Sometimes I have the URGE to read a fic where the reader is a sadistic manipulator, instead of being the manipulated, and their husband is a little bitch who is manipulated by them.
we got sad rhaena singing her father’s lullaby! we got sad wet drug addicted aegon left humiliated! we got medical malpractice sadist hannibal lecter dom rat evil advisor larys in complete control of aegon’s wellbeing! we got homophobic jake! we got crazy-eyes rhaenyra excited as fuck about dragons and alicent! we got bug-eyed alicent in blue talking about boards and pieces! we got waxing poetic criston cole with his odd ass sayings that make everyone uncomfortable! we got ginger daeron hightower! we got motivationally confused corlys! we got king aemond! we got gay as fuck clean freak perfumer ormund! we got alimond oedipus torment incestuous abuse motherwife save-your-mommy powerless against sexual abuse at the hands of your male family you’re not even safe from your son KISS!!! we got shitting! we got teleporting alys rivers! we got scheming blood hungry crazy-eyes sonhusband jacaerys! we got idiot tyland lannister! we got everyone scared as fuck of nonbinary crazy-eyes rhaenyra! we got girlfailure rhaena unable to control a dragon she claimed out of hubris! we got jake fruitless gullet euthanasia! we got everything! ITS HOUSE OF THE FUCKING DRAGON BABY!
Alicent Hightower x Fem!Witch!Reader x Rhaenyra Targaryen
Summary: You would do anything for Rhaenyra, becoming her closest companion after she lost Alicent. So what happens when things come to a head and the only way to mend the rift between the two is by doing things your way.
Tags: witchcraft, magic, religious guilt, discussion of murder, all around tension, lowkey obsessive reader, SMUTT, threesome, thigh riding, scissoring, oral, finger sucking, making out, bath sex, the pics added aren't supposed to rep the readers physical appearance or anything!! theres no real descriptors of reader in the fic EXCEPT for the fact she is female bodied.
Word count: ~6.8K
This is my collab with @goonofthrones!! we hope u guys enjoy it because we had a lot of fun writing it!
Pure boredom was the only emotion Rhaenyra had felt the entire time she had been on her marriage tour. She had spoken to countless men, of varying ages, and none had managed to keep her interest past introductions. Despite her clear distaste for the small talk, she had found herself stuck opposite Jason Lannister as he kept rambling on and on about something Rhaenyra had no interest or idea in. His voice had drowned out for her, reduced to nothing more but additional background noise on top of the already loud dining hall. She managed to stay somewhat courteous, small nods here and a strained smile there as he continued to speak. She couldn’t help but pray the servants would bring around a new jug of wine for her to fill her rapidly draining cup. Seemingly, the Gods were listening to her thoughts tonight as a servant came over, and she couldn’t help but notice how alluring she was. Temporarily, all the sound of the hall drained away as you poured her wine, and she got a good look at your features, all of her courtesy had vanished as she openly ogled despite knowing it was wrong for someone of her class to be so drawn in. However, it only seemingly got worse as you whispered, a seductive undertone to your words.
“You look bored, Princess? Want me to do something about it?” Your rich voice was a welcome sound for her, as if you were really sent down by the Gods to be her saviour, and she found herself unable to speak and only capable of nodding, a wide grin stretching lazily across her face.
At her confirmation, you stood after filling her wine and stepped away and Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed for only a second before her head snapped to the Lannister opposite, now in a serious coughing fit. The hall quieted as people looked over, the Lannister now purple in the face and clutching his neck as you poured him more wine to stay inconspicuous. The commotion that followed was just loud enough for Rhaenyra to step away, you to return the man’s breath and you both to leave the hall without any fuss.
For the first time during that entire tour, Rhaenyra felt somewhat alive, her eyes bright as she finally took you in properly.
“How did you do that?” She asked, somewhat breathless from her amazement.
All she got was a vague response about fate and gods and she was smitten, instantly offering to bring you back with her to court as a companion which you graciously accepted. Since her row with Alicent she had found herself with a loss of good company and had a hunch you would fill that position very effectively.
As the years passed it had turned out that Rhaenyra’s judgement had been very much correct. Aside from your enticing company making life at court less tiresome, it was your peculiar skills that proved you were worth your keep. She still had not yet been able to decipher who exactly you were, or the full extent of what you could do, she only understood one thing; having you on her side benefited her immensely. Since being named heir and being forced to endure Alicent’s torment she had grown paranoid, seeing knives around every corner of the keep. She lay awake late most nights confessing these worries to you as she lay in your arms and you listened diligently, combing your fingers through her hair as she spoke. One night the pressure grew too much to bear and she broke down fully into tears. At this you whispered that you could help, that you would do anything for her, no matter the cost. In truth you scared her, the intensity you held, your unwavering obsession with her, the quiet weight of your presence yet she could never turn you away it was you who she trusted most in this world.
In fact, it was you who had pointed her in Harwin Stong’s direction. She remembers it clearly, when she came to your chambers one night and whilst laying together in your bed confessed her fear of dying the same way her mother did, in the childbed delivering the baby of someone she doesn’t care for, of her fear that her and Laenor would never produce an heir and she would be disinherited by her father. It was then that you had intertwined your hands, bringing them down wordlessly to rest on her stomach atop her womb. “I would give you a child your grace. That is if it was what you desired”
Rhaenyra could only laugh in response thinking it to be a jest, “If only you could,” She stared down at your interlinked hands and began to play with your fingers, “I would take your babes over anyone else's any day.” She chuckled lightly and looked up to see if you shared her amusement only to be met with firm seriousness.
“Go to sleep, your grace.” Was all that came from you as you beckoned her to sleep in your arms.
The next day you had come to her, in your arms a vial filled with indistinguishable liquid. You had been missing all day, apparently working on something important. You had thrust it into her arms and told her to drink it before going to Ser Harwin Strong and she had without even a second thought to the consequences. Sure enough 9 moons later she had given birth to her son and heir Jacaerys. She did not know what your potion had done but she had her suspicions some of which were reinforced by the fact that sometimes when Rhaenyra looked into her son’s eyes it almost seemed as if it was your own staring back at her. The idea that you had been able to do something that added your own DNA into the mix of hers and Harwin’s should’ve scared her yet instead she found herself begging for the potion each time she lay with him.
It certainly helped that you even treated her children as your own, when Laenor was absent you were always there making sure they were cared for no matter what. The only fault in your familial bliss was that of the overbearing presence of the dowager queen Alicent Hightower.
To you at least it seemed that Alicent was jealous that what was once hers had been taken away from her, no matter how much she tried to hide it behind the fact your presence was “ungodly”. Your first meeting with her had been anything but smooth, you’d accompanied Rhaenyra to the gardens for some much needed air during a nice, warm day when Alicent had interrupted you both. She hadn’t said much - hadn’t needed to - instead she had come over as you and Rhaenyra lounged against the spiky grass, shaded by the tree branches above and cleared her throat loudly. You can barely remember what she said now, people had never really appreciated your company like Rhaenyra had and you knew you were unsociable at the best of times but you remember the words ‘demonic’ and ‘unusual’ falling from her lips before you were tugging Rhaenyra back inside away from her. Rhaenyra had tried to make you feel better before you’d told her it was fine, you were used to it and she’d gone quiet. There were a few more incidents with Alicent after this, most of them hostile but eventually both you and Rhaenyra had gotten used to her reactions and glares, and they’d even become your topic of conversation late at night, causing giggles to come from both of you. Despite her clear dislike for you, it had done nothing to move you away from Rhaenyra or the court, much to her distaste and that is how you had gotten where you were now. Rhaenyra, with all her knowledge of your powers now, had asked you once to find out which Lords would turn against you with the knowledge that Aegon could sit the throne, and you obliged without a second thought. You’d left your room smelling of herbs and paper from your spells, wandering the halls as you do every day to visit Rhaenyra and eat with her. She seemingly expected your presence, opening her door for you and pulling you in for a welcoming hug before shutting the door behind you. You both sit down, picking at the food prepared as you tell her about the Lord you were spying on. She nods along while eating, before she speaks.
“What should I do to stop it?”
You think, before speaking bluntly, no amusement present. “Honestly, Your Grace? I can make a spell to kill him, if you’d like.”
She barely blinks at your idea, instead nodding.
“Do it, don’t make it an obvious death, I don’t want them to find out and take you away from m-” She’s just finishing her sentence when the door opens, and the guard announces the dowager queen’s entrance. You both watch as Alicent enters, brow furrowed already.
“I thought you were eating with your father tonight, Rhaenyra.” She asks, authority clear in her voice. You don’t look at her.
“I barely ever eat dinner with my father, did he ask for my presence?” Rhaenyra replies.
Alicent doesn’t confirm or deny, but scoffs. “You will tomorrow, he wants all the family there, and that doesn’t include your little friend.”
Still turned from her view, you roll your eyes to Rhaenyra, who smiles slightly. Alicent scoffs again, but still takes a seat when Rhaenyra offers it as a courtesy. She barely talks, and when she does talk it’s never to you, only a comment about you. Something about your actions being ‘ungodly’ and asking Rhaenyra why she chose you out of everyone. You both ignore these comments, trying to just get through this awkward encounter so you can get back to planning your spell for this Lord. Your plans fall through, with Alicent overstaying her visit just long enough for you to leave first and go back to your room, deciding to just make the spell on your own accord.
The next few days you spend in a familiar solitude, you pick the herbs, barter for ingredients and spend time in your room alone brewing it up. Obviously, you don’t neglect your family entirely, you manage to make time to see Jacaerys train in the yard, talk to Lucerys about his studies and visit Rhaenyra enough to eat one meal before you return to your potion. Rhaenyra notices the change in you, the smell of Rosemary stronger than usual and the slight tinge of red to your hands, common when you were making something and the ingredients stained your fingertips. Eventually, you’d managed a good, potent potion, but it still didn’t feel like enough. You’d bottled it up so it wouldn’t be too obvious, the thought of being caught and sent away from Rhaenyra always made you hazardous when transporting your equipment and potions. You knocked on her door as usual, eyes taking in her long, white hair now undone from its intricate braid and her usual gown foregone for a silk night dress. You clear your throat and ask to enter, which she obliges with a smile and a tug on your wrist.
“I made it, the potion.” You say. “It’ll take effect after a couple of days, and with any luck it should just look as though he got a serious fever or illness.”
She nods, but you cut her off before she can speak.
“But I’m worried it won’t be strong enough. An illness or fever are treatable, we can’t afford a recovery.”
“So, what do you propose we do?” She asks, eyebrow lifting.
“..I have an idea to make it stronger.” You reply, placing the potion down on a side table, “But you have to trust me, and trust it will work.”
“I trust you more than anyone.” She replies instantly, voice quiet in the night.
You step forward, the silence feels deafening and it’s getting unnecessarily warm between you two. Your eyes stay on hers, gaze intense before they roam over her undone state and you lean in to press your lips to hers. She melts into it without question, you get the feeling that if you asked her to kill herself for you right now, she would probably do it as would you for her if she’d ask. Your lips move against hers hungrily, biting on her lip gently as you tug her to the bed in between kisses. She grasps onto your shoulders, and your own hands can barely stay still, they move from her back, to her hair, holding onto any part of her they can as though she’d disappear if you let go for one second. You’d never wanted something more in your life, and you couldn’t help the way your stomach turned in anticipation as you undressed each other in between kisses. Rhaenyra was everything you’d ever imagined, her skin seemed to shine in the slivers of moonlight from her window and you couldn’t help yourself when your kisses trailed from her lips to her neck, further and further down before you were kissing her inner thighs. You trailed up, breathing heavy before flattening your tongue against her. You smiled against her as you heard her breathing get heavier and the soft whimpers escaping her as you continued to run your tongue up and down her cunt, gently sucking on her clit just to hear her whine. You’d never wanted anything more than this, listening to her whine, finding out exactly what she wanted, feeling her nails tug your hair and her thighs tighten around your head when she finally came on your tongue. You didn’t, couldn’t, stop as you helped her ride it out, eventually kissing back up her body and kissing her deeply again so she can taste herself on your tongue. When she’d finally recovered, she managed to flip you onto your back, much to your surprise but you couldn’t complain when positioned her legs between yours and sank down, your cunts connecting just as you’d dreamed for years. Her cum and your spit helped ease the movement as she figured it out, loud moans escaping both your lips as your clits brushed against one another’s, heat curling in your stomach. Your hands gripped her waist, thumb brushing her skin gently as you helped keep her steady as she ground down against you. You managed to pull her down gently as she kept moving, pressing kisses against her lips and whispering in between them.
“I love you, Rhaenyra, I always have.” You whisper, breathless and words cut up between your breathing and whimpering.
She whines louder at that, and then moans as your mouth attaches to one of her breasts, pressing kisses to the sweaty skin there before moving to the other. She relishes in your affection as her movements speed up, your wetness combing with hers and making her movements easier. After one final deep kiss, she comes against you, continuing to move her hips in smaller thrusts until you came too. You’re just about to help her move off of you, both of your bodies sweaty and shaking when the door swings open. Rhaenyra gasps, moving off of you and you pull the blanket over each other to hide your bodies as you both look over to see who entered. To your annoyance, Alicent has decided that late at night was the perfect time to come visit Rhaenyra, and is clearly regretting it as she sees the compromising position you’re in.
