fuck—"

Jason feels like he's burning alive, the heat of your body, the way your ass grips his cock, the way you tremble every time he fucks you deeper, the sweat dripping down his back, his chest, his hips slapping your ass, his free hand sliding up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck, squeezing just a little, just enough to make you gasp.

"Shit, baby, you're so fuckin' tight—"

And then—

"Fuck—fuck— fuck—"

Dick breaks.

His whole body tenses, back arching, muscles coiling as his cock jerks inside you, and then he's cumming, gasping, groaning, fucking his seed deep into your cunt, pumping you full, stuffing you so full, hot and thick. His arms lock around your waist, holding you down as he ruts up into you, still moving, still fucking you through it because he can't stop, can't fucking stop.

And you—

You feel it, feel the hot rush of it inside you, feel it leak out around his cock, smearing on your swollen folds, on Jason's fingers still working your clit, on his balls, sticky and messy, so fucking filthy. You love it, love the way it drips out of you, love the way Dick whimpers as he fucks through his orgasm, love the way Jason grunts behind you, voice rough, guttural.

"Christ, look at that—fuckin' drippin'—"

And he's still fucking you, still grinding against you, his cock still hard, still deep, still pounding your ass, and you whimper, still shaking, still so fucking sensitive.

Jason's fingers are merciless.

They press against your swollen, throbbing clit, slick with a mess of cum, circling it, teasing, rubbing just right.

"F-fuck, Jay, I—"

Your words break, barely more than a whimper, and Dick shifts beneath you, his hands tight on your hips, his cock still stuffed deep in your wrecked pussy, and he feels it.

He feels the way your walls are fluttering, spasming, gripping him, the way your whole body is starting to shake.

"That's it, baby, let go—"

Jason's voice is low, gravelly, and then it hits you.

A wave of white hot pleasure, so intense, so overwhelming, your whole body tenses and breaks at the same time, back arching, mouth falling open in a silent, shattered sob as you clench around both of them, your pussy squeezing Dick so tight he groans, hips jerking, and your ass—

"Shit—fuck—"

Jason chokes on his own breath, the sudden tight, spasming grip around his cock making his rhythm stutter, making his fingers falter, making his whole body tense as heat coils low in his gut, hot and throbbing, his hips snapping forward in shallow, desperate thrusts.

"Fuck— baby—"

His hand locks onto your waist, fingers digging into your soft, sweat slicked skin, and he buries himself deep, cock throbbing, pulsing, spilling inside you, thick and hot. He can't stop moving, can't stop grinding into you, fucking it deeper, groaning, shuddering against your back as his orgasm wrecks him.

You sob.

Not just because it's too much, not just because your body is shaking, not just because your clit is pulsing under Jason's fingers, because your pussy is still leaking cum, because your ass is stuffed with it, because the pleasure is endless.

You sob because you've never been fucked this good, because it's Dick and Jason, because your body is spent. Because you're so tired and still trembling, still whimpering as Jason finally stills behind you, followed by Dick, both of them still inside you, both of them breathing hard.

"Baby—"

Dick's voice is so soft, and you barely register it before your body gives out, before you collapse against his chest. His arms catch you, wrap around you, hold you tight, his big, warm hands rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back as you keep sobbing, sniffling, your body twitching from the aftershocks.

"Shit—"

Jason's hands smooth down your back, his lips pressing against the curve of your spine, kissing your sweat-damp skin as he exchanges a look with Dick, something unspoken, something concerned.

"Breathe, sweetheart," Dick murmurs, tucking you closer, his lips pressing to your temple, your forehead, "You're okay. We got you."

Jason hums against your back, his hands gentle now, tracing slow, grounding touches down your waist, your sides, rubbing at your hips, pressing softer kisses against your skin.

"M'sorry—" you hiccup, voice hoarse, and Jason shakes his head, arms tightening around you.

"Nah, baby," he murmurs, "Nothin' to be sorry for."

"We got you," Dick echoes, voice still so soft, lips still brushing against your skin, still pressing slow, tender kisses over your face, "We got you, love."

And the haze of the pollen is fading, just slightly, just enough to let the exhaustion creep in, just enough to let you sink into their warmth, just enough to let you breathe.

A little sniffle escapes you, barely more than a breath, and Jason exhales, his fingers tightening on your waist before he slowly, gently pulls out. You whimper, hips twitching at the loss, and he shushes you, hands smoothing down your sides, his voice low and gruff—

"Sorry, sweetheart."

It's only then, as his head starts to clear, that he sees you, like... really sees you.

The red marks scattered across your skin, the deep, dark hickeys, the little bruises blooming where fingers had gripped too tight, where mouths had been too hungry.

And normally, Jason wouldn't care. Wouldn't think about it, wouldn't dwell. But this wasn't some random fuck. This was you. And he cares about you.

He exchanges a look with Dick, who seems to be thinking the exact same thing, but before either of them can say anything, you lift your head slightly, voice soft, drowsy, still so blissed out.

"That was... that was so..." you pause as you take a slow, heavy breath. "That was the best fuck of my life."

For a second, they're stunned. Then Jason snorts, shaking his head as his hands squeeze your hips.

"You're somethin' else, pretty girl."

You hum, then shift, sitting up on Dick, your hands steadying yourself on his chest, his cock finally softening inside you.

Dick's hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear, his gaze soft, fond, full of something warm and aching.

"You okay?"

You nod, but he tilts his head, eyes scanning your face. "You sure?"

"So fucking sure," you murmur, leaning into his palm, letting his touch ground you, soothe you.

Jason exhales, then reaches over, fingers brushing your damp, sweat sticky hair from your shoulder before he leans in, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your skin.

They let you breathe, let you come down completely, their hands slow and gentle, smoothing over your back, your arms, grounding you with soft touches, murmured reassurances, little praises that make your stomach flip.

And then, you shift again, lifting yourself from Dick's lap, and—

Oh.

The mess is... everywhere. Your thighs are slick, cum dripping from your swollen pussy, smearing on Dick's softening cock, streaking down onto the bench beneath you, pooling on the towels.

And now that the pollen haze has lifted, now that your mind is clearer, the sight of it, the reality of it, makes your face go hot, embarrassment creeping up your spine.

They see it. They know you. Jason clicks his tongue, turns you to face him, and pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping tight around you, caging you against him.

"Don't do that shit," he murmurs, voice warm, rough, "It's fine. We'll clean up."

You bury your face in his chest, mumbling something unintelligible, and he huffs, hand smoothing down your back.

"Kinda late for that, doll."

You groan, lifting a weak arm to swat at his shoulder. "Shut up."

Dick chuckles, shaking his head as he stretches, standing from the bench, his legs shaky, his hands settling on his hips as he exhales.

"You two go ahead and clean up," he says, rolling his shoulders, "I'll handle things here."

And before you can argue, before you can say I can help or I should clean up too, he steps up behind you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder.

"Okay?"

You nod, still tucked against Jason's chest, and Dick hums, brushing his fingers down your arm before stepping away.

But before you can step away, Jason's arms tighten.

"Wait—"

Your words die in your throat as Jason lifts you, carrying you towards the showers like you weigh nothing, and normally, you'd protest.

Would roll your eyes, would shove at his shoulder, would grumble about carrying yourself. But right now, you're too fucked out to care. So you just sigh, letting your body go boneless against him, arms loosely wrapping around his shoulders as he carries you away.

Jason sets you down and turns on the water, the warm steam curling around you, soaking into your aching muscles. And the second your feet touch the tile, your knees buckle. But he's there, his hands steady on your waist, keeping you upright, and you let him.

His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady breath before he lifts one hand, cupping your face, his calloused fingers warm against your damp skin.

"You sure you're okay?"

His voice is quiet, rough around the edges, something almost hesitant underneath it.

You swallow, blinking up at him, exhaustion pulling at your limbs, your bones, every part of you. "Yeah." Your voice is soft, barely above a breath. "I just... 'm tired."

He nods. "I know."

You pout, and God, it's that little pout that always made him wanna kiss you, that always made his chest tight, even when he'd told himself not to care, even when he swore he wouldn't let it get to him.

"I wanna go home," you murmur, voice small, pleading.

His fingers tighten just slightly on your waist. "We'll take you home in a bit."

He leans in. Just a little. Just enough to brush his lips over yours—hesitant, almost unsure, because apparently, the pollen's not fucking with your heads anymore, and maybe this is where it ends, maybe this is where it stops, where everything just goes back to the way it was.

But you kiss him back. Soft, gentle, nothing like the desperate, frantic kisses from before, and his breath catches against your lips.

You pull back, barely, just enough to whisper, "Will you stay tonight?"

His brows pull together, his fingers brushing along your cheek. "Yeah, baby."

Your stomach flutters at the rasp of his voice, and you swallow, biting your lip before murmuring, "Both of you?"

He exhales, tilting his head down, brushing his nose against yours as he whispers, "Yeah. Both of us."

You nod, barely there, barely anything at all, and Jason watches you for a second, something warm, something almost uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

And then, you kiss him again. Soft, sweet, exhausted. And something about the way his lips press to yours, about the way his hand cradles your face, about the way his body relaxes against yours, even now... it feels right.

Like it was always meant to be this way.

Like something shifts inside you, deep in your chest, something small and fragile and terrifying.

Because you've had only fucked up men in your life before. Men who hurt. Men who took. Men who left nothing but bruises and scars in their wake. And now you have them—Jason, Dick—and you're scared.

Scared of losing them, scared of ruining this, scared of the ache in your chest that tells you you want them, not just like this, not just like what happened tonight, but something tells you they feel the same. Something tells you Dick feels the same. Something about the way Jason holds you now, the way he kisses you like it's not just about the fuck, like it matters, like you matter.