Her cheeks are darkening by the second as she tries to speak, “..What is this, Rhaenyra?”
Rhaenyra can barely speak herself, brain still foggy from her orgasm before you cut in to speak instead.
“What do you think?”
Alicent’s eyes snap over to you, “What?”
“What do you think we were doing, Your Grace?” You add the title snidely, “We were fucking. Why? Does that bother you?”
Alicent’s brow furrows at that, “Why would it bother me?”
“Because you’re blushing like you’ve never seen or done it before, and you’re barely looking at either of us.” You reply, scoffing.
Alicent doesn’t respond to that, and you have to refrain from smiling.
“Do you want to know what it’s like?” You ask and Alicent’s eyes snap to you again, wider than before. You’d think she’d seen a ghost with how terrified she looks, her eyes akin to a prey animal.
For a moment you think she’s going to give in, she stands there, eyes heavily lidded and flicking between your exposed legs and Rhaenyra’s rapidly rising and falling chest. You almost feel sorry for her with how pitiful she looks, at war with her morals and her desires so clearly that it doesn’t take a mastermind to see it. A brief thought flashes across your mind unbidden but you can't help the undeniable throbbing in your cunt as you imagine what it would be like to bring her to the “ungodly” side of life she oh so often looks down upon you for.
You watch as she finally tears her eyes away from yours and Rhaenyra’s sweat slicked skin to meet your hard stare again. Her own resolve hardens, yet when she opens her mouth her voice is ragged, “I would not sully myself as you have, some of us care for our reputations.” She swallowed as she turned to leave and offered only Rhaenyra a simple nod, avoiding her eyes, “Rhaenyra.” You could only smile at her ignorance of you as you called out to her with a teasing lilt as she left, “Someday Queen Alicent you’ll understand us sinners lead far more joyful lives than those who hold themselves superior. When you realise that you are more than welcome to join!” She did not look back as the door slammed shut behind her signifying her exit. You could not stop yourself from falling back onto the bed into a fit of giggles as Rhaenyra fixed you with an incredulous look. You quieted your giggles, pulling her closer carefully, allowing her head to rest on your chest before you pressed a gentle kiss to her sweaty brow. You ran your fingers up and down her back before whispering to her, “Want to go take a bath?”
She nods tiredly, and you carefully shift away to go prepare the bath for you both. You heat the water to the perfect temperature, humming quietly to yourself as you add the scented oils to the water, the scent of lavender filling the air. You return to the bedroom briefly to help Rhaenyra up and out of bed, arm wrapped around her as you lead her to the bathtub. You aid her in climbing in on her wobbly legs before climbing in behind her and pulling her against your chest again. You wash her hair carefully, fingers combing through her white strands as you’d done countless times before. You grab the soap, lathering it up on your palms before gently rubbing the suds into her wet skin, taking your time to ensure you massage away all the aches her life as heir could have caused. You notice with time she continually shifts as your hands rub against her skin, and you suppress a smile.
“Are you okay?” You whisper, lips pressing against her shoulder.
“Mhm.” She hums, but you can tell from her tone she’s lying.
Your hands slide down to her waist, turning her around in the bath so she’s facing you and you can maneuver her enough to slip your thigh in between her legs. Her face is already turning red from the contact and her hips instantly start to move needily against your thigh. You praise and coo at her as she moves, her eyes squeezing shut beautifully and her face contorting as the pleasure curls through her. You help her move and flex your thigh, her moans growing louder and louder as her head falls to your shoulder, her breath hot against your neck as she finally comes against your thigh. You grin as she stays still, before eventually bringing her head back up. Her own hands are gripping your shoulders, and one trails down to your own hand, her fingers wrapping around your palm. You watch in awe as she brings your hand to her mouth and takes a finger into her mouth, tongue swirling around it. You can’t help how warm your own face becomes as you watch her and eventually you will yourself to pull your finger away, letting it dip into the cooling water to drag against her cunt. She whines and her hips move against it needily, still sensitive from her other orgasms but she can’t help the begs that fall freely from her lips. You don’t tease now, you need it just as bad as her and so you sink your finger into her, ensuring not to hurt her. You curl it as you move it in and out, your palm rubbing against her clit and her hips practically riding your finger. You press your lips to hers again, silencing her moans, the only noises from the room are the sloshing of water against bathtub sides, and the pants when you break long enough for a breath. You press your palm to her clit one last time and grind it down and her hips are jerking, cunt squeezing around your finger before she whines and collapses against you again. You hold her close until the water is barely warm anymore and you have to help her out, cradling her close as you dry her off and help her dress in a fresh night gown before cuddling into bed together.
She’s gone by the time you wake up, no doubt called upon by her father or taking care of the children. You groan as you sit up, legs aching as you get out of bed. You grab the potion from the table where you left it, the colour has darkened from the red it was to a deep crimson, clearly your plan strengthened it enough. You leave the room, wandering the keep until you reach your own room and can freshen up. You wash your face, put your hair up and pull on a new dress before you hear a knock.
“Come in!” You call out, turning when the door opens, eyes flitting to the guard standing in the doorway.
“Queen Alicent requests your presence, now.” He says, and your eyebrow raises.
You don’t reply, but nod and follow him through the keep until you reach the door to her room. You thank him and knock, waiting for her voice to give permission to enter. When you hear her call, you let yourself in, closing the door behind you.
“You asked for me, Your Grace?” You ask, feigning innocence for what you knew she was about to confront you about.
She looks unamused, that stoic, fake mask of an expression she always wears around you now locked in place. “You know why I called for you.”
“I think I’d like to hear from you why you called for me.” You reply, smiling.
“I want you to explain yourself. For your.. activities with Rhaenyra last night.” She says, clearing her throat.
“What activities?” You ask, smiling still, you’re enjoying this.
“Your.. intimate ones.” She replies, cheeks darkening again at the memory.
“There’s not much to say, is there? I wanted her, so I had her. She enjoyed it, clearly.”
Alicent clears her throat again at your response. “I assume it should not happen again.”
“Why not? I thought you’d be wishing to see it again, Your Grace, from your reaction.” You reply, and Alicent coughs at that, getting more and more flustered as you speak.
“I did not enjoy seeing it, as much as you may insinuate that. I care about my reputation, although you may not. I cannot… lay with others as I please, I am married to the king.” She replies, trying to seem proper as she whispers the shameful words.
“And what a happy marriage it is!” You joke, smiling. “Admit it, you wanted it to be you.” You step closer to her not clarifying who’s place exactly she had wished she was in, though you suspected it wouldn't matter. “It could be you, if you wanted it…”
She coughs, fighting her urges to stay yet she doesn’t move away when you step even closer.
You seize the moment and lean in, lips brushing hers barely. She doesn’t reciprocate for a moment, before her own lips move, just barely brushing against yours too. The plushness of them caresses yours and a soft sound of pleasure escapes her throat at the contact, causing you to smile victoriously into her mouth. You bring your hands up to gently cradle her head, rubbing soothing circles into her hair in an effort to soothe her while you embrace. A gasp of shock escapes her when your tongue comes out to rub her bottom lip, calling for entry and her hands come up to grip your arms painfully when you finally slither the muscle inside, rubbing it against hers. Her sighs get louder the more you continue and just as you’re about to move your hand down to undo the laces at the back of her dress her door opens. You pull away and look over as Rhaenyra walks in, pausing at the sight in front of her.
“What’s happening?” She asks, brows furrowing.
“Nothing, it’s nothing.” Alicent manages out, cheeks bright red now and chest heaving as she practically pushes past Rhaenyra to leave her own room.
Your eyes watch her go before turning to Rhaenyra, whose expression has morphed into something akin to anger.
“What was that?” She asks.
“I was just… helping her see her things more clearly.” You reply, shrugging.
“You’re supposed to be my best friend and my companion.” She angrily replies, and before you can even respond she’s also storming off. You wait for a moment for the sake of appearances before also leaving, going back to your own chambers to dwell on what just happened.
Preparing herself for the dinner was one of the hardest things that Alicent had ever done. She had to not only face Rhaenyra, but also her husband, children and step-grandchildren without anyone noticing how oddly she was acting. The conflict inside her was harrowing, she knew what she had done was wrong in the eyes of the gods yet she couldn't fathom, if that was the case, why it had felt so good. Despite this, she managed to compose herself enough to enter the room and help her husband sit down in between her and Rhaenyra. The children also all took their seats, and it seemed like it was all going well for her, with Viserys between her and Rhaenyra she could avoid the glares and her children seemed to only be focused on bothering Rhaenyra’s so she could avoid questioning there too. That is what she thought for a moment before Lucerys spoke to his mother, inquiring where you were with that childlike curiosity in his eyes.
Alicent nearly choked on the wine in her mouth, and Rhaenyra’s head briefly snapped over as she coughed.
“She’s.. not coming tonight, I believe.” Rhaenyra responded.
Alicent was mortified, she could feel her children’s eyes on her, clearly filled with confusion as she composed herself. Her cheeks burned red, but she tried to play it off as though the lack of air from her coughing fit had caused it, eyes locked on the table as Helaena tried to comfort her slightly. Rhaenyra could clearly see it however, her eyes still on Alicent as she tried to compose herself, and she knew now of the effect that even uttering your name would have on the dowager queen. Alicent had never felt more relief than when the servants finally brought out the food and she no longer had everyone’s eyes on her, but instead chattering and arguing about family and how the boys’ training was going. Even then, it seemed impossible for Rhaenyra’s family to not talk about you, much to Alicent’s dismay. Every time your name was even whispered across the table, Alicent went bright red, the hold you had on her was becoming obscene and by the end of the night her children had come to the conclusion she must be getting sick. Rhaenyra’s eyes followed Alicent as she got up to leave, brow furrowed barely as she practically rushed out and she followed behind after a moment.
The walk to her room was quiet, she had bid her sons goodnight but her heart was heavy knowing she would miss you this night. You had not come to see Rhaenyra after the incident in Alicent’s room, and she could not blame you for she had become quite aggravated and lashed out before leaving. Much to Rhaenyra’s surprise, she had entered her chambers to the sight of a letter waiting for her on her table, and she recognised your handwriting instantly. With careful hands she picked up and opened the letters, the smell of your perfume instantly reaching her nose and she almost choked with the sheer sensuality of what you’d written. In your perfect writing, you’d wrote about how much you’d missed her, how you wanted to make up for what she saw the other night and you’d spared no detail in what you’d do to her. With no sparing a moment, Rhaenyra was leaving her chambers to head to yours, the path familiar to her. She pushed open the door to your room without even knocking, the smell of incense and herbs familiar as she closed the door behind her. She stepped in quietly, eyes finding you where you lay on your bed, hair undone and only in a thin, silk night dress. Rhaenyra swallowed, her eyes tracing over you, how the candles alight in your room reflected against your skin, you looked perfect in her eyes. She made her way over to sit beside you as you sat up to greet her, and just as she was about to speak the door swung open again. It shut behind the visitor quietly, and no one other than Alicent Hightower was entering your room, a similar letter to Rhaenyra’s clutched in her hand. She also paused when she saw your attire, cheeks already a shade of pink before her eyes widened more at the sight of Rhaenyra beside you. Both have the same idea at once, moving away from you, Alicent taking a step back and Rhaenyra climbing off the bed. You sit up straight as they begin to talk.
“I should go..” Rhaenyra starts
“I should not have even come at all.” Alicent says, their voices overlapping and cutting each other off. You just smile, their eyes are still both on you.
“Wait.” you started leaning forward slightly to accentuate your curves, tempting them with the sight of you. “Don’t you two miss each other?” You ask, fingers toying with the lace of your nightdress, just over your breast.
Both of them swallow, but don’t move away any further. You crawl to the edge of the bed.
“Promise, I can help you both, but you need to trust me.” You tapped the spaces either side of you on the bed, beckoning them closer before sitting back on your heels to toy with your nightgown again.
Neither of their eyes move away from you as the strap of your dress slips down your shoulder slightly and it shifts up your thigh, exposing your tantalising flesh. Rhaenyra is the first to move closer to you again, given she’s never been able to stay away for long and you know that, you smile as she does, pushing yourself up onto your knees to match her height so she can press her lips to yours. Your lips move against each other, not as hungrily as they had the previous night, but deepening with every soft whine you pulled from her. You’re lost in it, so lost you barely hear Alicent’s footsteps as she moves over to you both. Rhaenyra sits beside you as you pull away and you tug Alicent’s hand gently so she’s on your other side before you gently press your lips to hers, hand wrapping around the back of her neck. You try to stay as gentle as possible, trying not to scare her off, but with the switching between the soft kisses with her and the hungrier kisses with Rhaenyra, you eventually end up clashing your lips to hers and practically moaning into her mouth. You break apart for a moment, before pulling them both closer to kiss them both at once. They’re hesitant at first, and avoid each other’s eyes before you let out a soft huff of amusement and manage to lure them in. All three of your tongues move against each other and soft breaths huff out. It’s intense, and your stomach is turning in anticipation as you feel them connect and lay back against the soft sheets of the bed, watching Alicent and Rhaenyra kiss, the fact you’ve stopped gone unnoticed by the both of them. You watch their soft lips press against each other, tongues pressing into each other's mouths, and the kiss is getting hungrier with their teeth almost clashing. Eventually, you can’t take the anticipation anymore and manage out a soft, “Okay.”