After cleaning up and making sure there's no evidence of what went down in the Batcave, the three of you made your way back to your apartment, exhaustion settling deep in your bones, but something warmer, something unchanged lingering between you all.

You're sprawled across your couch, tucked between two very warm, very big bodies, soaking up their heat as you all demolish a large pepperoni pizza. Because after that? After the hours of fucking, the overstimulation, the pollen that had you all wrapped up in a desperate, needy haze?

You're starving. And for once, there's no tension. No awkwardness. No 'so... what now?' kind of moment.

Just pizza. Just warmth. Just them.

Dick sits to your right, long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers idly brushing over your shoulder as he chews, completely at ease.

And Jason's on your left, reclined, socked feet propped up on your coffee table like he owns the place, one arm resting over your thighs while the other holds his slice, chewing with that half lidded, relaxed expression that means he's content.

And the thing is, it's not weird. It should be, right?

You just got wrecked by both of them in the Batcave of all places, and now you're here, cuddled up between them like it's nothing, like this was normal, like this was just another night of the three of you hanging out.

Except, it wasn't just another night. It was the first time you'd crossed that boundary. The first time you let yourselves give in to the tension that had always been there, just beneath the surface, lingering, waiting for something—anything—to push you all over the edge.

And it should've changed everything. But it didn't. If anything, it felt like it enhanced it.

Like something had clicked into place. Like this was always meant to happen. Dick swallows his bite, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb as he watches you from the corner of his eye. And he knows you.

He knows that little crease between your brows means you're overthinking. That the way you press your lips together means you're trying to make sense of something, trying to name whatever the hell this is, trying to define it.

And for once, you don't have to. Because he gets it. He feels it.

He'd spent years wanting you, wanting this, but never acting on it, because you were one of his closest friends, because you were one of Jason's closest friend, because the idea of losing you over some reckless decision was too much, too dangerous.

Jason snorts as you grab another slice of pizza, shoving it into your mouth like you haven't eaten in days, and he bumps his knee against yours, mumbling, "Jesus, slow down, doll. You're gonna choke."

You roll your eyes, mouth full, and mumble back, "Whose fault is that?"

Dick laughs—a soft, breathy chuckle as he leans back against the couch, his arm draped casually behind you. "She's got a point."

Jason clicks his tongue, tearing off a bite of his own pizza. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

And it's so normal. So easy. Dick can't stop thinking about it. Because this should feel different. He thought it would feel different.

That maybe things would be awkward, that maybe you'd pull away, that maybe Jason would crack some joke that would make it feel less than what it was, like it was just another fuck, another good time.

But it wasn't.

And this—this easy, quiet warmth, the way you're curled up against them like you've always belonged there, the way Jason hasn't made a single move to leave, the way he hasn't wanted to leave... it feels like something that was always meant to happen.

Because as he glances at Jason, sees the way he's watching you, the way his fingers absently trace circles into your thigh, the way he looks so calm, so sated—he knows Jason feels the same.

Jason, who for the first time in years, isn't holding himself back. Jason, who had spent the last two hours running through every memory of you in his head, trying to figure out how he went so fucking long without having you like that, how he ever convinced himself to not want you. Because he did.

And he won't fucking say it, won't admit it, won't even let the thought settle too deep in his chest, but yeah. Yeah, he feels it, too.

He watches as you swipe a thumb across your lips, catching a stray bit of sauce, your lashes fluttering with exhaustion as you sink deeper into Dick's side, and something inside him tightens.

Because this isn't just some random hookup. This isn't just some heat of the moment bullshit he can brush off and forget. This is you. And fuck, if that doesn't scare the shit out of him.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair before reaching for another slice, and Dick glances at him, something knowing flickering behind those bright blue eyes.

But neither of them say anything. Because there's nothing to say. Nothing needs to be said. This was the first time the three of you crossed the boundaries of your friendship.

But not the last.

[svtcatcafe]

[fromsil]

: ̗̀➛ But he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

[fromsil]

: ̗̀➛ But he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ rafe gets clingy when you scratch his back — and even clingier when you stop.

warnings — none, really! soft!rafe will never beat the sassy man allegations.

cherie’s note — requested here! this was such a good prompt ugh — i let out a little giggle whenever i see this trend on tiktok. thank you for the idea, nonnie!<3

he came in quiet tonight. just a tired little grunt as he kicked off his shoes, dropped his keys somewhere on the kitchen island, and wandered into your shared bedroom like there was nowhere else on earth he would rather be — because, honestly, there wasn't anywhere else he'd rather be.

you didn't ask what happened. he didn't offer, either. didn't need to. with the stress surrounding the family businesses after ward's passing, and the emotional rollercoaster of losing the rest of his family in the process, things around tannyhill had kind of just been... off. he just crawled into your bed, flopped facedown like a man who had lost a war, and mumbled something like, "please. your nails. back. now."

so now you're laying beside him, acting as the big spoon (which never happens, by the way), running your fingers down the planes of his bare back — lightly, slowly, dragging your nails along his spine and over his shoulders. he's warm from the shower, his hair still damp where it curls against the pillow.

he barely speaks. just lets out the occasional breathy sigh or satisfied little hum. you can feel the tension ease from his body in slow waves, each releasing a piece of whatever he had carried in with him.

after awhile, his breathing deepens. slower, heavier. his shoulders slacken, he's almost asleep.

so you pause — just for a second, to adjust your position or shake your hand out, thinking you'd lulled him into sleep and it was safe to stop.

but he lets out the most pitiful little sound. a wounded sigh, full of drama and betrayal.

a muffled, miserable little whimper, all sleep-slurred and pouty: "nooo... why'd you stop...?"

you blink. "my hand cramped—"

he twists against the plush blankets to glance at you, cheeks pressed against his pillow, lashes heavy over glassy blue eyes. his brows tug together. "hurts."

"your hand?" you ask, amused.

"no," he murmurs, eyes already drifting shut again. "my feelings."

you snort, leaning back over him as your nails return to his back, and immediately he melts — arms sinking into the mattress, face nuzzling deeper into the pillow below his cheek.

"s'what i thought," he mumbles.

you roll your eyes gently, more amused than annoyed.

moments like this were rare with rafe — the stone cold wall he typically put up had been broken down, accepting the love he'd never thought he deserved.

and when he mumbles, "love you, y'know," so quietly you almost miss it — you just smile, scratch a little softer.

"i know, baby. me too."

[smileysuh]

that's awkward

🌙 starring. Jeon Wonwoo x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. Wonwoo wears glasses, but he’s not blind. He knows you’re a very gorgeous girl, and you’re sweet and smart to top it all off. He’s used to restricting himself, not allowing visions of you in compromising situations to pass through his mind’s eye, although this image is strictly medical, and he knows it shouldn’t stir something inside of him, but it does anyway, and a wave of shame passes over him as a result.

tw/cw. Protected sex, lots of talk about birth control/IUD’s in specific, awkward warning, fingering, praise, dirty talk, Wonwoo’s a touch pervy, dry humping, grinding, foreplay, multiple reader orgasms, orgasming together, breast/body worship, etc… 

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.7k 

🍭 aus. Best friends to lovers, nurse!Wonwoo, roommates au, crack/comedy, realism, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I’m not going to lie, this one is awkward comedy crack realism. I thought it would be funny to touch base on birth control, and some of the weird things that happen with IUDs. while birth control is often mentioned in passing in fic, I’ve never seen an in depth thing about it, or a fic with a plot centered around an IUD gone rogue lol. I love awkward nurse bestie Wonwoo, and I hope you do too!

Prologue:

“You look tense,” Wonwoo, your best friend, notes as you sit down with him in the library. “What was that phone call about?”

“It was my roommate Sumi,” you sigh. “She’s decided to move in with her boyfriend, and now I don’t know how I’m going to afford the apartment.”

The nursing major pushes his glasses back up his nose, studying you in the quizical way he’s been studying everyone since you were children. “So what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. Give up the lease? Move out of my dream apartment on campus and go live with my parents, deal with the two-hour commute-” Even thinking about it is making your heart race with anxiety, and you let out a huff, putting your head down on the table.

“There are other options,” Wonwoo points out.

“Like what?”

“Find another roommate.”

“Sumi was enough of a mess to live with, and she’s been my friend since I met her at the welcome-to-university day last year. Where am I going to find a nice, quiet roommate, who doesn’t bring her boyfriend over to bang every night or want to throw parties or leave the kitchen a mess-”

Wonwoo chuckles, leaning back in his chair as he watches your meltdown.

“If it’s not weird, I could move in with you,” he offers once your rant ends.

You stare at him.

Wonwoo’s been your best friend since grade school, and although the two of you are super close, you’d never considered a coed living situation with him. You know he’s a clean freak with a hint of ocd, it’s part of the reason he’s doing so well with his nursing classes- but, could you really live with him?

You’ve always found Wonwoo to be attractive, well, the attraction had grown in high school when the thin sweetheart had grown out a bit, his shoulders broadening and his baby fat disappearing with frequent stints at the gym. 

“Would you really do that?” you ask. “Move in with me?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “My lease is up on my one-bedroom. Your place is actually on campus, so I wouldn’t have to commute thirty minutes to and from school. We’re comfortable with each other, and we’ve been friends long enough to sort out any roommate growing pains. I think it could work out.”

He’s always so reasonable, so logical, and staring at this man, you realize he’s found the perfect solution to your problem, just as he always does.

“You know what, Wonwoo?” You let out a breath and find yourself smiling. “Let’s be roommates.”

One:

Before you’d moved in with Wonwoo, you two had been extremely close, but after a year and a half of living together, the only way you could be closer is if he was literally inside of you and fucking your brains out every day.

It’s because of this closeness, as well as his major, that you go to him when you begin to have stomach aches that persist for two weeks.

The nurse-to-be is sitting in the living room, reading through a textbook with a notepad to jot on when you approach.

“Hey, I’ve got a question for you,” you say, taking a seat next to him.

“What’s up?” he asks, immediately putting his studies to the side to focus on you.

“I’ve been having these stomach aches,” you sigh.

“Has your diet or water intake changed recently?”

“No.”

“So you’re eating properly and not resorting to a one hundred percent ramen-based diet like you did last final season?”

You laugh, pushing his knee. “No, I’m being good, I promise!”

He studies you carefully. “What kind of stomach pain?”

“Sometimes it’s sharp, and sometimes it’s like a dull ache.”

“Show me the location?”

Releasing a sigh, you bring your hand to your lower abdomen. “It’s kind of around here.”

Wonwoo looks down at the spot you’re indicating, then back up to you. “When was your last period?”

“Like… two weeks ago?”

“So you’re not due for one, which means it’s not period pains.”

“I know period pains,” you assure him, “and this is different.”

“Would you say it’s in a similar location to your usual period pains?”

You know his line of questioning immediately, and you let out a scoff. “I’m not pregnant, Wonwoo. We both know this is a celibate apartment since we’re married to our studies, and besides, I have an IUD.”

Wonwoo nods, and you can see the wheels in his mind turning. “How long have you had the IUD?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, a couple of years? Why is that relevant?”

“Well, I don’t know much about birth control, but I do know that sometimes IUDs or other birth control implants can… shift.”

Shift.

The word sounds so ominous, and you can’t help the mortified expression that crosses your face. “My IUD hasn’t shifted,” you insist. “That can’t be what’s happening.”

Wonwoo shrugs. “If you say so.”

Your mouth feels dry, and the idea that the tiny foreign birth control object inside of you has shifted makes you feel nauseous, so you’re impatient to change the subject.

“I’m sure it’s just anxiety or something,” you tell him, letting out a deep breath.

“Keep an eye on it, and let me know if the stomach pain persists. If you need me to take you to the on-campus hospital, I’m sure they’d figure it out for you. Give an ultrasound if they think it’s IUD-related, or offer alternative possibilities.” 

“I appreciate that, but I’m sure it’s nothing,” you insist. For someone who’s best friends with a nurse, you don’t like hospitals very much, and getting the IUD inserted had been a traumatic enough experience to deter you from anything gynecological until the timeline on your implant has ended. You’ve got a couple of years until you’ll need to get the bugger taken out, and nothing is going to inspire you to go check on it, especially not a recurring stomach ache. 

Two:

Wonwoo’s walking to a seminar with his classmate Yeji when you pop into his mind. It’s been a couple of days since you told him about your stomach aches, and he wants a female perspective on it.

He’s heard horror stories about IUDs and other forms of birth control, but Wonwoo’s man enough to admit he doesn’t know enough about the subject.

“Hey, Yeji?” Wonwoo asks.

“What’s up?” she responds, not looking up from her phone, where she’s looking over notes to prep for the seminar.

“So my roommate mentioned she’s been having cramps for a while-”

“Is she eating and drinking water okay?”

“Yeah, she’s good.”

“How about alcohol?”

“Neither of us are big drinkers,” Wonwoo admits.

“Okay, what about her period?”

Wonwoo loves how Yeji is asking all the questions he’d asked, it’s a sign he was doing the right line of enquiry. Wonwoo respects his classmate, and to know they have the same thought process is encouraging.

“She’s not due for it yet, not for another week or two.”

“Is she on birth control?”

“An IUD.”

Yeji looks up from her phone, and there’s a knowing twinkle in her eye, making Wonwoo chuckle.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I think we’re thinking the same thing.”

“It’s probably an IUD-related issue,” Yeji confirms. “Was the pain in her lower abdomen?”

“Uh huh.”

“Kind of like an ache, but sometimes sharp feelings too?”

“Yeah.”

“She has to check for her strings,” Yeji deduces.

There’s an immediate rush of embarrassment and heat to Wonwoo’s ears, and his voice cracks when he repeats, “Check for her strings?” 

“You know, reach up in there and see if she can feel them. That’s a good way to see if the IUD is in place without needing an ultrasound or a trip to the hospital.”

Wonwoo swallows thickly. He’s a nurse, and physical things like this shouldn’t affect him so much, but there’s something about the notion of you checking for your own strings-

Wonwoo wears glasses, but he’s not blind. He knows you’re a very gorgeous girl, and you’re sweet and smart to top it all off. He’s used to restricting himself, not allowing visions of you in compromising situations to pass through his mind’s eye, although this image is strictly medical, and he knows it shouldn’t stir something inside of him, but it does anyway, and a wave of shame passes over him as a result.

“I’ll uh,” Wonwoo coughs, “I’ll pass on the message to her.”

“It’s good to check your strings frequently,” Yeji continues, completely oblivious to Wonwoo’s discomfort. “If she has any sexual partners-”

“She’s single,” Wonwoo interjects, unable to help himself.

“Well, IUDs can be knocked out of place even without something poking at them, so you never know,” Yeji shrugs. 

God, Wonwoo had known there would be challenges that came with living with a member of the opposite sex, but he’d never imagined having to discuss female anatomy, birth control, and the checking of IUD strings. 

Three:

You’re sweating.

One foot is up on the bathtub, the other firmly on the ground, and you’re bent at an odd angle trying to reach inside of yourself to find some stupid IUD strings.

Wonwoo had come home and shyly told you that there’s an at-home way to check for IUD shifting, and you’d been less than enthusiastic about it- but more enthused about the idea of checking yourself than going to a clinic and having someone else do it for you.

This whole thing is awkward, and try as you might, you simply can’t feel any strings inside of you.

With a sigh of annoyance, you pull your fingers away, removing your foot from the tub so you can wash your hands.

Your heart is racing, panic and anxiety setting in- if the strings aren’t there, that means the IUD is misplaced, which means a gyno visit, which might actually be the end of the world for you right now.

You’re not ready to accept that fate, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Wonwoo?” you call, finding your best friend in the living room.

He looks as nervous as you feel, which is a foreign emotion on the generally stoic man’s face.

“Did you find them?” he asks. 

You shake your head.

“Well, what if we go to an urgent care clinic? Or set up an appointment with your doctor?” he suggests.

“My doctor is a man, and the clinics might have a male doctor, and they’d probably want to check on the spot without sending a referral to the place that put the IUD in, and- Well,” you can feel tears burning in your eyes, “I really don’t have the mental capacity to have a man I don’t know looking up inside me right now-”

“I could call Yeji-”

“I don’t even know Yeji,” you groan. “This whole thing is so fucking awkward.”

“So.. what are you going to do?”

“I hate to ask this…” correction, you can’t believe you’re about to ask this, “but… could you maybe… would you, uh… do you maybe want to help me check for the strings?” 

Wonwoo simply stares at you.

“Please?” 

He swallows thickly. “I’ll go get some surgical gloves.”

You’re doing this, and you’ve just got to suck it up. As awkward as the idea is of your childhood best friend fingering you to find some fucking IUD strings is, the notion of some random man at a hospital doing it is even worse.

While Wonwoo is getting gloves, you go to your room to change into a dress. That way, you’ll be covered, but there will still be easy access.

Once you’re dressed, you head to the bathroom, where you find Wonwoo waiting. There’s a bottle of lube on the sink, and it’s clear he’s slicked up his gloved fingers in preparation. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a walk-in?” he asks, and you can tell from the pink of his ears that he’s as awkward about this as you are. 

“Wonwoo, you’re just going to close your eyes, put your fingers into something, and see if strings poke you,” you tell him, letting out a deep breath. “It will be simple.” You’re trying to convince yourself, but it’s not working.

Now it’s Wonwoo’s turn to sigh. He kneels down on the floor, then actually closes his eyes.

“Can you guide my hand?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You swallow a lump in your throat, reaching to grab his wrist. Slowly, you bring his fingers between your thighs. “It’s uh, right here.”

The first contact of Wonwoo’s gloved digits on your core has you jolting, and your skin immediately heats with embarrassment.

“After this one, remind me to never get another IUD,” you groan.

“There are other methods,” he muses, his fingers gently slipping into you with aid from the lube. 

“I don’t want pills or an implant, or a shot, or one of those diva cup ring things,” you insist.

“Condoms are pretty dependable.”

“Yeah, if a man actually wants to wear one. Most guys are such crybabies about a bit of rubber that they’d rather put their girlfriend through humiliation of IUD insertion, or the trauma of pills that fuck up your emotions and body-”

You’re so busy ranting that you almost don’t notice Wonwoo’s fingers pushing deeper, but then he begins searching around, and he accidentally makes contact with your G-spot, which immediately makes you choke on your words.

“Sorry,” Wonwoo says softly. “Uh, tell me more about bad birth control?”

“Yeah, uh…” God, you can feel yourself sweating, and you can’t bring yourself to look down at Wonwoo, so you close your eyes, tilting your head back to focus on your female rage rather than your hot best friend inspecting your pussy for IUD strings. “The fact that men get sedation or whatever for vasectomies but women still have to get this shit inserted with no local anasthesia or anything, it’s barbaric and misogynistic, not to mention anti-woman.”

“That definitely sounds like a double standard,” Wonwoo agrees.

“If men had to endure the pain we do for an IUD male equivalent procedure, they’d for sure get full sedation and pain meds,” you declare.

“You’re probably right about that.”

“Wonwoo?”

“Yeah?”