Their lips break apart instantly, both heads turning to look at you. They’re both panting and red in the face, before moving away from each other slightly having realised it was no longer you they were kissing. “I do not simply wish to sit here and kiss all night, keep going.” You whisper, voice just audible in the room and you can again see their slight hesitation before they move in. Their hands grasp at each other desperately, gripping and palming any softness they can get to through the stifling gowns. You can tell Rhaenyra is needy just from how flushed she is, but you delight in seeing Alicent so needy too. Her usually perfect braid is coming undone, leaving her curls loose, her eyes are bright and wide, and her cheeks are even redder than they’ve ever been. Rhaenyra barely wastes any time in pressing her lips to Alicent’s again and again, which Alicent reciprocates with a whimper, you can’t help but think she sounds beautiful. You watch from your laid back position as they continue to grasp at each other's skin, and make the decision that they were both wearing far too much clothes. You move behind Rhaenyra first, pressing sloppy kisses down the line of her neck as you tug at the laces of her gown and corset, gently moving your arms around her to slip the rest of her clothes off without interrupting her and Alicent. Once Rhaenyra is suitably undressed and you have brought your hands up to roughly palm her breasts, delighting in the moan that escapes you shift on the bed moving round to Alicent. You are slower with her, teasing as you finally get her dress off and press your front to her back, allowing her to feel the shapes of your breasts that were barely covered by your nightgown. You move back to your position from before and watch, breathing getting heavier as Rhaenyra pulled Alicent onto her lap, thigh slipping between her legs just as you had done to her the other night.
“Don’t stop.” You command Rhaenyra, as her lips keep moving against Alicent’s, just barely breaking apart for air when they need it. Her hands come up to Alicent’s waist, helping her move against her thigh. You grin as she begins to whine at the feeling, and you can’t help but feel slightly egotistical at the fact you had taught Rhaenyra how to pleasure Alicent. You keep watching as the movements get sloppier, their lips are barely moving against one another’s now, instead only parting for heavy breaths and moans escaping them, and you can barely tear your eyes away when Alicent finally comes on Rhaenyra’s thigh, only managing a few more weak thrusts. Just like last night, you watch Rhaenyra bring her fingers up to her mouth, wetting them with her saliva before dragging them down to press in between Alicent’s thighs. Alicent whines louder as she does, still overly sensitive from her last orgasm but shifting nonetheless to make it easier for Rhaenyra to press her fingers inside. She grinds down against her fingers, head falling back and you watch her eyes screw shut as her pleasured noises start to fall from her lips louder. You move closer, your lips finding Alicent’s breast as Rhaenyra keeps moving her fingers, and Alicent’s hand comes up to grasp at your hair. You smile against her, sucking a mark into her skin, proof of how far from god’s grace she had fallen.
After a few more grinds down, she came against Rhaenyra’s finger, a moan from both of them filling the room. You move away from her chest to admire your work, there are blossoms of red and purple against her, shimmering from your saliva and you can’t help but smile. You pull your night dress off and over your head as Alicent relaxes into the sheets and you move over to Rhaenyra. You press your lips to hers, hungrily. You can’t help yourself, your cunt is already wet and throbbing from the sight in front of you. Just like the previous night, you waste no time in kissing down her body, leaving marks on her chest too before you settle between her legs. You’re more depraved than before though, switching between sucking on her clit without giving her a break and dragging your tongue up and down just to hear her whine. She’s grasping at your hair harder than before and you grin as her thighs clamp around your head, practically cutting off your air.You can only moan in slight shock as you feel Alicent’s fingers begin to tentatively trace your folds from behind you, testing the waters as she felt just how soaked you’d become. You feel them find your clit and can only moan loudly into Rhaenyra’s cunt causing Alicent to start rubbing that area in circles. You delighted in the thought she had likely done this exact action on herself after seeing you and Rhaenyra the other night and had to fight to stay focused on pleasuring Rhaenyra. You keep moving though, obsessed with her taste, before she comes on your tongue faster and harder than she had previously. You surmise she was just as needy as you were. She lies back on the bed, legs shaking as you sit up on your knees. You look at both of them, spit and sweat glistening on their skin in the candle light as you turn back to Alicent, pushing her back to lie down as you shift yourself in between her thighs. You lower yourself, cunt pressing against hers, her wetness mixing with yours instantly and you both whimper. You grind yourself down, eyes falling shut and when you open them back up, Rhaenyra is watching in adoration as you press your clit to Alicent’s again and again, one hand between her legs playing with her oversensitive folds as the other tweaks her own nipple. You’re both shaky and loud at this point, and you thank the gods you were given a room in a far end of the keep, away from others. You keep moving, thrusts becoming needier and needier by the second, you lean down to press your lips to hers as best as you can between pants and your hand reaches out to smack Rhaenyra’s away from her cunt so you can all come together and it’s not long before you do, a chorus of desperate moans filling the space. You keep moving through your orgasm, until Alicent arches up against you, thighs tightening around you. You fall in between them, shaky and sweaty, but content. You pull them both closer, allowing them both to cuddle up to you.
“Perhaps a life of sin is not so bad, Dowager Queen, hm?” You spoke, breaking the silence causing Rhaenyra to laugh beside you, Alicent letting out a huff of amusement despite herself as they both curled into your side. They rested their arms atop your naked stomach so they could hold hands. It filled you with a sense of ego-swelling accomplishment that you had been able to end their cataclysmic feud before it had gone too far
synopsis: Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate.
warnings: enemies to lovers, smut smut smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, size kink, mild spitting, rough sex, hate sex but add yearning, slight exhibitionism & public sex & risk of getting caught - fawking in the workplace), canon-typical violence (nothing graphic), description of gunshot, a lot of fighting but they are closeted cutiepies, cursing, steve rogers is a MUNCH and that's canon (to me),
word count: 12.3k words (literally 5k is smut. i wish i was joking. i have no impulse control)
a/n: i tried to do a bit of an inverse on the whole 'steve rogers is a golden retriever' thing in this so there are way too many references to dogs lmao (see: title). i physically cannot write hate sex without yearning bc i am a lover girl. someone release me from these shackles.
Steve has a big fucking issue with you.
You can’t remember exactly when it started but you do know that you liked each other just fine before you joined his team. Back then, you’d thought his unyielding, boy-scout-adjacent sense of duty and honour was kind of cute. He’d hold doors, call you ma’am, talk about doing the right thing as if it was just easy in a job like this. As if it was always clear as day what the right thing to do was.
Now, his virtue is just exhausting.
You’re watching him spar with Sam from the corner of the training floor as dusk descends outside the window and the training room becomes a sort of cave. Dim yellow light is spilling over the room, drowning it in a blurry smog. People are clearing out for the day, but not Steve. Each of his punches are pulled, each strike carefully calculated to inflict just the right amount of force in order to win but not injure. Steve could have Sam pinned in two minutes flat and both of them know it. The frustration in Sam’s expression is tickling you - you recognise it well.
You used to taunt Steve for this kind of thing during training runs and team building events, and he’d tease you right back. That boyish smile would give way to something a bit more wicked and an unnamed heat would pool low in your stomach at his crack in composure. You had been sure he was only days away from asking you out - some very proper invitation to the pictures with an assurance that he would drop you back by a reasonable hour, most likely. But then you got a promotion and came under his leadership.
He moves through missions like he’s got some do-gooder checklist in his head, and you can feel him watching every corner you cut. He doesn’t have to say a word (though he often does); the disapproval is baked into the air between you. Whatever spark had been building between the two of you got buried somewhere between all his rules and all the ways you’d break them.
A side-mission from Fury here, a refusal to wait for backup there - and suddenly you two are enemies. Or adversaries, at the least
You remind him frequently, in the throes of fiery screaming matches that make the rest of the team avert their eyes, that this is the way SHIELD trained you. He is the one going against the grain, not you. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him because his trusty moral compass never points him wrong, it would seem.
Things have gotten so bad by now that you think Steve, patient and tolerant as he is, might have even considered requesting that you be transferred if you weren’t so damn good at your job.
And you are good. That can’t be denied.
But there’s something about working with Steve that makes you great. When you’re not at each other’s throats.
You move around each other on missions as if performing choreography that only you two have rehearsed. You’ve saved his ass more times than he has ever acknowledged or thanked you for, but he has done the same for you. You have a deep understanding of how he works, mind and body. He keeps his moves varied as a rule, but you have learned to read the minute shift in his centre of gravity before he strikes, the smallest drop in his hips that means he’s about to duck, the tightening of his frame before he lunges. Equally, you know when he’s running multiple scenarios behind his eyes, when he’s processing angles before he commits.
It makes you his best possible partner on the field and the biggest pain in his ass in training.
“You’re up,” Steve mutters to you while Sam limps to the corner of the room, grumbling something about how next time Steve needs to stop dragging this shit out before he gets a leg cramp.
You haul yourself up slowly, moving to the centre of the gym with exaggerated languor just to piss him off, rolling your shoulders as you go. His sweat is making his white t-shirt entirely transparent, the thin fabric sticking to his defined pectorals and torso. He shakes his head, spraying sweat over the mat. It should be kind of gross, really, so you’re a bit disgusted by how hot it is. You see his jaw tick with impatience, and you begin to stretch your calves, too.
“You couldn’t have done this while you were waiting?”
“And risk seizing up again while you played with your food?”
“Just because I don’t use full force, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing with my food’,” he says, frowning at you in that disappointed-teacher way of his “Every time you all fight a super soldier, it makes you better. I use more force every time.”
You say nothing, only because you’re cautious about baiting him too much ahead of the ass-whooping you’re about to get. You roll your shoulders one more time, looking up at him.
“Let’s go.”
Steve lunges, coming at you hard and fast. A blur of muscle flies past your eye-line, fist cutting into the air where your jaw had been just half a second before. The force of it sends a gust that moves wisps of your hair and the speed of your dodge sends your boots skidding across the mat. You raise an astounded eyebrow at him and he shrugs with a tight smile.
On days like this, when his restraint is frayed and he is too irritated to be sanctimonious, you are reminded that he can be a little bit fun.
When you slide by his guard again, your eyes catch his for a fraction of a second before he lands a surprise hit to your abdomen that pummels the wind right out of your pipes. You groan but stop yourself from bowling over right into his knee that comes shooting up for you. You see him bear left and you glide away in the opposite direction.
“Testy today,” you say, but you can’t hit the patronising tone you are aiming for. Your voice comes out scratchy from the knock you took. He says nothing but leaps at you again.
You lean back and dodge the hit but go sprawling to the floor. Before he can pin you, you sweep a foot under his. It’s not enough to knock him in itself but he blunders for a bit and with one more kick, you send him to his ass. You get a foot in his side and hear Sam hoot in delight as he clears out of the training room with the remaining agents.
Steve’s on his feet in a flash, but by then, so are you. There’s a glimmer of something on his face, like surprise or maybe excitement. You try not to get too arrogant.
And it’s a good thing you don’t. Because after five minutes of hits and dodges, he has you on the ropes again. You’re giving it as good as you’re getting but you don’t have his stamina or pain tolerance. You can feel your equilibrium slipping, movements getting sloppy. You’re over-balancing, tumbling instead of landing.
There’s something about the current between the two of you today that makes you want to win in a way you never do with Steve. You had never even really seen it as a competition before, safe in the conclusion that he and all his serum-amplified testosterone will have you beat eventually. It was always a matter of if, rather than when.
But Steve is coming at you properly today, not pulling his punches (as much), not giving you the space to recover before he’s on you again like a hound on fresh blood and it’s making a sort of swooping adrenaline sing in your blood.
You don’t think too much about it, sweeping behind his back and hooking a leg over his. The serum means you don’t have enough strength to bring him down, but the confusion makes him stumble. With two hands on his shoulders, you climb his broad frame, boots digging into flesh, hands ploughing through his hair. He reaches a hand back to peel you off with bruising strength, but you have an iron clasp. His fingers dig into your t-shirt with almost enough force to pull it clean off.
You eventually reach the peak of him with immense difficulty. You are able to lock your thighs around his broad neck and curl your knee around his throat, squeezing hard. It’s not enough. His hands are pulling at your legs, but he’s not tapping out. You can only hold this grip for a matter of seconds, before your muscles loosen, and Steve will have your tired body pinned.
Impulsively, you dive backwards, head swooping down towards the floor. The force of it sends Steve flying back with you and you vaguely feel three taps - a victory - against your thigh before you both hit the floor.
You crash hard on your back. Your head takes a small bump to the mat and black dots dance behind your eyes for just a second, but your ass and shoulder blades take the brunt of it. It’s far from the worst injury you’ve received in training, but it’s been a while since you’ve received more than a hit. You take a few deep breaths to centre yourself, groaning once air returns to your body. Only then do you realise that Steve’s head is planted firmly on your lower stomach, neck still pressed up between your thighs. You scramble away with what you hope is a collected suavity, all bones and muscles shrieking in opposition to the sudden movement.
When Steve spins around, you know you’re in for it.