“Please tell me you can feel the fucking strings.”

“No luck, yet. Sorry.”

You groan. “You uh… feel pretty deep in there.”

“I’ve got long fingers.”

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted you to do this.”

“If I’m being honest, I think we should call it. I can’t find any strings.”

“Just…” You swallow the lump in your throat. “One more minute.”

“If you say so.”

A bead of sweat rolls down your neck, your heart racing in your chest. 

Please find the strings. Please for the love of God-

“Wait, I think something just poked me!” Wonwoo tells you, and your eyes flash open.

“Is it the strings!?”

He pushes his fingers just a touch deeper, and after a moment, Wonwoo nods. “I think it’s the strings!”

“Thank God!” you practically scream. 

In response, Wonwoo tears his hand away from you, and you immediately cover yourself with your dress again.

Your best friend opens his eyes and looks up at you. “We found the strings, but I still think you should get a referral for a minimally invasive ultrasound just to make sure it’s in place where it should be.”

“Wonwoo, we’re going to celebrate the small wins,” you tell him. “And we are also never going to speak of this ever again to anyone, do you understand?”

He nods solemnly. “I have zero memory of anything that just took place.”

“Good boy.” 

Four:

As someone who’s entering the medical field, Wonwoo knows he’s not supposed to feel weird about the human body.

After all, a body is just a body. 

But… there’s something about the fact that he was just up and close with your body, and he feels ashamed that the whole situation is affecting him the way it is.

There shouldn’t be anything sexy about stomach aches and possible misplaced IUDs, and yet… Wonwoo feels flushed every time he thinks about it.

You’ve been best friends since you were both children, but it’s a far reach to say that Wonwoo has ever seen you as a sister. The two of you had been inseparable for your younger years, and when you’d both hit puberty, the dynamic had shifted somewhat.

Sure, you’ve both had significant others, and been supportive of each other in everything- but… Wonwoo can’t pretend he’s not attracted to you.

It’s something he’s always been able to push to the side, after all, he’d never jeopardize your connection for the chance of getting his rocks off. He’s not that kind of man, which is why this whole IUD situation has put him in such an uncomfortable position.

It’s been two days since he checked your strings, and things have felt different. The two of you don’t know how to be around each other now, and that’s evident by the way you both stutter and give each other a wide berth in the kitchen at dinner time.

Wonwoo can feel his skin getting warm as he steps back to give you space to move to the fridge, and he swallows the lump in his throat, uncomfortably adjusting his glasses.

“I feel like maybe we both need a drink,” you say with a deep sigh.

The two of you are not big on alcohol, but there’s a mixed spirit drink bottle in the top cupboard for extreme situations, and this definitely feels like the right time for it.

Wonwoo helps you pour the liquid into two large glasses, and with an awkward smile, you clink your cup to his own before taking a sip.

“Let’s watch something,” you suggest next, and the two of you go to the living room.

You’re both interested in Netflix documentaries, and you find one that looks interesting. It’s something to get your mind off of things, but as Wonwoo continues to drink, his thoughts start to wander.

As a non-drinker, Wonwoo’s tolerance is substantially lower than he’d like it to be, and he can feel his skin heating. His mind feels fuzzy now, and his gaze keeps slipping over to you.

The two of you can’t live this way.

You just can’t.

Things can’t be this awkward forever, and if there was ever a time to tell you he’s into you as more than a friend, it would be now.

One episode of the documentary finishes, and as the screen cuts to credits, Wonwoo lets out an extremely deep breath.

“I need to tell you something,” he states.

“God.” You immediately hide your face, nearly knocking over your drink in the process. “What is it?”

“I don’t want things to be awkward between us because I had to help you find your IUD strings,” Wonwoo says first. 

“Well, there’s not much we can do about it, can we?”

“I like you.”

“Huh?” You look over at him with confusion.

“This might make it more awkward if you don’t feel the same way,” Wonwoo admits, his mouth getting dry. “But… I like you a lot, and… helping you with that whole thing… well, it doesn’t make me see you any differently. In fact, uh… maybe kind of the opposite.”

Wonwoo can’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

Did he just admit that being gloved and two fingers deep in your pussy made him even more into you?

Yes. Yes, he did. 

“I think maybe it’s time for bed,” you tell him, and his heart sinks in his chest.

“Okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, we can talk about it in the morning.” 

The two of you stand up after turning the TV off, and Wonwoo doesn’t even know if he should look at you.

Then, surprisingly, you step forward, cupping his face and pressing your lips to his cheek. “Get some sleep,” you tell him.

He stands there in shock as you head to your room, offering him an awkward smile as you close the door behind you.

Wonwoo continues to just exist blankly, unmoving in the living room for a solid five minutes before he’s able to shake himself out of things. 

He doesn’t know what the future might bring, but the future is best brought sober. 

Five: 

You’re sitting in the kitchen when Wonwoo comes out of his room. 

Neither of you have classes today, and you’re kind of happy about that, because Wonwoo looks disheveled in a way you’ve never seen him look before.

His glasses are askew, his hair is a curly mess, his eyes have bags under them like he’s hardly slept-

“You okay?” you ask immediately.

Wonwoo lets out a deep breath. “Sorry about last night. I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I probably hurt our friendship-”

“It’s fine,” you assure him.

“No, it’s not. I stepped over a boundary-”

“Wonwoo,” you say his name firmly, grabbing his attention. “You didn’t mess things up. You told me you like me, and I wanted to say it back, but you were drunk, and I thought it would be best to tell you when you were sober, or at least… hungover or something.”

Wonwoo blinks at you. His lips part, but he’s not able to speak for a few moments. “You like me too?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Like… as more than a friend?”

“I mean, you and I have been inseparable since we were kids. I’ve always had a crush on you, Wonwoo, but I pushed it aside for our friendship.”

“So did I.”

“Who knew all it would take was an IUD and a very awkward situation of trying to find us for us to admit this sort of thing?” You let out a small laugh, and Wonwoo joins in with you, which eases your anxieties.

“So…” He swallows thickly. “What now?”

“We could just watch movies and hang out today, you know, like a lazy Sunday date.”

“But we watch movies and hang out all the time, shouldn’t I… I don’t know, take you out for brunch or something?” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Well, I was thinking, while watching our show, we could cuddle, which isn’t something we’ve ever done.”

“I think I would like that,” Wonwoo admits.

“How about you go find us a new show, and I’ll make you some ramen. It looks like you need some food.”

Wonwoo nods, moving to the living room while you get water boiling for the noodles.

You’re trying to hide it, but you feel jittery. At the same time, the awkward atmosphere has shifted. Things feel a touch back to normal, but amplified in a way. No longer are you just making food for your roommate; you’re making food for a man who likes you the way you like him.

Suddenly, things feel domestic in a way they’ve never felt before, and that sensation brings you joy as you prepare the ramen and join Wonwoo in the living room.

The two of you agree on a show, and in the first fifteen minutes, Wonwoo slowly eats and sips on water.

Once he’s finished, he sets the bowl to the side. 

“So… do you want to move closer?” he asks.

Your heart is racing as you snuggle up to his side, and Wonwoo’s arm goes around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You release a deep sigh, already very comfortable, and it’s in this position that you spend most of the day.

The whole documentary miniseries you’re watching comes to a conclusion, and you shift. You sit back up to stretch, and Wonwoo watches you.

When you let out a sigh and allow your arms to rest by your sides again, Wonwoo finally asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart lurches into your throat, and you swallow it back down.

“Yeah.”

He leans forward, and you mirror the motion.

You stare at your best friend, admiring all the little things about his handsome face.

He cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin.

The moment feels suspended in time. It feels fast, yet slow, all at once, and then, Wonwoo closes the distance.

His mouth meets yours, hesitantly at first, but when you lean forward, grabbing his shoulders, he relaxes a little.

Neither of you are dreaming this up; it’s real.

You’re kissing your best friend, and fuck, it feels so good.

You love how gentle Wonwoo is, how it’s not immediate intensity. He’s soft, and his motions are tentative, as if he’s trying to figure you out.

Meanwhile, a need is growing inside of you, so you’re the one to take things to the next step. You open your mouth, licking Wonwoo’s lip, and he mirrors you.

A soft moan escapes you, and you shift closer, wanting to be pressed to him, wanting to feel his heart as it races alongside your own.

Things are getting heated fast, and soon, you’re crawling on top of him, straddling his hips on your living room couch.

Wonwoo’s hands stay in a respectable place on your hips, but it’s simply not enough for you anymore.

You reach down, guiding his grip to your bum.

Wonwoo groans beneath you, breaking the kiss to look up at you. “Should we take a minute?”

“Why?”

Wonwoo blushes. “Well, uh…”

That’s when you feel something pressing against your core, and you realize your grinding has caused him to get hard. Your pussy flutters, and you swallow thickly. “Do you really want to stop?”

“Well, I mean… you’ve been having stomach pains. Your IUD might be in the wrong place-”

“You felt the strings, that means it’s there.”

“What if it’s not working?”

“I read online that as long as it’s in me still, it’s likely working.”

“Do you want to risk it?”

You swallow thickly. “I want you.”

“What if this messes things up?”

“It won’t,” you tell him.

“How can you be so sure?”

Wonwoo’s looking at you with such pure eyes, and your heart melts for him. “I just know.”

You can see the moment he gives in. 

You’re both putting your friendship on the line, but if there’s one man in the world who you know would never hurt you, it’s Wonwoo.

Slowly, you press your lips to his again.

The momentum is like it was the first time, a gentle, gradual build, and you’re doing your best not to start grinding on him again.

Your body wants one thing, but your mind knows you have to take this slow.

Wonwoo’s a thoughtful man. He’s a thinker. And thoughts don’t easily slip from his head. You don’t want to scare him away, so you meet his pace, allowing him to be the one who instigates progression.

His hand begins to grip your bum again, and you release a moan, kissing him deeper.

Your fingers thread through his hair, gently tugging to earn your own sounds of pleasure.

God, Wonwoo’s so sexy. Your entire body is humming with energy as you make out like teenagers on your living room couch.

You can feel yourself getting wetter by the second, and soon, Wonwoo seems to break too.

He pulls away from the kiss, letting out a groan. “Do you want to go to my room?”

“Okay.”

You’re breathing heavily as you stand up, and you let Wonwoo lead you to his room. Once you’re there, it’s as if the unknowing comes to the surface again. You and Wonwoo look at each other, two people in a room you’ve been in a hundred times, but this time, everything is different.

It’s like starting from ground zero again, both of you tentatively connecting, lips meeting. His hands are on your hips, and the two of you slowly move toward the bed. 

You grab the bottom of his shirt, and Wonwoo breaks the kiss to allow you to remove it.

God, his body is so perfect. It’s lean but muscled, and even with his heavy nursing workload, he always finds time to go to the gym.

You remove your hoodie next, revealing the lacy bralette beneath.

Wonwoo swallows thickly, his eyes flicking up to meet your own. His ears are turning pink, and you know he’s shy about checking you out, but unfortunately for him, he’s just going to have to get used to it.

You grab his hand, pulling him to the bed, where you sit down first, looking up at him. 

“Can I be honest with you?” you ask.

“Of course.”

“This might be a little awkward for both of us, first times always are,” you note, “but, I think we were always meant to be together, and after this, things will be a lot easier.”

Wonwoo is quiet for a moment, but then he nods. “I agree with that.” 

“Try to get out of your own head for a minute, okay?”

“Okay.”

You stroke his hand, and then you guide it to your breast, prompting him to squeeze you gently.

A soft groan escapes your lips. “Feels good.”

Wonwoo swallows thickly, bringing both hands to your breasts so he can massage you through your bralette.

He continues this for a minute before you get too horny, and you reach behind your back to remove the last piece of fabric blocking him from direct contact with your chest.

As the material slips off, Wonwoo takes a sharp breath.

“It’s okay,” you assure him, guiding his hands back. “I like this.”

His thumb brushes over your nipple, and you shiver, core pulsing with interest. 

“Here,” you offer, “come sit against the headboard.”

Wonwoo does as you tell him, no questions asked, and once he’s situated, you straddle him like you did on the couch.

Your lips meet, and the kiss is filled with passion. His hands are on your hips, but you grab them, guiding him to your breasts again.

It feels so good to be kissing your best friend while he massages your chest, and you begin to grind down against him, eliciting moans from both of you. 

You’re overwhelmed in the best possible way, and you break the kiss, which prompts Wonwoo to kiss your throat, then down to your collar bones- soon, he has your nipple in his mouth, and your whole body lights up with the sensation.

You thread your fingers through his hair, keeping his face pressed against your boobs, a silent plea for him to continue.

Your hips are still swiveling, and you can feel Wonwoo getting harder and harder with each passing second.

Soon, you can’t take it anymore, and you stop. “Let’s get naked.”

“Yeah.”

You get off Wonwoo, standing so you can remove the last of your clothes. He does the same, and then he reaches for his bedside table, removing a condom package and a bottle of lube.

“Condom?” you ask.

“We’re not a hundred percent sure about your IUD yet, and I don’t want to risk anything,” Wonwoo muses.

You decide that if you try to have sex without protection, he’s just going to be in his head, so you promise yourself to get a clean bill of health from your doctor (with perhaps the help of an ultrasound machine), and then you can enjoy the raw feeling of your best friend.

Wonwoo joins you on the bed again, but the condom is still on the side table. It’s clear he wants a bit more foreplay, so you wrap your legs around his hips and draw him close, lips crashing against his own.

The two of you continue to make out, your whole body on fire. One of his hands is still massaging your breast, but then it begins to descend. He rubs your clit, and you whimper, shifting below him for better access.

“Been thinking about fingering you,” he admits.

“Got a taste and you couldn’t forget it, huh?” you tease. “Me neither.”

“Yeah?” He slips two digits into your soaked core. 

“Your fingers are just so long, and they fit perfectly. You hit the perfect spot-” you whimper when he touches the exact location you were just talking about. “Fuck, someone’s a fast learner.”

“I noticed how you reacted last time. It wasn’t the time or place then, but I promised to utilize it later if I ever got the chance,” Wonwoo breathes, stroking your g-spot expertly.

Your eyes close, and you give in to the pleasure, whimpering and desperately clutching his shoulders. 

Wonwoo’s lips move to your throat, and he worships you, making your mind go blank and your legs numb. God, he’s good with his fingers, repeatedly hitting your G-spot while his palm rubs your clit-

“Don’t stop,” you whimper, feeling your release bubbling already. Foreplay and longing have contributed to a fast unraveling, and Wonwoo just knows what you like. Sure, this is a first time for you both, but he knows enough about you to infer things, and your vocal nature edges him on as he works you closer and closer to the edge.

You’re getting louder and louder, and soon, you’re belting out, “I’m gonna cum!”

Wonwoo finger fucks you even faster, and you explode like a firework. Sparks of jittery energy combust through you, taking over your entire body as Wonwoo pleasures you.

You gasp loudly, and Wonwoo helps you ride out the orgasm with unwavering dedication.

His kisses are a constant on your throat, and he works you through it until your core stops pulsing around his fingers.

Then, Wonwoo removes them.

You’re shocked to open your eyes and see your neat freak best friend lick his digits clean, and your core throbs at the sight.

His cock is completely erect, and it looks beautiful. It’s long, but still thick enough to be balanced, if you can describe a penis as balanced, that is.

Wonwoo reaches for the condom package, and you watch, breathless, as he slides the rubber on.

“You still want this?” he asks.

“More than anything,” you confirm, opening your arms to prompt him to come closer again.

“Do you want me to use lube?” he asks.

“I’m wet enough and we both know it.”

“I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he assures you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

God, you love this man.

You’ve loved him for years, and you can tell in this moment that you’re very much at risk of being in love with him within the week. 

You draw his lips to yours as he adjusts his cock to your core, rubbing the tip between your soaked pussy lips.

Wonwoo is slow about pushing into you, giving your body time to adjust.

You haven’t had sex in a while, so it’s definitely a jump from fingers to cock, and you groan into the kiss as he sheathes himself.

Once his hips are flush to your own, your mouths separate so you can both moan at the sensation. Wonwoo swallows thickly. “Should I move?”

“Yeah,” you nod, eagerly awaiting what’s to come. “Feels good already.”

Wonwoo takes a breath as he begins to thrust, it’s shallow and slow at first, but the pleasure is so great that you find yourself grabbing his shoulders.

Your head falls back against the pillows, eyes closing to enjoy everything Wonwoo is giving you.

As his pace accelerates, he draws your lips to his own again, and you kiss him desperately as he fucks you.

One particularly deep thrust has you squeaking, and Wonwoo pauses, breaking the kiss. “I can definitely feel your strings.”

“What?”

“The IUD, I felt them.”

“Like… on your cock?”

Wonwoo laughs. “Yeah.”

“Is that normal?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “I don’t know much about it. But if my fingers could reach them, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised my dick can.”

When you’d gotten an IUD, you hadn’t known any of this stuff. “Did it hurt?”

“Not really, it was just a feeling.” Wonwoo begins to thrust again, but you can tell he’s keeping it shallower.

If he were to go deeper, you get the sense he’s afraid he might mess up your wonky IUD even more, and while part of you wants him to let go and just decimate you, you respect that he’s being careful. 

His lips meet yours again, and the kiss distracts you from all things IUD. 

Each thrust is like heaven, and your core is so soaked that every movement is easy.

You’re whimpering more and more, and Wonwoo’s returning your sounds with noises of his own. 

Sex hadn’t felt this good all those months ago when you had it last, had it? 

No, you think the pleasure is because you’re having sex with Wonwoo, and your whole body warms at the notion.

“You feel so good,” Wonwoo groans, his lips moving to your throat. You love the sensation of his hot breath on your skin, and you thread your fingers through his hair to keep him close.

“Sounds…” you swallow thickly, “sounds like you’re close.”

“Yeah, maybe I need to slow down,” Wonwoo admits.

“It’s okay, neither of us has done this in a long time,” you remind him.

“I don’t want to be a three pump chump.”

You never thought you’d hear that phrase coming from Wonwoo of all people, and it makes you giggle. “You’re not a three pump chump,” you assure him. 

“You’re not going to be disappointed?” he asks.

“We can always do this again in twenty minutes or something,” you point out.

“I guess that’s true,” Wonwoo laughs. “I just want to make sure you’re… satisfied.”

“I’ve cum once already, which is more than I can say for the last guy I was dating, so… I think you’re off to a good start.”

Wonwoo lets out a sigh. He never liked your ex. 

“Okay,” he says finally. Then he kisses you again, beginning to move.

He’s found the perfect amount of depth. It’s deep, but not so deep that he’s hitting your strings or making you uncomfortable.

You give in to the feeling again, forgetting your little interlude as you’re taken over by pleasure once again.

Wonwoo’s fingers thread with yours, and he begins to moan again, getting close to the edge while pleasure builds within you, too.

“I think I can cum soon,” you tell him between kisses. 

Wonwoo doesn’t respond, but his free hand moves between your bodies, and he begins to rub your clit, causing jolts of pleasure to erupt through you again. 

You moan desperately, muscles tightening with each pass of his fingers, combined with his cock working your insides. 