“What the hell was that?” he spits, picking himself up from the floor. His eyes are blazing, hands on his hips while he looks down at you where you are sprawled out on the mat. You close your eyes and let out a long, deliberate sigh - precisely the response you know will drive him crazy.
“That was me winning, Steve,” you say, ignoring your groaning limbs to pull yourself up. He does not offer you a hand up.
“No,” he said, voice strained and thick with irritation. “That was you trying to get yourself killed. Are you insane? You could have a concussion.”
“I know a concussion from a small bump,” you say, brushing him off with a limp hand. You move over to get your water, trying not to stagger. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“This is your problem, you know that? You always think you know best and everyone else is just dramatic or not seeing your vision, or whatever it is. You’re a good agent, but that’s not enough. You’re going to get yourself killed some day and it won’t be some great, heroic gesture like you probably think. It will be something stupid like this.”
His speech might have made a mark on you if it had been the first time you had heard it. As it stands, you just roll your eyes and take a sip from your bottle to look busy. The water mixes with blood from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. It tastes bitter and metallic going down.
“God, you’re-”
You glance warily at Steve, wondering whether he is about to curse at you for the first time since that mission in Moscow. He swallows it. “You don’t listen.”
You shrug with a smile, watching his face go from a blushing red to a deep crimson. His eyes narrow and he spins around, broad back tensing as he storms out of the gym.
“Steve?”
He stops, twisting ever-so-slightly.
“You not gonna congratulate me on my first ever win?”
You think he might have given you the finger if he was anyone but himself.
You do end up grumbling your way over to the med bay eventually, but only because Steve threatens to suspend you from any further missions. You turn out to not have a concussion so you feel perfectly justified in scowling at him days later from across the quinjet the whole way to the shipyard two states away.
The air is warm despite the February frost splotched on the grass below. The hour is getting late; the setting sun turns the lakes and rivers a deep orangey red.
You hadn’t expected Steve to bow down or apologise, but you did expect him to ignore you. Instead, he’s watching you with a detached curiosity, like you’re some rare lab specimen or an interesting insect.
“I know you’re not seriously mad at me for sending you to the med bay,” he says. “Because that would be insane.”
“They did a whole medical evaluation, Steve,” you snap at him. “I was in there well over an hour. All for fuckin’ nothing because I’m healthy as a horse, apparently.”
“Well you missed your last mandatory check-up. So you’re welcome,” he says, his lips stretching into a handsome little smirk.
You frown. You are usually the one provoking him and you’re not overly fond of how it feels to be on the receiving end. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you, heady and pleased. He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, lofty thighs spread open with an abnormal arrogance. One that would not be on display if the rest of the team were with you.
You can fully appreciate his size from this angle, the fabric of his t-shirt straining against his biceps, his wide shoulders holding strong like an impenetrable wall of muscle and brawn. He looks particularly good when he smiles - even if it’s at your expense. He could have passed for a Gladiator, or some Greek god in another universe - the kind whose likeness would be captured in marble for future generations to marvel at and admire. It wracks you how unfair it is that he can be so irritating but still look like that.
Have you thought about him bending you over? Sure. Many a time. But you still can’t stand the guy.
“You still seeing that guy in R&D? Uh- Mark, or whatever.”
You give him a side-glance. Steve doesn’t forget anyone’s name. He is the kind of guy to be introduced to a hundred-man team and be asking Lucy for a debrief and thanking Jim for the coffee the very next day. You think he might be on a first-name basis with everyone he’s ever met. So you know that he knows his name his Mike.
“No,” you mumble. “We broke up last month.”
“Why?”
“None of your business, Rogers,” you say. You’re trying to appear unbothered, but you’re a little rattled. Your teeth are grinding. “What about you? Any dates recently?”
“A couple.”
“And how were they?”
“Good.”
You scoff. “You talk this much with them? Your chattiness might scare them off.”
“The ladies I take on dates might not have the same preferences as you, you know,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Your lips twitch at that term - ‘ladies’. How old-school.
“No, I’m sure they love one-word answers and taciturn grumbles.”
“I’ve had no complaints.”
Your mouth opens and closes stupidly. The shells of your ears prickle with heat as Steve just grins wider, shifting his hips to lean further back. He looks so goddamn cocky, so punchable. You wish you could take a picture and show him to all those trainees you had heard refer to him as a ‘golden retriever’. He seems more like a Mastiff to you; huge, stubborn, impossible to deal with.
You purse your lips together, eyes dropping to his army dog tags. The chain droops down his tanned, fabric-clad chest, the tags sitting neatly in the deep groove between his pectoral muscles.
“Why did you and Mike break up?”
Your cheek twitches up. “So you do know his name.”
“Tell me.”
You turn your gaze away from him to watch the sun set out the window, even if it makes your retinae burn. “My fault, mostly. I don’t really, uh- know how to do it.”
“What? Relationships?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m not used to having to let someone know when I’ll be home or making sure I have time for them between back-to-back missions. I blame my career choice.”
“Maybe you just didn’t care enough.”
Your eyes snap back over to him, eyebrows shooting straight to your hairline. “What?”
“I’m just saying. It’s not your career choice. Lots of people in this line of work have relationships that they prioritise.”
“What, you’re suddenly Dr Phil or something? It’s not like you know the ins and outs so don’t-”
“Dr Phil?” A cute little line forms between his brows.
“He was this-” You pause, heaving a frustrated breath out your nose. “You know what? Never mind.”
“My point is,” Steve continues. “I think you would want to do all those things for someone you cared enough about, even when it’s difficult. It wouldn’t be some tick-the-box.”
All traces of arrogance are gone from Steve’s expression, only genuine interest remaining as he scans your face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. It makes you uncomfortable - you would prefer for him to laugh at you or lecture you.
“I could be dating Brad Pitt and I still would not care enough to answer a text about what’s for dinner when I’m busy.”
He frowns. “Who is Brad Pitt?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The walk to the shipyard is quiet. Silent, if not for the steady scratch of Steve’s boots grinding against the gravel. The hum of the quinjet dulls the farther you walk.
You may not particularly like Steve, but you appreciate him at times like these. You couldn't be more perfect mission partners for each other if you tried. The way you fall into your posts quickly and seamlessly, giving each other the space and silence to focus on preparing for the mission while also trusting that you will speak up if the situation calls for it.
Your methods and routines are practically identical. It’s almost a shame that the moment things break open, that quiet alignment shatters.
Steve holds a fist up, signalling you to stop. You do, falling in behind him. You’re not sure what he’s hearing, but you trust him implicitly when he makes the motion for you to duck behind a flatbed truck. You press yourself against the cool metal and Steve plunges in after you, his warm chest and stomach caging you. Hardly a second later, you hear what he had - a door clanging open, boisterous voices spilling out, all speaking over each other in Russian.
Steve meets your eyes, gives you a silent signal and you nod, moving out from behind the truck as silently as a deer and blending into the night. You weave through the shipping containers with practiced alacrity. You don’t need to look to know Steve is right behind you; you can feel him.
You split angles without having to speak. Steve covers the high runways while you sweep the lower lanes between cargo. The night has cooled and the wind is vicious now, needling the hulls of the half-empty freighters and blowing the hook block of the crane overhead until it swings like an unsteady pendulum over the flooded pier. Steve is keeping close. His hot breath feels sharp on your neck against the biting wind.
You get within five hundred feet of the main electrical substation before you’re spotted. A pair of guards open fire from the building behind you, spraying an uncoordinated bouquet of bullets in your direction. You find cover effortlessly and huff with humour at the sloppy execution. They had just revealed that they are aware of your presence without allowing you to get close enough for a good shot.
“Idiots,” Steve mutters, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. You smile up at him, almost expecting him to say something about how he expected better from them.
You easily dodge their fire as you advance leisurely and safely, winding in and out from behind shipping containers. You decide that you’re not in the mood to go at it with Steve today, so you take his lead even if it’s significantly slower than how you would choose to do this yourself. You don’t worry about the shots that get too close - whatever you can’t dodge, Steve fends off with his shield.
You are out of the gunmen’s range when you make it to the ladder that leads up to the platform you need to get to, but you have no doubt they are headed your way. You go first, taking your gun from its holster, aiming it upwards, and heaving yourself onto the ladder. The iron bars are slick with seawater and heavy fuel oil; you have to grip tight so you don’t slip.
You’re making careful progress up the ladder with Steve behind you, eyes pointed upwards for any sign of unwanted company. The metal feels slithery beneath your fingers and it takes you an extra few seconds to climb each step. It’s shuddering under each step and you wonder vacantly whether Steve’s weight will make it collapse.
You don’t have much time to prepare for the gunman that approaches above you. Your fingers are still clumsily fidgeting, trying to aim your gun while also grasping the slippy bar of metal. You get your shots off at the same time; yours hits, his does not.
What it does do, though, is make you dodge. Your body bears left, foot skidding on a rung of the ladder and suddenly you’re slipping downward, stomach swooping as your body collides with Steve’s.
He scarcely reacts, catching you with one arm, using little to no exertion. His fingers clamp around your waist, steadying you. For a fraction of a second you both freeze - your breath catching, his jaw tensing, bodies flush together, faces inches apart. Every hard plane of his body is pressed up against you. There is a throbbing warmth low in your stomach.
“You good?” he asks, breathy and deep.
“Move,” you say, voice tight, shaking out of his grasp and climbing up once more. He sighs and mutters something under his breath but you can’t make it out. Your heart is galloping, your pulse thundering in your ears.
You barrel over the platform, and go running towards the tower just as another guard reaches the door, attempting to get to the breaker panel before you have the chance to disable it. He locks the door behind him but Steve kicks it in with a crash. You slide low, sweeping the guard’s legs. Steve disarms him before he can even hit the floor.
There’s no need for discussion as you both fall into your respective roles. The room is oppressively grey and layered with multiple wires, but you find your way to the breaker panel. You work on planting the shutdown device on the primary switchgear while Steve holds off reinforcements, laying enough suppressive fire to keep three guards pinned behind a forklift.
You’re more aware of his presence than usual while you work. He sits like some nagging instinct in your head, telling you to look. You know if you do, all you will see is his back, a heavy fortification of muscle and hard lines and sweat. You don’t need that kind of distraction. Your nerves are already fried from the uncomfortable consciousness of how his body felt pressed tight against yours.
You step back, watching the disruptor activate and the power shut down around you with a whining drone. The grey space becomes black and for just a split-second, yourself and Steve stand alone in the dark, no sounds pervading the room except your laboured breaths. The street lamps outside have extinguished - the bullets outside pause while the gunmen assess their situation.
Steve moves, shattering the stillness. He grips your wrist and pads quietly out the door, taking full advantage of the blackness to make a discreet getaway. You grab your wrist violently out of his grip but you follow him silently. You can’t see anything very well, but you think he might roll his eyes.
The shipyard is drowned in darkness, the only light the thin silver sheen of rain on metal. You move with Steve between the towering containers, keeping low. Every small sound seems deafening now - the clink of a loose cable swaying in the wind, even your own breaths.
A pair of guards drift close, their flashlights slicing through the blackout. You flatten against the cold steel wall, willing yourself still as the beams skim past, bright enough to catch the rivets beside your cheek. When the voices fade, Steve breaks across an open stretch at a quick, silent sprint. You follow.
You’re not sure why you do it. It’s usually Steve’s job to scan the high ground. His serum-enhanced eyesight can catch movement long before you can. But Steve is preoccupied with sweeping for guards on ground level, so you do it instead out of pure intuition. And you see it: a sharp, unmoving glint on the crane platform above.
Your pulse spikes.
There’s a shooter.
You had caught sight of him too late to find cover. You are out in the open. You can’t see the shooter well, but you know who their target will be and it’s not you. Steve is too far ahead to be able to warn him in any sufficient way.
In a moment of complete and utter instinct, and maybe more than a little stupidity, you raise your gun and shoot. You miss.
The shooter turns their attention to you now. You fire another, miss again.
The hit slams into your shoulder so hard, it immediately steals your breath. You stagger forward, fingers going numb. The gun drops from your clasp.
You try to breathe, but the pain is sharp and choking. Your vision wavers from blood loss and the sheer, overwhelming burn tearing through you. Steve’s gun cracks somewhere to your left but the sound bends around the pain, distant and warped. You can’t lift your arm. You can’t even unclench your jaw.
You wait to feel the blood clot around your wound but it’s slow and reluctant. You hold on for one more second, and then blackness swallows you.
The only thing that you’re aware of when you open your eyes is the pain. Not the cold, harsh light of the hospital. Not your family and team members that sit around you, looking morosely at the floor and bouncing their legs. Not even that Steve is absent.
For some length of time that feels very long, you exist in that state; slinking in and out of consciousness. But the pain never disappears, not even the bouts of darkness. In those moments of oblivion, the pain goes behind a cloud, but it always returns with a violence. You get to know this in a vague sort of way, feeling dumbly grateful when the pain is at bay but never being so naive as to think yourself free of it.
Although you will later find out it is only two days, it feels like a small eternity before you can clear the film that feels like scum from your throat and croak anything out. You must not be of fully sound mind yet or maybe the painkillers are making you loopy, because the first thing you say to the room, crammed with familiar faces, is; “Steve?”