“Don’t stop,” you whimper, gripping the feeling and refusing to let go as it builds-

Wonwoo lets out another groan, and the sound is so sexy it makes your insides twist into knots-

One more rub of his fingers on your clit has you exploding. Your core clamps down on him like a vice, a strangled gasp escaping you as the fireworks return, sparkling through you.

Wonwoo shivers, fucking you even harder, and a moment later, he lets out his own sound of pleasure. His thrusts falter, and although you can’t feel him filling your insides since he’s filling a condom, you can tell from the pulsing of his cock that he’s cumming too.

Your fingers thread through his hair, and you draw him close, both of you panting in the throes of passion. 

His movements stop, and you both just stay still for a few moments, trying to regain composure after two explosive orgasms.

Wonwoo swallows thickly, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

Then, he pulls out of you. There’s no mess of cum, no need to clean anything up, so once he’s gone to the bathroom to discard his condom, he returns and collapses into bed with you.

You immediately cuddle up next to his side, releasing a sigh of relief as his arms wrap around you.

For the first time, you can tell Wonwoo’s not thinking about anything, that he’s fully in the moment with you. He looks peaceful, and it makes your heart sing.

Who knew all it would take was an extremely awkward interaction over IUD strings to bring the two of you together like this?

He’s your person, he always has been, and he always will be.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! IUDs can be a shit show but nurse Wonwoo is so hot.

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below! 

🔮 preview. There’s no contraption to break or misplace inside of you, and being birth control free with the intention of pregnancy feels a little something like liberation from the shackles that once dictated your sexual relationship. 

cw/ tw. unprotected sex, baby making, multiple reader orgasms, fingering, eating out, body/nipple worship, blow job, hand job, baby making, dirty talk, praise, etc…   I petnames. (hers) honey. 

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 160

🌙 starring. Jeon Wonwoo x afab!Reader

bonus

You and Wonwoo have been together for four years now, married for one, and life is complete bliss.

Sure, things can be difficult; after all, he’s now a full nurse, and hospital hours can be hectic. But outside of general life ups and downs, your relationship is as solid as it ever has been.

About a month ago, you’d gotten your IUD taken out. It was horribly uncomfortable to get the device removed, but it was almost comical to see the tiny little ‘T’ contraption that had kick-started the most important romantic relationship of your life. You were glad to see the little bugger go, and it’s absence now signifies the start of a new chapter for you and Wonwoo.

In the year you have been married, the two of you have slaved over finances and life planning, and now that your birth control has been removed, your doctor has given you the go-ahead to start trying for a baby.

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.3k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

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sleepy snoopy ❨･¨⬮

[barnesonly]

Hatred

john walker x reader

summary: You hated John Walker. You fought him before, nearly killed him for carrying the shield. Years later, you’re forced to work with him again—and when he saved your life, the hatred cracked.

word count: 5,4k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. enemies to lovers, angst to smut, curse words, mentions of death, injuries, mutual desperation, dirty talk, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, breeding.

You hated John Walker.

From the first moment you saw him step into frame, all grinning bravado and government-issue righteousness, you wanted to hit something. Preferably him.

He wore that shield like it meant something. Like it belonged to him.

He didn’t know Steve. Didn’t know what that shield meant. What it cost.

And maybe that’s what stung the most—how easily he wore it. How effortlessly he stepped into the space someone irreplaceable had left behind.

With every mission, every close call, your resentment festered. He called himself “Captain America” like it was a job title. Like he earned it. You’d catch him giving press interviews with that painted-on grin, answering questions like a politician, like a man who hadn’t watched the blood dry on his hands yet.

But you’d fought beside Steve Rogers. You’d seen him fall and get back up, not because the world expected it—but because he did. Because he couldn’t bear to do anything less. You knew what it really took to carry that weight—and it sure as hell wasn’t a shiny resume and a PR team.

John Walker… he didn’t have that in him. Not that kind of goodness. Not that kind of determination.

You’ve never had missed your chance to remind Walker of it.

The fight was over. The Flag Smashers were gone, the mission was a mess, and you were still standing on the side of the road somewhere in the middle of goddamn nowhere, heart pounding, blood rushing in your ears—with him behind you.

Captain fucking America.

You turned away from the road, from Sam’s exhausted voice and Bucky’s growl of frustration, trying to catch your breath. Not from the fight—you were used to the fights. It was the way he looked at you. The way he spoke. That unbearable calm in his voice like he’d actually done something good.

Like he thought he was helping.

“You know,” he said behind you, casual, too casual. “We actually made a pretty good team back there.”

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. Then ten. Somehow that heat behind your ribs didn’t fade.

You turned slowly. Met his gaze. Held it, even though it made something twist in your chest.

“Team? That what you think that was?” you asked, voice low and rough.

He shrugged, like he couldn’t see the storm building in your eyes. “I mean, we stopped the trucks. Nobody died. I’d say that’s a win.”

God.

You laughed. Sharp, bitter. It scraped your throat on the way out.

“You really believe this, don’t you?” you said. “You actually think you’re the good guy.”

John frowned, just slightly. “I’m doing what I was asked to do. What this country needs.”

“You think this country needs you?”

You didn’t mean to let that much venom slip out. But you couldn’t stop it now. You were tired. Angry. And something about the way he stood there, looking like the perfect soldier in that uniform that didn’t belong to him—it made you sick.

“You want to be seen as a hero so badly,” you whispered. “But you aren’t one.”

You stepped forward, and something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Uncertainty.

He didn’t move. You didn’t stop.

“You were handed that shield. You didn’t earn it. You didn’t carry it. And every time I look at you, I see a man playing dress-up in a uniform that belonged to someone who was ten times the person you’ll ever be.”

That landed. You saw it—the brief flicker of something raw in his face, like the words had actually hit bone.

He swallowed. His voice was quieter now, almost tired. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t want to.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy. The wind whipped past your face, pulling at your jacket, and still—he didn’t look away.

But you did. You turned your back to him, jaw clenched tight, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out.

———

You thought it couldn’t get worse.

You thought you’d already seen the ugliest parts of him—the arrogance, the cocky one-liners, the way he walked into every room like the hero in someone else’s story. You thought your hatred for John Walker had already carved its place into your chest, a familiar wound, sharp but manageable.

And then came Lemar’s death.

And the shield—Steve’s shield—slick with blood that wasn’t his to spill.

You weren’t there when it happened. You didn’t see it fall. You were busy chasing one of the terrorists.

But then Bucky sent you the video. The footage that circled like vultures online—grainy, shaky, someone’s phone camera catching it all: the broken body, the gleam of the shield raised overhead, the fury in Walker’s face as it came down again, and again, and again.

Your stomach twisted when you saw him later. He was standing in the warehouse like a ghost, the shield still strapped to his back like he deserved it.

You should’ve stayed outside. You’d told yourself that. Let Sam and Bucky handle it.

But your feet carried you in before you could stop them.

He turned when he heard you, the edge of his profile illuminated by the fractured light through the busted windows. Eyes rimmed red. Hands twitching.

“Don’t.” Sam said behind you.

But you were already walking toward him. Sam didn’t even try saying anything again or stopping you.

You didn’t speak at first. You just looked at Walker and tried to find something left in his face that resembled a man.

You couldn’t.

He looked up at you like he expected a fight. Like he welcomed it.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice rough. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what they did—”

“No,” you said quietly. “I didn’t see that. I just saw you kill a man with a shield that was never yours to carry.”

His jaw clenched, but you didn’t stop.

“You’re not Captain America. You never were. You’re a man with a suit and a name and a pile of bodies that you think justify themselves.”

“I lost my best friend,” he snapped. “What would you have done?”

“I would’ve done the right thing,” you whispered. “That’s what Steve would’ve done. That’s what any decent man would’ve done.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

Good.

But it wasn’t enough.

Your fist moved before you could stop it—sharper than the words, heavier than your restraint. You struck him clean across the jaw, the impact echoing off the steel walls. He stumbled a step, but didn’t go down.

He looked back at you with something wild in his eyes. Hurt. Guilt. Fury.

You saw his hands twitch again—and this time, he didn’t hold back.

He came at you fast. Not with full force, not like you were the enemy, but enough to knock you backward, enough to fight.

You hit the ground hard, rolled, came up swinging.

The two of you clashed in a storm of fists and broken breath. You weren’t thinking. Just moving. Just feeling everything you’d buried since Steve gave that shield away. Since Walker took it. Since he tarnished it.

You landed a knee to his ribs—he grunted, doubled over—and you could’ve stopped. Should’ve.

But you didn’t.

You shoved him back, threw another punch. He caught your wrist this time, eyes blazing.

“This what you want?” he hissed. “You want to hurt me? Go ahead. Get in line.”

You yanked your hand free. “You deserve it.”

And you meant it. Because something in you was cracking now—something deep and buried and filled with a grief you hadn’t wanted to name.

It wasn’t just about the shield. Not anymore.

It was about everything he wasn’t.

Everything Steve was. Everything you lost when the world decided to move on without asking if you were ready.

You were both breathing hard now, blood on your knuckles, bruises blooming under skin.

He stared at you like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Like he didn’t know how to be hated by someone who used to believe in what the shield stood for.

And now here you were. Staring at him back like you couldn’t forgive.

Staring at a man who wore your friend’s legacy like a weapon.

A man who made you feel like nothing in this world would ever be right again.

———

Everything changed after that day.

After the blood dried and the shield was stripped from his hands and everything he thought he was collapsed under the weight of what he’d done.

And few days later when Sam finally took the shield, when he earned it—stood tall and steady in a suit that actually meant something—you thought that was it. The end of it. Of him.

You figured you’d never have to think about John Walker again.

But time passed. The world kept breaking in new, creative ways. And now—now you were standing in a cold facility in the middle of nowhere, gripping a gun with your name on the target folder and a job from Valentina echoing in the back of your head like a dare.

Get rid of John Walker.

Get in. Get rid of him. Clean break. Simple.

You took it. It wasn’t like you, not really. But the hatred you had in the back of your head spoke louder than your heart and everything you thought you stood for.

Little did you know it was all a setup. A trap.

You should’ve known the moment you got the assignment. The briefing had been vague—too vague. No layout of the facility, no escape routes, just a location and a file with a familiar name stamped across it in thick black ink.

And then you walked into the belly of a concrete labyrinth and found other people—including Walker—standing there, weapons drawn, faces just as confused and angry as yours.

The doors sealed behind you with a hydraulic hiss. Locking down. Air pressure shifted, and red emergency lights flickered on like a funeral march. Somewhere deep in the walls, system roared to life. Not to protect you. To go up in flames.

Valentina had played you all like chess pieces, and now the board was on fire.

Ghost moved first, flickering out of sight, trying to go through the walls, which failed miserably. Bob stayed silent. Yelena cursed in Russian, muttering something about never trusting Val ever again.

And Walker—

God. Walker was standing with his hands raised slightly, like he thought someone might still shoot him. His face was tight, unreadable.

“What the hell is this?” he said, voice cutting through the silence. “This wasn’t the op.”

“No shit,” you snapped.

You hated how different he looked. Like time had pressed in on him. Like regret had left fingerprints all over his face. He wasn’t the clean-cut puppet from years ago anymore. Just a man left standing at the edge of the wreckage he helped build.

Gladly you all managed to get out. With Ava’s strange ability, Yelena’s plan and Walker’s „On your left,” when he smashed the power source. You almost punched him in the face just for saying that.

You didn’t want to work with him. You didn’t want to stand on the same side of any fight as John Walker. But when the truth about Valentina came out—about Sentry, about her plan to kill you all, and the experiments in Malaysia—you didn’t have a choice.

You told yourself it was temporary.

You told yourself he was just… useful.

And then you landed back in New York.

The Void descended with no warning—rupturing through the skyline, swallowing people like smoke through a keyhole. People screamed. Reality bent. You were thrown into the heart of it with no backup, no plan, and too much debris between you and the people you were trying to protect.

The city was collapsing, falling.

You fought through the chaos. Through the ripping wind and the shifting streets. Until something bigger caught your eye—a building fracturing at the base, tilting in on itself. Fast.

It was about to hit people below so you ran towards it—of course you did—hoping you’ll manage to save them.

You didn’t see the metal bar swing into your ribs.

You didn’t see the rubble above start to fall.

You hit the ground hard. Vision spinning.

And then came a a grunt. A thud. Arms around your waist.

You gasped as you were yanked sideways just before a concrete slab slammed into where you’d been lying.

Dust filled your throat. You coughed and blinked up.

There he was. Walker, blood on his cheek, breath ragged. His body practically covering yours like a shield.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

The sounds of the city raged around you—sirens, crumbling steel, distant screams—but in that second, everything went still. His arms braced on either side of you, holding his weight just above your body, chest rising and falling against yours in rough, uneven gasps.

You could feel the heat of him through your suit. Smell the dust and blood on his skin. See the tight clench of his jaw as he checked the collapse behind you, as if making sure the danger had really passed.

And still… he didn’t look at you. He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just pulled back, slow and steady, like if he moved too fast you’d shatter.

You sat up once he was off you, cradling your ribs, avoiding his eyes. You didn’t thank him. Couldn’t. The words felt too sharp in your mouth. Like admitting what he’d done would rewrite everything you’d believed about him.

And maybe it had.

Because he didn’t have to come back for you. He didn’t have to throw himself into the collapse. He didn’t have to look at you like that—like the grudge didn’t matter anymore. Like it never had.

You told yourself it was just instinct. Just battlefield protocol. But that moment stayed with you.

Long after the end of everything. After Void was sealed. After the city’s streets were crowded again.

You were brought back to reality from your thoughts when Val announced you as The New Avengers.

You didn’t even pretend to hide your reaction.

A scoff escaped your throat before you could catch it. You folded your arms, weight shifted to one side, glaring at the floor like it had answers.

This wasn’t what you signed up for.

You were supposed to survive the facility, stop Val, shut down the Sentry project. Then walk away. Back into the dark. Back into the part of the world that didn’t ask questions about how much you hated or trusted the people you bled beside.

But now?

Now there were press conferences being planned. Uniforms being discussed. Public names, joint assignments, coordinated housing.

And all of it included Walker.

You hadn’t spoken with him since that day.

You couldn’t.

Not after the way he pulled you out of that collapse. Not after the way he didn’t say a damn thing and somehow that meant more than words ever could.

You tried to ignore him whenever you passed him in the Avengers Tower but you could always feel his presence, heavy in your periphery.

He avoided you as well. Like he didn’t know what to do with it either.

This was supposed to be easy. He was supposed to be the one you hated. The one you didn’t have to forgive.

And now you’d have to see him every goddamn day. Train with him. Fight beside him. Sit across briefing tables trying to pretend like nothing had shifted inside your ribs the moment he shielded you with his body like it was instinct.

———

You weren’t sleeping. Not really. Your body ached from training and you tossed in bed every two minutes.

So you got up wandered the hallway in silence, the floor cold under your bare feet, hoodie hanging loose around your frame. You told yourself you were just getting water. Just stretching your legs.

But the second you turned the corner near the common room, you froze.

He was there. Walker. Leaning against the wall, head tilted back, arms crossed over his chest. In sweats and a T-shirt, no armor, no shield, no sharp edges. Just him. Just John.

You almost backed away but his gaze landed on you.

Shit.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.

You shrugged. “Didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

Silence bloomed, thick and pressing. You crossed your arms, suddenly cold despite the hoodie.

“I’m not gonna thank you,” you said. „For saving me back then.”

His mouth twitched like he almost smiled. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“I just—” you faltered, jaw clenching. “You don’t get to pretend like it didn’t happen.”

He nodded slowly, gaze steady. “I’m not pretending.”

You hated the way your stomach turned. The way your chest tightened when he looked at you like that—not smug, not superior. Just honest.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered. “Why’d you even do that?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Because I didn’t want you to die.”

You stared at him. Your throat tightened. “You hated me.”

“Maybe I did,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted you gone.”

He pushed off the wall, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave or come closer. His voice softened.

“I know what I did. Who I was. And maybe you’ll never forgive me for it. But that doesn’t mean I’d let you go down in a pile of rubble just to prove a point.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Because you wanted to be angry.

You wanted to throw the past back in his face. But all you could feel was the echo of that moment again—his weight over you, his arms around you, the silence between you burning louder than any scream.

“You’re still an asshole,” you said finally, voice flat, throat tight.

He huffed a laugh, low and tired. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

You should’ve walked away. Shut the door to this half-buried thing between you before it cracked wider. But your feet didn’t move. And neither did his.

The hallway felt too quiet. Too still. Like the tower itself was holding its breath.

Walker ran a hand through his hair, eyes dipping down, jaw clenching. He looked like he was debating saying something. Like whatever it was might undo the last few years of distance you’d tried so hard to build.

“You know I’d do it again.” His voice was softer now, quieter.

Your chest went still.

He glanced up, eyes catching yours. “If it happened again. If everything was falling and you were under it.” He paused. “I wouldn’t think twice.”

The words shouldn’t have hit you the way they did.

But they did. Harder than any rubble ever could. Heavier than the shield he used to carry.

You swallowed, hard. “That doesn’t mean we’re—” You broke off. “That doesn’t fix anything.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he said. “I’m just… telling you the truth.”

Your hand curled around your arm. Fingertips digging into your sleeve. “You make it really hard to keep hating you.”

His mouth pulled into something between a smile and a grimace. “That’s not intentional.”

“Well, try harder.” You meant it to come out cold. Dismissive. But it sounded… tired.

Exhausted by everything you’ve carried for years—the blood, the betrayal, the fire in your chest that never quite settled. And now it’s shifting. Changing. Because of him and his stupid act of bravery.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he finally learnt how to do the right thing and became the man you expected him to be when he got the Steve’s shield years ago.

Walker stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the gravity of it. The pull.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he said.

You didn’t answer because you didn’t know how to say “I don’t want to hate you either.”

So instead, you closed the distance between the two of you. Your lips crashed into his—no warning. No pretense.

Just heat and exhaustion and years of something tangled and unsaid breaking loose all at once.

You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe it was your way of saying thank you, even though you said you were’t going to do that. Maybe you hoped it would stop that burning feeling inside your chest whenever you saw him.

His lips caught yours like a second too slow, like he didn’t believe it at first but then he was on you.

Hands at your waist. Then your back. Then tangled in your hoodie like he needed to get under it, like the feel of you wasn’t enough with cotton in the way. His mouth was rough, warm, desperate. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it since the day you told him you’d rather kill him than work beside him.

You gasped when his hand slid up under your hoodie, skin to skin, dragging heat across your ribs. He caught that sound in his mouth—bit your bottom lip like he couldn’t help it.

“You really wanna do this?” he muttered against your jaw, breath hot, voice thick.

“I wouldn’t be kissing you if I didn’t,” you snapped, and tugged him back in like you were trying to punish him for making you feel this way.

He groaned. Like the way you hated him turned him on more than anything.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything else—anger, relief, want.

You pulled him back with you until your spine hit the wall, your hoodie rucked up, your hips dragged against his thigh as he slotted himself between your legs. His hands gripped your waist, pulled you flush, and god—he was hard already.