You’re assured by someone - Maria? Natasha? - that he got you out. That he’s ok.
And then that grey cloud descends once again. The pain and the haze return.
It’s not that you care that Steve doesn’t come to visit.
It turns out that your wound is just a through-and-through shot to the top of your shoulder. One centimetre in any direction and the bullet might have lodged itself firmly into your neck or paralysed your arm for good. The area is packed densely with muscles and nerves so you are wreaked with pain, but as it stands, it did no permanent damage.
So, really, there is no need for him to visit. And you definitely don’t care. You just think it’s bad leadership is all. You would have showed up for him if the roles were reversed, no matter how much of a pest he is. Would have sent a card. Even a text, at the very fucking least.
You leave the hospital after the dullest week of your life. You hadn’t, until that point, realised how tangled your life purpose is with your career. You feel rabid after just a day or two of consciousness, restricted to your bed with no files to review, no cases to crack open. Just you, a few beat-up novels you had been meaning to get around to reading, and whoever decides to drop by to see how you were doing.
Maria lets you know that you are required to take another two weeks of leave before returning to work. Standard policy. Your requests to be forwarded files related to your ongoing cases are rejected. You can’t even enter the building to go to the gym.
In the absence of anything better to do, you watch films back-to-back. Try some recipes you had earmarked. Visit the new museum that had opened in the next block over. Wait to hear from family, friends and colleagues. But not Steve. You’re definitely not waiting to hear from Steve.
You’re not usually great for following orders but you follow the doctor’s instructions closer than you have abided by anything in your entire life. By the time you return to HQ, the pain in your shoulder has flattened to a dull ache and you have formed a resolution to try to find some sort of hobby outside of work. You had no idea your real life is that grim.
Maria meets you with a distant smile at reception.
“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, turning to walk with you through the building. Quiet conversation, the rustling of paper and the heavy clicks of agents suiting up covers the space you walk through. “We’ll do a mini induction and then I’ll let you get to it.”
Maria’s office is pristine. The door clicks shut behind you, muting all murmured voices outside. Everything looks recently straightened, recently dusted, recently organised. Sticky notes, task lists and cables are perfectly spaced out into their correct positions. The files stacked on the shelves are bound and appear to be in alphabetical order. You picture your home office space with a dim sort of shame as you sit down in front of her.
“How is your shoulder?” she asks without much interest.
“Much better, thank you. Should be able to get back out there now.”
She opens a cabinet in her desk and pulls a bloated yellow file. “That won’t be possible. We have made the decision to transfer you to another team. You’ll need a few weeks to catch up on the ongoing cases.”
“Another- what?”
Your brain is whirring, trying to catch up with what Maria just said. She doesn’t reply, just watches you buffer.
“You’re really taking me off the team on my first day back? Am I being punished for getting shot?”
“Not punished, no,” she assures you patiently. “You’re not being demoted, your day-to-day won’t even change very much but you’ll be working under Romanoff now. It was just decided that you would be a better fit somewhere else.”
“Decided by who?” you ask, even though you know the answer.
“By the leadership team,” she replies diplomatically.
Your gaze narrows on her but she is unperturbed. The sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock are suddenly deafening. You’re engaging in a sort of silent stand-off with her and you’re certainly not winning.
“Where is he?” you ask at last.
“On assignment.”
“When will he be back?”
She smiles at you tightly and you realise she can no longer tell you. You’re not on his team anymore.
A wild instinct runs through you; you feel you might be a few seconds away from stomping your feet like a child, shouting at her that it’s not fair! and he started it!
Instead, you huff out a harsh breath and snatch the file up from the desk.
The hour is late and night is spilling through the windows. Yourself and Nat are the only ones left in the room; maybe the only ones left in the building. She lounges against the opposite row of lockers, boot propped up, grinning like you hadn’t just run a mission that by all rights should’ve ended in a four-page incident report and at least one formal reprimand.
“We are a match made in heaven,” she says with a dreamy sigh.
You snort. “Tell that to the clean-up team.”
“Let them file a complaint,” Nat says, waving a dismissive hand. “Clean exit, no casualties, minimal property damage. Made decent time too.”
“Mm.”
It had gone well. Better than well. Nat works like you do - zippy, instinctive, a little unhinged when the situation calls for it. There had been no questioning glances when you made a split-second decision, no screaming matches in lieu of a debrief. Your third mission back was a big fat success. You should be overjoyed.
But as you wipe the shower-water from your skin and peel your top on, all you can summon is a hot, directionless anger. Or, maybe not entirely directionless.
Because for the most part, you can direct it towards Steve. Your shoulder has mostly recovered with only a mild stiffness left to show for it but you’re still suffering from a wounded pride. The fact that he didn't bother to check up on you and requested a transfer after you quite literally risked your life for him is bad enough. But he’s been a ghost to you in the three weeks since you returned to work.
That first week, he had been on assignment in Hungary. You had gone on a hunt for him as soon as word got around that he was back, but he was nowhere to be found. All his usual conference rooms were vacant and he had clearly started training elsewhere. You have not been able to track him down in the weeks since and you have no doubt in your mind that his sole intention is to avoid you.
Because he feels guilty for what had happened? Or maybe because he doesn’t want to have to thank you? You’re not sure. But you’re pissed.
And not just at him either. At yourself too.
Because, alongside that anger, there’s an uncomfortable hollowness tugging at you. You bring it with you everywhere you go. It weighs you down like a chain. He won’t vacate your brain no matter what you do and you can’t quite deny that maybe you might miss him. Just a little.
The anger is not the worst of it; it’s that other thing - the tiny, shameful spark fluttering under your ribs when Natasha lets you rove free instead of testing you, challenging you, making you better. It’s the way your life feels just a bit emptier without someone to tease and provoke.
And it’s humiliating, because - seriously? How original. You really had to go and join the queue of people pining after the tall, hot, golden-boy with perfect manners and stupidly earnest eyes and muscles so perfect that only scientists could have sculpted them. Brilliant. Groundbreaking. As if you don’t already hate him enough without adding that to the mix.
“I was gonna drag you for a drink but the energy you’re giving off right now is rancid,” Nat says, walking towards you with her towel in hand. She snaps it at you but you jump out of the way before she can make contact. “You’re so pissy all the time since you got transferred.”
“I’m not pissy,” you snap, obscurely aware that you’re proving her point.
“Why do you even care? You and Rogers fight like dogs. You never wanted to be part of his team in the first place.”
You’re purposely avoiding her gaze, but you know the exact look that Nat is giving you based on her tone alone and you hate it with a burning passion.
“I don’t care. It’s just not fair, but it’s whatever.”
She sighs, picking up her duffle bag and flinging it over her shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in your direction. “Get eight hours tonight and try to come back less cranky.”
She walks out, hips swinging, and you wait another moment or two before following suit.
HQ feels different at this time of night. The overhead lights seem a shade too bright without bodies moving through them and your footsteps sound sharper against the floor. The whir of a printer on standby and the buzz of a monitor stand out more. Clean, white light is shining on empty desks.
There is a weight on you as your make your way through the carpeted corridors, passing empty offices and meeting rooms. Nat is right - you are pissy. You’re so goddamn angry and mortifyingly upset, crucifying yourself with mental images and memories you would do anything to be rid of. You had always been mildly curious about those feelings that you observed in movies, the ones all your friends used to rave about when they met someone they fell head over heels for. You have dated, have even been in a few serious relationships. But you always knew there was a big gap between what you had witnessed and what you had experienced.
You wish someone had told you how stupidly painful and embarrassing it could be. You would have tried harder to steer clear of it.
You almost think that you’re imagining the picture of Steve in the meeting room to your right, framed by the semi-frosted window in the door. For just a split-second, you think it might be another one of those humiliating daydreams. But no - he’s burning the midnight oil; his neck is craned over a file, a small lamp pouring light over his handsome features.
You’re not one to question your instincts. You hurl the door open with an aggression that has Steve’s head snapping up in shock, pen falling from his hand, mouth parting. You listen to the door tumble closed before you realise dimly that you have no idea what to say to him. You’re floundering a little, but you keep your expression steady.
He breaks the silence first.
“You’re here late.”
“Just wrapped an assignment with Nat,” you say, hand on hip. “Turns out we make a pretty solid team. It’s refreshing.”
His jaw ticks, but he gives nothing else away. He looks back to his papers, as if dismissing you. “Glad to hear it.”
That’s it? That’s really all he’s giving you?
You can feel fiery heat crawling up your neck and you try to stop the furious shake in your hands. Composure is becoming more difficult to maintain and you know that you’re about a second away from bursting but his gall is astounding. He really has nothing else to say? After everything?
“You got me kicked off the team.”
“You didn’t get kicked off anything,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat. His eyes are travelling your form warily, like he isn’t quite sure where you’re going with this. “You got transferred.”
“Yeah, transferred out of the team.”
“I thought you would be happy,” he says wryly. “You were always complaining about having to work with me. I think you even said you’d rather work with Natasha a few times.”
“I am happy!” It comes out as a bark. You’re embarrassed by your petulance even though you can’t cork it. You know that you’re acting like a child. Steve’s lips are creaking upwards, his eyes lit up in amusement.
You clear your throat. “I am happy,” you repeat, in a low, controlled voice this time around. “It just feels a bit ungrateful is all.”
The way Steve’s poise breaks, superior grin twisting itself into a snarl, is hugely satisfying. You are self-aware enough to know that you’re being hugely immature, but it just feels so good to drag him down to your level.
“You think I should be grateful that you almost got yourself killed on a mission?” he snaps, standing up from the meeting room table and walking towards you. You meet him half-way, until you are inches from each other. Your neck stiffens with how it bends up to meet his enraged eyes. Your body is humming with this familiar rhythm, as if fighting with Steve is the only thing that makes you feel alive.
“Well, I got shot saving you, so yes - I would say that’s a pretty good reason to be grateful,” you snap back, eyes narrow.
“Don’t be dense.” His voice is tight and poisonous in a way you have rarely ever heard before. “That was a really fuckin’ stupid decision and you know it. You took a bullet for the super-soldier with accelerated regenerative healing and a vibranium shield. Does that sound like a good decision to you?”
He sounds more furious than you have ever heard him in your life - and you have made him mad more times than you can count. He had cursed at you. He hasn’t done that since Moscow.
“I knew what I was doing,” you spit back with equal fury. “That shooter had all the time in the world to get into position; they would have been aiming for your head and they would have hit their mark, too because you weren’t paying enough attention to raise your shield. I knew that pulling them over in my direction meant that they would shoot me but they would have less time to aim. Just because you think I’m stupid doesn’t mean I am, you jerk.”
He is struck dumb momentarily, brows furrowing and lips pursing in thought. You are close enough to see the twitch of his mouth, to feel his disgruntled puffs of breath against your skin. Contentment slithers up your spine. Seconds tick by in silence; Steve pensive and stoic, you smug and satisfied. You have won this round and decide to go out with a bang.
“But I guess I should be thanking you because I have a new team lead now who trusts my judgement and doesn’t pick a fight every five minutes. So thank you. And go to hell.”
You turn on your heel, already halfway into your stride, and his hand shoots out so fast it must be instinct - large, calloused fingers closing around your arm before you’re even finished the pivot.
There is a second where he just glares hard. His blue eyes eat up every inch of your face.
And then your body meets his chest and his lips are instantly on yours in a heady explosion of fire - it’s a violent, fervid thing and you surprise yourself with how quickly you return his passion. You had imagined this moment in the last few weeks - in all your dirtiest daydreams, you made him sweat it out a bit, even beg. But maybe you can make him beg later - you had missed him too much to turn him away now.
Your lips move like it’s another one of your fights, faces pressed against each other in a messy battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His hands travel to your hips and pull you flush against him while you fist his crisp blue shirt, folding wrinkles into the perfectly ironed fabric.
Your feet leave the ground as he lifts you with irritating strength, pushing you onto the meeting room table and settling himself between your legs. His sheer power - the way he can lift you like you’re absolutely nothing - makes heat pool in your tummy, something stirring low. You’re pushing your lips against his fiercely, channeling all the pent up anger from the past number of weeks.
He isn’t gentle. He’s rabid as a stray dog. His fingers grasp harshly onto your hips with bruising strength. Despite the fact that you’re already pressed up against him, he tugs you tighter to his body, like close is not close enough. You can feel the large swell of his cock against your thigh, hard as a rock, and you have to stop yourself from adjusting your position and grinding down on him. You’re eager enough to do it, but he can't know that.
Your hands travel around his chest and shoulders, fingers delving into every curve of muscle there. He feels so big and broad against your touch and it turns you on so much that it almost pisses you off.
“You’re such a dick,” you gasp, the sound muffled against his lips.
“I know,” he says back between kissing, his mouth not moving from yours.
“Didn’t even visit me in the hospital.”
“I know.”
“I hate you,” you say, aiming for a sharp tone. It comes out breathy. He’s still kissing at your mouth, lips moving wildly - out of sync and jumbled.
“Shut up,” he grunts, hand going to your lower back and pushing your pelvis forward so you grind against him. An embarrassing whine rips itself from your throat as pleasure sparks through you, lighting up your body. You grind down again, addicted to the feeling, and Steve groans against your lips, hips jerking up.
It prompts something filthy; the two of you still fully clothed, bucking and grinding against each other like feral animals. There is a delicious throbbing in your core, your entire body crying out for more of him. His left hand is still on your hip, encouraging your body to continue grounding down against his hard cock through layers of cotton, but his right hand moves up to grab your jaw with a possessive force. You are giving it back to him too, hands clutching and grasping at him with a brutality.
He pulls away to lift your top over your head, eyes levelled at you with a burning intensity. His pretty blues are darker now, less earnest.
“Steve, we’re in the office,” you object, fingers reaching out to grab it back. He tosses it to the floor before you can.
“Don’t care,” he says, reattaching his lips to yours, fingers crawling to the waistband of your trousers. “Gonna fuck you right here.”
Your stomach clenches. It’s a strange role reversal. You’re not accustomed to being the one who stops and thinks about things before acting - that’s always Steve’s remit. You should be concerned that his perfectly constructed control has been tossed out the window, but it only makes you more excited. You know that there is something dangerous deep underneath each layer of restraint that Steve exercises. You have always known you’re better at digging it out than anyone else in this world. When you do, it’s a beautiful thing.
How can you do anything but give in?
Steve’s fingers play with the button of your jeans, popping it open with an effortless tug before he slides them down your legs along with your shoes. You’re left in just your underwear, splayed open before a fully-clothed Steve Rogers like you’re some sort of offering. He watches you with dark eyes, something between worship and hunger enveloping his features.
His eyes zero in on your bra-clad breasts. “Take it off,” he says, voice strained, and you reach up with urgency to unclip it, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the table.
“Suddenly so good at taking orders.” His hand reaches up to palm your breast, the other playing with the waistband of your panties. Your body arches to his touch involuntarily. “Should have done this months ago. Might have made you behave.”
He can probably tell you’re about to say something snarky, because his lips meet yours ferociously yet again and what would have been a rude retort turns into a moan when his thumb presses down on you over your panties.
Steve pulls away, eyes catching yours with surprise before dropping down to your core, covered in a thin layer of now-transparent fabric. “You’re soaked through,” he breathes, awe colouring his tone. “See how wet you are for me?”
Hot humiliation floods your face. “Fuck you.”
He gives you a slow smirk, eyes glinting. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy and shiny, and you realise he enjoys this as much as you do. His head dips down, lips just brushing over your neck, breath caressing your skin, before he’s lathering kisses there. He hooks his fingers over your underwear and yanks it down aggressively. You watch it cascade down your legs pathetically, chest heaving with the pressure of his lips under your ear and his fingers sliding down your stomach torturously slow.
His fingers just graze over your wet heat and your blood is singing in your veins. You feel overpowered by him in the most mouth-watering way; his large frame trapping you, caging you in. He presses two fingers in, harsh and sudden, and you gasp.
“You get so turned on fighting with me, don’t you sweetheart? I knew it. Knew you were getting all wet every time I raised my voice at you. You pretend you don’t like me but you love when I boss you around.”
You want to slap him, but he’s right. And you consider that if you do, he will stop. His fingers are so big and calloused inside you and it simply feels too good to ever stop. You’re breaking into a sweat while he pumps in and out of you, your slick spilling onto his perfectly tailored work slacks while your walls clench around him.
When his other hand reaches down to grind down on your clit with vigorous strokes, a burst of white-hot pleasure works its way through you, licking up your spine. You pull hard at his hair, looking for anything to anchor yourself and hear him hiss a moan against your neck. The sound makes you clench around him and his fingers pump into you with renewed roughness in response.
You’re absolutely ruined. He has turned you into a complete wreck. You can no longer deny how badly you want him nor how much you need this; you don’t even try anymore. Your hips are wiggling down, trying to take him deeper. You have lost all semblance of shame, too taken up by the pleasure that his fingers are delivering you.
“Look how desperate you are,” he says, eyes caught where he is filling you. You don’t want to look down, shame working its cruel way through you at his taunting, but he grasps your jaw, tilting your head downwards. His fingers are warm and wet with your slick.
His two fingers are enough to stretch you out - they almost look too big for your hole. You shudder at the sight of them sliding in and out, knowing his cock will stretch you out all the more. Steve’s staring at your pussy like a man who is starving.
His fingers pull out from your heat quite suddenly. You’re hazy and confused until he lowers to his knees on the ground in front of where you are perched on the table. Your eyes connect in a moment of explosive intensity. His pupils are blown wide and when yours begin to flutter shut, he pinches your thigh gently in warning. You are forced to stare while he lowers his face between your thighs, eyes gleaming.
“Gotta taste you,” he says, almost to himself, and then that stupid fucking mouth that pisses you off so much every single day meets your cunt.
The sound that comes out of your mouth is unintentional and would be entirely mortifying if you were thinking straight. Your head falls back, eyes shutting. He pinches your thigh again, harder this time.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You eyes spring back open, twitching as you fight the instinct to squeeze them shut. He holds your gaze captive while licking a messy stripe up your folds. You can feel sweat collecting at the top of your forehead at the sensation. He is ravenous and unrelenting, sucking on your clit before soothing it with soft kisses. Exploring your folds with his lips. Dipping his tongue inside and gently nipping, testing your limits.
He’s eating you out in a way you never have been before; it’s not some repetitive flick of the tongue against the clit, picked up from porn and designed to make you cum as fast as possible so he can get the hell up and get his own rocks off. Steve is learning you, watching your expression closely to see what makes your breath catch. You feel him grin against your pussy as a moan slips out reluctantly when he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit, offsetting the pleasure with the tiniest bit of pain. He groans when you lose control and your eyes roll back in your skull.
He pulls back just a few inches and you watch him spit a thick glob of saliva straight onto your cunt. He’s still holding intense eyee-contact with you when he runs his fingers through your slit, mixing your wetness with his own. It’s sliding down through your ass and onto the table, reminding you exactly where you are. The fact that you are doing this in a meeting room in your place of work makes it seem even dirtier.
He shoves two fingers back into you without warning and your hips buck. He continues to mouth at your clit in the most beautiful patterns and you truly feel like he is doing this purely for himself, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.
He sucks hard, sliding your clit into his mouth and you’re not in control of the words or sounds that spill out of you. You’re telling him how amazing you feel and how fucking good he’s eating you, but you realise you might have fucked up because you can just feel his arrogance. It’s pissing you off. You need to remedy it quick.
“Maybe I should keep you down here like this all the time, Steve. What do you think? Can’t bitch at me when your mouth is busy. And you’re just so good at it too.”
You can feel the smug smile melt into something more sinister. His eyes grow darker, but he never moves them from yours. He continues to lap at you, but his mouth is more aggressive now - a stormy sort of warning. You ignore it.
“Bet you’d let me put you on your knees after every mission if I wanted.” Your voice is coming out a bit too breathy for the sort of control you’re aiming for, but you continue regardless. “Keep you there for hours if I need to.”
Steve is standing up faster than you can register, a rough scowl painting his face. “Fucking brat,” he grunts, voice low. Your pride does not allow you to complain about how close you were to coming on his tongue.
He’s unbuttoning his shirt with rapidity and you get the message, part terrified and part exhilarated by what’s to come. You go to work on his belt in the meantime, clumsy fingers frantically unbuckling so you can yank his trousers down his legs.
Steve shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt, you almost groan. It is just so utterly unfair. It’s not like you’ve never seen him in this state before - missions sometimes require you both change clothes in less-than-ideal settings. But seeing him in this context, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pecks, an enormous bulge in his underwear that you know you have inspired; it’s unearthly. It’s only for you. You want him in wicked, sinful ways. And you’re determined to have him.
You try to hide the shake in your hands as you reach towards his underwear. Time slows down as you pull down it down to reveal his cock - what had been a frenzied blur of limbs and clothes patters off into cautious movements, heavy breaths.
You actually groan when you see it; standing tall and fucking huge, slightly curved, subtle veins running lines up to the tip. A pearl of liquid has collected at the tip, smudged on the swollen head. It’s so pretty, you can feel your eyes becoming a bit hazy. The light in the room seems to ripple and bend around it.
Your fingers reach out tentatively, dragging down his length. He hisses, hips jerking up to your touch when you wrap your fingers around him. You can barely wrap your hand around it and you’re startled by how small your hand looks in comparison.
“You think you can take it?” Steve asks you.
“I can,” you confirm with certainty.
“Let’s see about that, sweetheart. I think I might break you,” he returns and you wonder vaguely whether Steve is just baiting you, taking advantage of all your stubbornness to make sure you push yourself past your limit.
His body brackets yours again, leaning over your body to give you a filthy kiss. His mouth is absolutely dripping with the evidence of your arousal and his own spit. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something that is pleasant and categorically Steve Rogers. His lips move hot and dirty against yours, tongue pressing in on yours while his cock nudges your entrance. You gasp against his lips.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You ready for me?”
You nod furiously and he reaches down to fist his cock. You feel his thick length begin to nudge at your entrance, the head slipping in slowly. Your cunt pulses with anticipation as you feel the sweet ache of him breaching you. You let out a low whine, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, as he pushes in further, the thickness of him stretching your walls.
It’s a tight fit. He gets just less than half-way, before your pride breaks and your hips jump away from his at the burn. His jaw twitches, blue eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
Steve reaches down to stroke at your clit and the rush of pleasure makes you loosen up just enough for him to notch in a few inches further. “C’mon, sweetheart. Thought you said you could take me.”
“I can,” you say, the words pattering off into a whine. “Just big, is all.”
“Sure is,” he says, pushing in further and smiling wickedly at you. “And I’m gonna make you take it all, baby. Gonna make you feel it here.” His fingers press down hard on your tummy.
His cock is stressing its size inside you, hitting places previously untouched. You can’t quit believe that he still has more to give you but he does. You’ve never felt anything like this before, never had anything this big inside you and it hurts in the most delicious way.
“Fuck,” Steve spits, breathless. “Yeah, okay, I think you can take me all the way. Just a little bit more, sweetheart. Let me in.”
If he hadn’t eaten you out until you were an inch from nirvana, you’re not sure this would be possible. But as it stands, he bottoms out and you feel like you’re floating. Your hips are twitching, unsure whether to escape or grind down harder.
“Squeezing me so tight, baby. Think you were made for my cock,” he hisses, his face tightening with a primal need. “You okay?”
You’re not sure that your vocal cords are still working so you just nod and listen to his deep breaths. Your back arches when he presses sloppy kisses to your neck while you adjust to him. It feels as if he is moulding you around him.
Your fingertips drag down his back and he shivers, jerking his hips forward involuntarily. “Sorry- ah, fuck-” he groans, face clenched tight.
He withdraws a couple of inches, cock dragging through your walls, before slamming himself back in. He looks down at you like a kicked puppy when he hears your strangled gasp. “Feels too good. Gotta- agh. Can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
You like this side of him, you think idly. You had seen Steve in many different moods, but never like this. Apologetic and pleading. He is a boulder above you; 6 foot something of pure brawn, but begging you so nicely to take his cock. “I know it’s big but you’re such a pretty little thing for me. Have to move.”
You still can’t talk so you nod at him in encouragement and watch relief pour over his face. He kisses you again with intention, bucking his hips into yours with beautiful friction. You are stuffed so full, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. This whole thing is becoming far sweeter than you were expecting.
Steve finds a leisurely, pulsing rhythm as he rocks himself into you, lathering kisses over your lips in a way that is entirely too romantic for the setting. He rubs tantalising circles on your clit, helping your walls to relax into him - helping you let him in until you find your voice, babbling about how much you want him and how good he’s making you feel.
You’re becoming aware that he owns you now; that maybe he always had. He thrusts into you with a beautiful sort of reverence and you know that you are ruined. Sleeping with anyone else would feel like a brutal punishment after you felt him like this.
A noise from outside - the faint tread of boots on the ground - makes you both stop cold. Steve freezes completely, his dick coming to a stand-still inside of you. They are faint but getting closer by the second. Your eyes meet Steve’s wide ones. He starts looking around the room. at your intertwined bodies. You can see him assessing the situation, working out solutions, but a smug part of you notes that he still doesn’t pull out of you. He dick doesn’t soften; you actually feel it twitch inside you.
Your pussy jumps at the realisation that he’s excited by it. Maybe he doesn't even know it yet, but he is. You know it by the way his hips give involuntary, shallow thrusts. By the way his pupils grow impossibly darker.
So you do what any sane woman would do with Captain America’s cock buried deep inside her. You grind down.
Steve eyes snap back to yours with astonishment. He looks wild; entirely out of control and somewhat furious. He brings a hand to your hair, tugs it with a warning that you don’t pay any heed to.
You grind down again, this time removing your right hand from his broad shoulders and bringing it slowly down to your clit. You rub and squeeze there, using his cock to get yourself off. The way his eyes are burning as he watches you only makes it so much hotter. You feel yourself approaching your peak.
The steps get louder until you see a flash of cherry red pass the window and you know it’s Natasha. She’s on her way back to the locker room, perhaps to check if you’re still there. You don’t stop moving on his cock even as she passes by you and the locker room door swings open and shut.
“Are you insane?” Steve spits in a low whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You just smile back at him because you can see his eyes growing hazy. You not sure he even realises that he himself has begun to thrust into you again. A flush is working its way up his neck and you wonder whether it’s anger or arousal. Maybe both.