You weren’t doing this to be sweet. You didn’t want slow.

You just wanted to feel something real after too long pretending you didn’t.

“Off,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt. “Take it off—”

He obeyed, pulled it over his head and tossed it behind him, and fuck—

You hadn’t let yourself think about what he looked like, but now you couldn’t not see it. The way his body moved. The way he breathed. The scars and wounds which still haven’t faded from the last mission he was on.

Your hands were on his chest, then lower—scraping nails along his abs as you dragged his waistband down enough to feel the heat of him straining against fabric.

John hissed. Caught your wrist gently but firmly. He kissed you harder, deeper. One hand sliding down the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist. His fingers pressed between your legs through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts and you gasped—hips grinding forward, aching.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered against your ear, breath ragged.

“Shut up.”

But you were.

You didn’t care.

All you cared about was the way he touched you—how fast his fingers slipped past the fabric, how his thumb pressed against your clit just right, how your hips jerked and your head hit the wall and you let out a sound that was definitely not subtle.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” he said and took of your shorts off for easier access.

You bit your lip. Nearly drew blood.

But he knew what he was doing. His fingers circled, slid inside, curled. You gasped again, louder this time.

Your hand gripped the back of his neck, the other fumbling for the waistband of his sweats. He helped you—pulled them down with one hand, never letting up with the other.

When he pressed the head of his cock against you, your hips lifted to meet him like instinct.

“No teasing,” you muttered. “Just fuck me.”

And he did. One deep thrust that filled you to the hilt, his head dropping to your shoulder with a low, guttural curse. Your fingers dug into his back, your leg tightening around his waist as he began to move—slow at first, then harder.

The hallway was filled with the sound of skin, breath, need.

It was rough, frenzied at first—your bodies crashing together like the only way to silence everything between you was to fuck through it. You held onto him like a lifeline, nails dragging down his back, and he rutted into you with all the restraint of a man who’d waited so long to touch you.

Then something changed.

He slowed. Just a little. Hands smoothing over your hips, your waist, up under your hoodie like he needed to feel you. Really feel you.

You tried to kiss him again, tried to draw him back into the rush of it, but he broke away and pulled out of you, which made you whimper at the loss. His lips began trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“Take this off,” he whispered.

His fingers slipped under the hem of your hoodie, pushing it up, revealing inches of bare skin as he went. He kissed every part he uncovered—slow, reverent. Like peeling you out of your clothes was something sacred.

He tugged it over your head. You stood there, naked in the dim glow of the hallway, chest rising and falling too fast, heat rushing to your cheeks. The clothing dropped to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

His gaze drank you in.

“Fuck,” he murmured. His hand lifted to trace the line of your breast, your ribs, like he didn’t trust himself to grab hold too fast. “You’re…”

You rolled your eyes, flustered. “Don’t get sappy on me, Walker.”

But your voice betrayed you—breathy, shaken, softer than it should’ve been.

His lips brushed your ear. “You’re so pretty like this.”

You felt it in your stomach. Low. Aching.

He kissed down your chest, mouth hot and open, leaving a trail that had your spine arching off the wall. His hands moved with him—down your sides, your hips, thumbs sweeping across your thighs as he sank to his knees like it was nothing. Like it was natural and you’ve had done it a thousand times before.

He pressed his mouth to your skin, just above your most sensitive area.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered.

You didn’t ask when. You didn’t need to.

Because you’d thought about it too. Even when you hated him. Maybe because you hated him.

Your hand found his hair, tugged gently.

He looked up at you—pupils blown wide, lips slick, chest heaving—and there was nothing cocky left in him.

Only want. And the sharp edge of something deeper. Something you didn’t dare name.

There was no hesitation. His mouth was on you in seconds—hot tongue parting your folds, lips wrapping around your clit like he knew exactly how to tear you open from the inside out.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, one leg draped over his shoulder, your hands scrambling for balance—fisting in his blonde hair, clutching at the smooth tile behind you, anything.

But it was him.

It was him holding you steady. Him on his knees like it was right where he belonged.

“Jesus, Walker—” you gasped, hips rolling forward before you could stop them.

He groaned like it encouraged him. His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you pinned. His tongue moved in long, slow drags, then faster flicks—pressing and circling like he was studying you, learning every twitch and breath and curse that spilled from your lips.

You looked down at him and nearly choked on your own breath.

His eyes were on you. Dark, heavy-lidded, full of something close to reverence. Like he needed to see your face while he broke you open.

“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered against your skin, the vibrations making your knees buckle.

“Shut up,” you rasped, breath catching. “Just—fuck—keep going.”

And he did.

Tongue fucking you now, nose brushing your clit with every movement, jaw working with a kind of desperation you hadn’t expected. He wasn’t doing this for you to moan pretty. He was doing it because he needed to.

Your leg trembled around his shoulder. Your body started to tighten.

You could feel it—fast, sharp, barreling toward the edge like gravity, and he must’ve felt it too, because his grip tightened and his mouth slammed against your clit, sucking hard and fast while his fingers replaced his tongue, curling inside you—

You came with a broken cry. Your whole body went tense. Then loose like he’d knocked the fight right out of you.

Your hand clutched his hair, riding it out, legs shaking as he worked you through it—slow now, gentle licks, like he was savoring the last of it.

You gasped, tried to speak, failed.

John kissed the inside of your thigh once. Then again. Slow. Almost sweet. He looked up at you, lips slick, face flushed.

Your legs were still shaking. You dragged in a breath, swallowed hard, then whispered, “I need you.”

His brows lifted slightly.

You leaned down, fingers sliding into his hair again—not to pull him back this time, but to bring him up. Back to you. Where he belonged.

Your voice cracked, soft and raw. “I need to feel you inside me again, John… Fuck, please—”

It spilled out before you could stop it. His name. The please The desperate, aching want in your tone.

And you hated how much you meant it.

His mouth twitched—like he could barely process hearing you beg for him, like some part of him didn’t believe it was real. But then his hands were on you again, lifting you up into his arms without a word, carrying you back down the hall toward your room like nothing else mattered.

Like he couldn’t wait another goddamn second.

He kicked the door shut behind him.

Laid you down like you were something fragile—even though you both knew better. Even though you were already reaching for him again.

He groaned when he saw how wet you still were. How ready. How wrecked just for him.

You spread your legs and pulled him between them.

He knew what you wanted and didn’t hesitate. He buried himself in you deep and hot and so good it knocked the air out of your lungs.

“Fuck—” you gasped, head tipping back. “God, yes—”

He moved over you with that same rhythm he had before—hips rolling deep, like he was trying to memorize every flutter of your walls around him.

You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging down his back, needing more—more pressure, more stretch, more him.

“Harder,” you whispered. “Please, just—don’t stop.”

“Not planning to,” he growled into your neck.

Then he really started fucking you.

Harder. Deeper. Every thrust slamming into you like he was trying to chase the memory of hate from your body and replace it with this. With him. With the burn and ache and heat of wanting you back.

His hand slid between you, fingers rubbing quick, tight circles over your clit while his cock pounded into you and you swore you saw stars.

“John—fuck—John—” Your voice was wrecked. Your body was so close again, too soon and he could feel it.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come on, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around me. Want you to squeeze my cock just like that—fuck, that’s it—”

You shattered.

Legs shaking, mouth open, nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent shaped marks as your orgasm hit so hard you almost sobbed.

He followed with a broken sound, hips jerking, breath ragged as he came deep inside you—head buried in your neck, arms tight around you like he needed to hold you together.

The silence that followed was heavy and full of everything you didn’t know how to say.

Your body still trembled slightly—aftershocks of what you’d just shared, what you’d just given. You could feel his breath against your skin, still uneven, still catching on the edges like he didn’t know how to slow down either.

He pulled out of you slowly and lay down next to you. Then, gently—tentatively—his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Like he was afraid you’d flinch. Like he wasn’t sure he had permission to be soft with you.

You didn’t flinch. You looked at him instead. Tired. Raw. Searching.

Neither of you said anything. Neither of you knew what this meant. What came next. What the hell to do with it.

You gave him a weak, shaky smile. Small. Almost embarrassed. But real.

Before you could change your mind, you shifted—just slightly—and curled into him. Buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and heat and him. Your arm draped across his waist like muscle memory.

And he… let you.

More than that—he pulled you in tighter.

One arm around your back. The other coming up to cradle the back of your head like you were something precious. His lips pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss into your hair, and he exhaled slow, like it let something out he’d been holding for years.

tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2

[iamthatonefangirl]

“you wanted to hit something. Preferably him.” LMAOOO real

“You think this country needs you?” girl OUCH 😭 that was brutal

wow reader i love you but this is entirely uncalled for 😭😭😭😭 fuckin amazing writing tho, literally cutting me to the core tf

“It wasn’t like you, not really,” girl the way u been talking to this man u would think you’ve been DYING for the opportunity to murder him 😭😭

“he thought someone might still shoot him.” girl it’s you who might shoot him 😭🤣🤣

this is such a good enemies dynamic i can’t even

“You know I’d do it again.” THE MOMENT I DIDNT KNOW I WAS WAITING FOR. TOTALLY JUST SHIFTED THE WHOLE DYNAMIC

“Maybe it was your way of saying thank you, even though you said you were’t going to do that” tell me why that’s hot. thanking him with a kiss. anyways—

“Like peeling you out of your clothes was something sacred.” oh my god 🫠

“You’re so pretty like this.” FUCKKKK🫠🫠🫠

i’m a puddle on the floor rn oh my god the way you sprinkled the softness in there. UGH they’re so weak for each other