You’re halfway through a moan when the door to the locker room swings back open and Natasha begins walking out again with a huff. Steve’s hand goes up to cover your mouth, so large it almost envelopes your entire face. He’s giving you look like he’s disapproving of this development but he doesn’t stop fucking you.
Natasha’s footsteps stop for a split-second. You feel a disinterested sort of confusion, too wrapped up in the way Steve’s cock feels as it drags through your walls.
Something spasms between your legs and you realise you’re about to cum. Your blood freezes. You feel Steve tense, breath snagging in his throat. You’re sweating now - praying that all those gasps you can’t mute are not audible from outside.
You hear Nat let out a long, irritated sigh from outside, but you’re too far gone to even care about the consequences anymore. You squeeze around Steve’s length once and then your eyes are rolling back into your head while she resumes moving down the hall. As she approaches the glass window of the door, you try to crouch, as if that would prevent her from seeing your and Steve’s very naked bodies as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can see the faint shadow of her figure sliding across the frosted glass. For one horrifying second, you’re sure Nat will glance in.
But she doesn’t. She keeps walking, footsteps fading with distance until the hallway is left silent again and your pussy is squeezing with aftershocks.
“You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?” Steve asks, but there’s more awe in his tone than malice. “You really get off knowing someone could walk in here and see me fucking you?”
You don’t even know how to answer him. He’s given you no time to recover from your orgasm, fucking into you again with a renewed vitality. You’re overly sensitive, the pressure of his massive cock inside you bullying your sensitive hole. It shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much too soon - but it’s not because it’s Steve. And you don’t think you could dislike anything that he chooses to do to you.
“You wanna be fucked like a whore? Fine,” he says, pulling his cock out of you with lightning speed and flipping you around on the table so your ass is arched up for him. He takes a second to look at you, squeezing at the skin of your ass, dragging his thumb all the way up from your clit, past your wet heat and through your ass. He’s mumbling something unintelligible. You clench and shudder, a moan breaking out through your lips.
When he fists his cock and presses into you again, all that slow romanticism from earlier is gone. He is fucking you hard and fast, his thick cock pressing into a heavenly spongey spot that you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck Steve!” you cry out, ass working its way back on him of its own volition.
“Such a fucking brat. Couldn’t even wait patiently for me to fuck you for one minute. Too desperate for my cock.”
You want to argue that he was also fucking you, but your brain is not working fast enough to come up with the words. All you can focus on are his dirty words, the obscene squelching noises of him filling you, and how it feels to be taken by him.
“Maybe I should punish you for that. Always so disobedient. Maybe I’ll leave you high and dry here, fill you up and not let you cum.”
“Try it,” you growl, brain suddenly fully operational. “I’ll make you regret it.”
You hear him huff a laugh from behind you. “You’re adorable. Fucked out on my cock and still think you’re in charge. I’ll make you cum sweetheart, but only because I want to see you fall apart. Next time you won’t get this lucky.”
His cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you see god. His hands are so tight on your hips as he fucks himself into your body that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You hope you do.
“That’s it, isn’t it baby? That’s your spot. Fuck. Maybe I should reward you, now that I think of it. All my sweet girl wanted was to get caught getting fucked by me. You just wanted to show everyone that you’re mine. Want everyone to see me fucking that attitude right outta you.”
Being called his coils your stomach in a way you’d rather not examine. Instead, you twist your head back and scowl.
“Fuck you,” you spit, voice strangled.
He chuckles again, but it’s strained. He’s pounding you with a force that you feel all the way up to your belly, all the way up to your teeth. You know you’re not far from coming again and neither is he.
“Is my pretty girl gonna cum on my cock again?” he asks, patting and squeezing your ass encouragingly. You nod, eyes squeezed shut, not even sure that he can see it from his angle. A desperate whine escapes.
“Good fucking girl. ‘Cause I’m about to come inside you. Want you walking out of here with me dripping out of you. Gonna fill you up so good, keep you topped up for every mission. Make you mine.”
That sends you tumbling over the edge, white-hot pleasure soaring through you. Your cunt clenches down hard on him and you feel him burst, spilling sticky ropes of cum into you. He groans loud, telling you how good you are for him while holding your hips with a bruising power, fucking into you violently. He shudders behind you, and eventually his aggressive thrusts patter out and slow into shallow jerks.
Dark spots are exploding behind your eyes for a while as you come down, chest heaving as Steve drives his cum back into you slowly. You feel your mixed spend dripping down your thighs, spilling onto the wooden floors below. Steve hisses as he steadily pulls himself from your tight heat. He stops momentarily while he, presumably, watches his cum drip out of your hole.
And then he reaches down to grab his underwear. He wipes it across your privates and thighs as a makeshift towel. It is decidedly not romantic, but the fact that he’s willing to go home in soggy underwear just to clean you up makes your chest tighten with affection regardless.
Steve begins to dress but it takes you another minute to gather the strength in your limbs to haul yourself up. Your hands are shaking as you yank up your panties and try to buckle your bra. Steve is fully dressed now, watching you intensely, thighs spread out on an office chair.
You’re feeling slightly awkward in a way you never do around Steve. You’ve never been short of quips or insults to throw at him, but the air has changed now and you’re not sure where you stand or how to navigate this.
You have just tugged on your jeans when Steve leans forward to grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You hadn’t realised that you were waiting for him to do it until he does. You go with no objection, curling into his chest. It feels strangely natural for how combative you’ve always been with him. He nuzzles his face into your neck with a shy affection.
“I’m sorry for requesting the transfer. I regretted it immediately after if I’m honest.”
“Why did you? It was kinda fucked up, Steve. And you didn’t even come to visit me when I got shot. It hurt my feelings because I would have been there for you.” You can’t even look at him when you say it. You are vastly uncomfortable being this vulnerable with him, but you suppose if there’s ever a time for venturing into uncharted territory, it’s now. Steve was right about what he said regarding your past relationships - you just never cared enough before. But you do now.
“I stayed there until you were stable,” he says. “I was just so angry that I couldn’t even look at you. The idea that you risked your life for me killed me. I hate the way you risk so much on missions. It makes me feel like I can’t protect you.”
“But sometimes you can’t, Steve. I know I should be less reckless. Being away from you for the last few weeks made me realise that. But I have to be able to make my own decisions too.”
“I know. I know it’s just part of what happens on missions but I can’t deal with you getting hurt for me. Not with you. Because I…”
He swallows hard, eye downturned. He fidgets against your thigh and it makes your heart ache. You’re feeling embarrassingly gushy, watching him be this fragile and open. You’re taken off guard by it.
“Because you want me?”
He gives you a tight, sad sort of smile.
“I want you so bad, I’m not even sure ‘want’ is the right word for it anymore.”
You’re fighting a goofy grin but it’s beaming out of you like sunshine. You kiss him nice and slow, feel his lips move ardently and reverently against your own. Your heart flutters where it presses against his chest, as if trying to fly its way closer to him.
You pour every ounce of your adoration into the kiss and feel Steve's grin against your lips as a response.
You pull away only when your phone buzzes with a text.
NAT: so i see you’re out of the doghouse
NAT: and now i need to find a new partner. goddamn.
a/n: initially this had bucky instead of nat but i kept accidentally creating sexual tension between him and reader lmao i can't help myself with that man
warning: engaging with this post may cause her to appear unannounced. she knows where you sleep.
✶ part one ⋮ 18+ ⋮ desperately, pussy achingly in need of a feralwife!ellie who:
౨ৎ mumbles shit like “you’re such a good girl” under her breath while you’re doing regular domestic shit. could be folding towels, loading the dishwasher, or even watering the little succulents on the windowsill. the art of watering plants. yup, she finds that shit attractive.
౨ৎ gets all twitchy when a toddler hands her a flower. claims, “i don’t like kids,” but keeps the flower in her sketchbook like it’s a signed autograph from caitlin clark.
౨ৎ holds a baby once at a family function, and the second it stops crying in her arms, she won’t shut up about it for the next week. “d’you see that? she liked me. babies fuckin’ like me, babe.”
౨ৎ gets awfully quiet whenever she sees you holding someone else’s baby.
౨ৎ gets all weird when she sees a my first pride onesie at the thrift store and shoves it in your face aggressively. “hah. imagine. that’d be... gay as fuck.”
౨ৎ starts picking baby names out of nowhere, like, you’re in the middle of grocery shopping and she goes, “that’d be a sick name if we ever had a kid,” then refuses to explain further. “not sayin’ we should. just sayin’... plus, s’not like i’d be a bad mom, right?” then crashes face-first into the doritos aisle when you actually agree.
౨ৎ suddenly starts leaving her sketchbook out, hoping you’ll find the little doodles she’s been doing of you. ones where you’re asleep with your hand on a pregnant belly you don’t even have, or you holding a baby she hasn’t told you about yet, as a silent “if you’d ever want one, i’d want one, too” she doesn’t have the heart to utter, mostly out of fear. because what if you don’t want it? even though you said a long time ago that you were open to it, things change, and so do people. that’s enough to scare her into silence. unbeknownst to her, she’s been knocking on a door that’s already pretty much unlocked.
౨ৎ floats subtle ideas like getting a dog, casually throwing out a shy, “just to see if we’d survive having a creature that needs us, like, a test run! a baby but with less trauma, y’know?” or testing the waters with offhand comments “you’d be such a good mom,” pretending she hasn’t been carrying that shit in her chest this whole time. but eventually, she grows a pair.
౨ৎ blurts out “would you ever wanna… y’know. do the baby thing? with me?” mid-makeout, while you’re straddling her, cheeks of a deep cherry-red as if she just asked you to try out a new position (you lowk have tried them all by now, but that’s besides the point.)
౨ৎ reads all the parenting articles you send her after saying yes. she’s got whole tabs open on her ipad titled “gentle parenting for anxious people” and “how to not fuck up your kid when you’re gay and traumatized.” #ipadkidcore
౨ৎ talks with you for hours about the different options, like real adults and real partners, because she’s serious about this and wants to be ready. timelines, genetics, your job, her job, who would carry, health considerations, etc. all of it etched right next to a half-completed drawing of you in an unfairly serene slumber.
౨ৎ nods to every word that comes out of the doctor’s mouth on your first appointment. he’s explaining how reciprocal IVF works and ellie’s can’t shut the fuck up for more than 6 seconds (you were keeping track.) you think her questions are silly, but to her, they are highly significant and totally life-altering.
“can she still eat gas station sushi, or is that a bad mindset for implantation?”
“does stress really lower fertility because she gets stressed when she looks for parking—” you smack the shit outta her.
౨ৎ cries as soon as you walk out. her legs feel so weak that she has to lean against a wall, eyes all glassy, trembling hands braced on her knees. you even start to worry, already convinced she’s about to backtrack and change her mind after dropping three grand, just like that one time she impulse-bought wonder woman curtains from tiktok shop because ‘they matched the living room vibe’ and regretted it instantly. typical ellie behavior.
“ellie? what’s wrong?”
“it’s just— the idea of… you carrying something that’s half me?” she sniffles, looking away ashamed, “i didn’t think i’d ever get something that good.” only option, really, is to kiss her dumb. what else could you do?
౨ৎ suddenly develops a huge breeding kink out of nowhere. 6 inches in and she goes, “fuck, yeah. just like that. takin’ me so good. my girl’s gonna get full off me, huh? gonna carry our baby.” you try to remind her how insemination really works and all you get is a defensive, “shut up. it’s my fantasy.”
౨ৎ slaps your ass around the house every time you bend over. “that’s a breeding ass, babe.”
౨ৎ takes the donor selection process way too seriously. at first, at least. the intention is there: notebook draped over her laptop keyboard, highlighter cap clenched between her teeth type of serious. she writes things down, circles relevant stuff; even makes a pros and cons list like it’s a fucking job interview.
but no one’s good enough. she’s actively roasting these dudes like they personally disrespected her entire bloodline. “his name is braxton,” she reads out loud, squinting at you sideways. “nope. immediate red flag. he absolutely says ‘epic’ unironically. instant pass.” click. “liam. i just know he got arrested for tax evasion and called his mom to cry about it.” click again, without even giving you time to react. “why does his smile look like he knows what crypto is.” click. “babe, i swear i’ve seen this one dude on the dark web before,” she stabs at the screen of her laptop with her finger. click. “absolutely fucking not.”
she’s scrolling fast now, flicking through profiles like she’s on tinder with way too much repressed rage, commenting it all—height, hair color, childhood photo, medical history tabs she pretends not to care about while still reading every single one with a judgmental heart.
the clicking eventually comes to a stop. “what. the. fuck.”
your eyes land on the name and you can’t help but snort. “who the fuck names their kid… elliot jackscum?”
click. click again. then goes back and clicks on the profile.
“…why does he lowkey look like me though.” you both frown, exchanging looks, “that’s me in the upside-down.”
now you’re both dead silent, fully locked in, reading every detail that actually matters. the medical history is clean, genetic screening clear. education is something arts-related, a personality similar to ellie’s (not that that holds much importance, in your opinion.)
you sigh, studying her face before murmuring a “we should pick him, shouldn’t we.” less a question, more a i know that look.
ellie sinks into the couch, blowing out a resigned breath through her nose as a calloused palm drags down her face. “god fucking damn it.”
“…yeah.”
“jackscum wins.”
౨ৎ starts hormone injections for egg retrieval and instantly becomes the most disgusting, horniest version of herself.
౨ৎ shrugs it off at first, saying it’s whatever, that she’ll get used to it. but it doesn’t level out; if anything, it escalates. gradually, but surely. suddenly she’s spooning you tighter at night, her hands wandering way more than usual, past the waistband of your underwear, up your shirt, cupping your breasts, kissing the back of your neck like you’re the dinner she didn’t get to eat because she got sent to bed early, grounded and starving.
the sex dreams start happening almost every night. sometimes she even moans in her sleep. all you know is you’ve caught her humping her pillow more times than you care to count. you bend over for half a second to pick something up, and she’s there, fake banging you from behind like a dog in heat—except she very clearly wishes it wasn’t fake at all. then she starts begging. for neck kisses. for head. always pulling you into her lap or groping your ass at the most random times. sometimes all while dirty talking to you in a low rasp, her mouth at your neck, her breath caressing your baby hairs deliciously. it makes your head spin.
౨ৎ starts with hints before she actively starts begging. you’ll be eating and she’ll just stare at your mouth and go, “you could do something else with that mouth.” or “how bout you kiss my thighs and see where it goes?” still, not so subtle, but at least she’s cute about it.
౨ৎ other times she straight up whines about it, every time using the same old excuse when you dare call her out. “you don’t understand. i feel like a greek fertility goddess right now. it’s a medical thing—what happened to feminism anyway? girls having each other’s back and all that shit.” does she make any sense? absolutely not, but you hold her hand through it and keep her thighs open when needed, mouth where it matters, patience in your praises and your tongue on her swollen clit. <3
౨ৎ wakes you up in the middle of the night to announce how unwell she’s feeling.
you feel her shaking you like a cocktail while you’re chasing some distant, juicy slumber of your own just to whisper, nearly panicked, “babe. emergency.”
“what,” you mumble, half asleep, half groan, half annoyed.
“i had a dream you ate me out while i was crying and then gave me a juice box. and i woke up horny and thirsty. it’s a sign. please.” she shakes you again, more urgently this time.
“mkay…” you don’t fully register any of it. your half-conscious brain assumes she’s hungry or something, she’s woken you up for less. “go drink water,” you reach for her blindly, eyes still closed, meaning to pat her on the shoulder, except your hand lands right on her tit and her breath stutters like you just hit a wounded nerve.
“it’s not the same,” she sighs, pouting a little at the ceiling.
౨ৎ jokes about dying if you don’t suck her tits and moans way too loud when you actually do.
from there, things derail fast, because somehow you end up between her thighs, slurping on a clit that’s never throbbed so angrily against your tongue. she’s so wet you almost feel bad. between the constant horniness, the random mood swings, the cramps, the snapping, you figure your girl genuinely needs the extra attention.
except she’s greedy about it.
she yanks at your hair harshly, sucking in a breath, moaning like a pornstar. freckles scattered over pink skin, growing impatient beneath you, looking so fucking pretty it physically hurts. “babe… please,” she begs in a voice so feeble, so high-pitched, “please, please—fingers, please.” seconds away from a full mental breakdown even as you’re eating her out.
it’s never enough for ellie. doesn’t matter if she’s going to bed with an orgasm count of five or thirteen.
you pull away with the filthiest smooch, lips abandoning her completely. “doctor said no internal stimulation.” your huff lands directly on her cunt, making her shiver. “you’re lucky i’m even doing this.”
of course, she argues. “i’m literally not gonna die from one knuckle—”
“ellie.” you glare at her through your lashes and she swears she’s gonna squirt just from that.
“this is the worst oppression i’ve ever experienced—oh my god, keep going, keep—oooh fuck, fuuck!—” she comes gasping into the crook of her elbow, all whiny and twitchy, actively trying to argue even as she rides it out on your tongue.
“you still gonna complain? i’m fucking you to sleep at this point.”
“i’ll give it a six… could’ve been better with your fingers.”
you wipe your mouth and snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t call the doctor mid-orgasm and tell him exactly what you were asking me for, you little bitch.”
౨ৎ wakes you up the next morning with breakfast in bed: a cute, wooden tray with a japanese cherry blossom tree painted on it (by her), heart-shaped pancakes, chocolate-dipped strawberries and a tulip very obviously stolen from someone’s garden two blocks away—plus… a thick envelope?
still blurry-eyed and half unconscious, you press a lazy peck to her lips, mumbling a sleepy thanks as you squint at the envelope. not that ellie isn’t a love-letter type of girl, but this is… not that.
“NOTICE OF NOISE COMPLAINT – UNIT 3C” written across it in threatening red sharpie, you frown. “huh… what’s this?”
you shift the tray over your thighs and tear the envelope open, barely looking at her as you pull the letter out. the mattress dips when she climbs back into bed, knee knocking into yours under the covers. you grab a chocolate-drenched strawberry, take a big bite and unfold the paper one-handed.
“looks like we got our first official citation,” she says casually with a slight bounce of her shoulders. “we’re on record.”
your eyes skim the page, the words making your frown deepen, “ellie… this is not… a good thing.” a masterpiece of overly formal language explaining that someone yelling “oh fuck, faster—” at ungodly hours has apparently disrupted the recycling schedule.
“the old lady next door told building management that unit 3c films amateur porn at ungodly hours and traumatized her grandkids. she kept tabs on us too… even submitted a whole report with timestamps. timestamps, babe.”
the pride in her voice makes you look back at her in disbelief. not because of the notice itself, but because she isn’t even a little ashamed that half the building now has a rough estimate of how many times a week she comes. “what. the. fuck.”
the concern is unmatched, she’s beaming by this point. “i know, right? you’re that skilled with your tongue. we should frame it and put it in the living room,” she lifts her hands to frame an imaginary golden plaque in the air, eyes all dreamy. “bachelor of arts in making your wife scream.” bumps your shoulder with hers. you snort, barely. more amused than anything. genuinely just shocked it didn’t happen sooner, back to when she used to fuck you stupid with her beloved strap every night before bed, period or not, because “your body didn’t get to cockblock her like that.” her words.
“should be fucking proud, babe. not even kat—”
your eyes narrow at the mention of her ex. “say that name again and you’re out of the fucking house.”
౨ৎ sits through the egg retrieval process like a real champ. all cocky in the car, all “guess i’m donating to the cause, huh?” but the second she gets in the gown and hears “you’ll feel a little pressure” she asks the nurse for “just a minute” at least five times before anyone gets to lay a finger on her.
౨ৎ something in her sick brain rewires the second she learns her eggs are fertilized. “that’s it, this pussy’s full of me already—ride me like you wanna make another.” science sure is an opinion to her.
౨ৎ goes fucking insane when the clinic clears you for a natural transfer cycle—which means no suppression, no medicated estrogen protocol, just monitoring, timing and a whole lot of hope. they explain to you that transfers are usually more controlled, with generous doses of estrogen and progesterone scheduled down to the hour, but your stubborn ass wanted to try option b instead. what they don’t explain is that this would apparently include ellie tracking your ovulation on THREE different apps and bothering you about it. constantly. and that’s on you, really.
“hydrate, mama. cervical mucus loves hydration.”
you could be brushing your teeth and she’s leaning against the doorway, “so… how’s the mucus lookin’ today?”
or it’s her prophecies. “according to clue, you ovulate in 15 days. according to flo? 14. but babe my gut says 13.5. trust.”
౨ৎ wakes you up every morning with fertility facts she studied the night before, after lying awake next to your snoring ass. the moment you open your eyes, the first thing you hear is shit like, “mornin’... apparently, when you sleep well, implantation chances go up.”
“I HAVEN’T EVEN OVULATED YET.”
“yeah, but you will soon… my perfect little incubator.”
౨ৎ checks the cervical mucus so seriously it becomes scary. you drop your underwear to pee and she’s already leaning over your shoulder to take a peek. “hmm. fertile window approaching.”
“ELLIE WILLIAMS. GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM.”
“just saying, babe. it looks… promising.”
the craziest thing is that all her guesses weren’t even half wrong. the clinic confirms everything with ultrasounds and blood tests.
౨ৎ comes home after a long day of work and instead of greeting you with bouquets of flowers like she used to, she’s always carrying something that could benefit your health. vitamins, teas, supplements, all bought in ridiculous amounts. she even leaves little notes on them, the kind that used to come tucked between baby blue roses, baby’s breath and lavender.
✉︎ “𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘦 ˙ᵕ˙ 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥.”
౨ৎ holds your hand through the entire embryo transfer, somehow more anxious than you are. the nurses nearly kick her out for interfering too much. she keeps stopping the doctor with stupid questions, insisting he double-check everything, even get another doctor in the room, just in case. she finally behaves after a few very firm warnings. (no pegging for a week.)
౨ৎ treats you like a fragile little fawn for the next two weeks. you’re not allowed to lift anything heavier than a bobby pin. “my wife’s got a belly to grow.”
౨ৎ constantly tucks blankets around you, shoving her own pillow under your legs, sleeping like a starfish without one ‘cause “science says gravity helps.” if you dare suggest she’s making that shit up, or that reddit isn’t reliable, “science IS reddit.”
౨ৎ sits on the bathroom floor two weeks later, shaking like a wet chihuahua while you take a pregnancy test. after peeing gracefully on the stick, you place it on the counter face-down. “please… please… please…” two minutes in, “why’s this shit takin’ so long? oh my fucking god.” four minutes in, “swear to god, if she gets pregnant i’ll go to church every sunday.” spoiler: she lied. she’s not even religious.
౨ৎ when the pregnancy test finally comes back positive, she doesn’t react like a normal person. sure, she kisses you hard and gets a little emotional, but she’s mostly praising herself.
“I DID THAT. I KNEW I NUT GOOD.”
“you didn’t even nut.”
“emotionally i was balls deep. let me have this.” + endless kisses to your nonexistent bump<3
౨ৎ is a nervous wreck the day she has to tell your family. and her dad.
it’s a sunny sunday, barbecue smoke filtering lazily through the open windows, the neighbors’ kids are shrieking outside, their laughter piercing straight through your skull. a dog down the street barks furiously at bees hovering over its bowl, while the grumpy man across the road yells at the kids for kicking a ball across his precious patch of grass.
and ellie is absolutely shitting her pants. quite literally. she’s excused herself to pee at least three times in a row. she always gets like this when she’s anxious. by the time she comes back the fourth time, your mom is setting a cherry pie down in the middle of the table.
ellie refuses to sit, impulsively blurting it out, “i got her pregnant.”
the crust of pie lodges straight in your throat as you launch into a coughing fit, hand pounding the table. “y—yes,” you manage between coughs. why is she like this. why does she have to make it weird. “a doctor got me pregnant,” you quickly correct her.
ellie turns to you, offended, waving it off. “my egg. her womb. our baby.” she finishes with a small shrug and a smug grin, “jackpot.” claiming it’s all thanks to her because she ‘manifested that shit.’
౨ৎ orders a mug that says ‘world’s best breeder’ that she claims is “a joke” but uses it every fucking day.
౨ৎ stares at your belly when it really pops and ellie looks like she’s just seen a leprechaun. “i gotta process this. it’s happening. you’re big. (you’re not) i did that. i did that. holy fuck.”
౨ৎ starts giving you weird ass pet names, “my little transport truck full of baby” or “my stacked fridge.”
౨ৎ immediately leaves a positive review on the clinic google page “$14,000 to breed my wife. money well spent!!!”
౨ৎ won’t let you walk anywhere alone. you don’t get privacy or independence, not anymore. you stand up to get water and she’s like “nonono—sit down. i’ll get it for you.” you sneeze once and she’s looking up: “can sneezing effect early pregnancy??” you lay on your stomach and she gets anxious about it, “what if you pop a tit?? will the baby feel it?”
౨ৎ has absolutely no idea how to act when she’s horny anymore. like, yeah, she’s still wildly attracted (obviously), but she’s also scared as fuck. she’ll kiss your belly, trail her mouth down your neck, press slow kisses to the inside of your thighs, then freeze like she’s committing a felony, two seconds away from an actual panic attack. “is it okay if i—? wait. is that safe? are you comfortable? tell me if you’re uncomfortable. actually… no sex tonight. nope. abort mission. i need to research.” she lasts exactly three hours before she’s straddling you again, phone carelessly tossed somewhere in the sheets, eyes gleaming in the dark like a cat’s. “okay,” she grins sheepishly, “i researched. turns out we can. can i ride your thigh now or no.” all that unnecessary stress just for her to end up leaving snail trails on your thigh. disappointing to say the least.
౨ৎ turns aggressively protective and insists on coming with you for every errand.
grocery store? someone bumps your cart with theirs and ellie’s already stepping in front of you like she’s shielding the president. “watch where you’re going, for fuck’s sake,” she snaps so loud your face burns and you suddenly become a stranger three aisles away. “can’t you see she’s pregnant?” she gestures toward you like a crazy woman. you’re barely a few weeks in, nothing is visible yet, not even a hint. you honestly don’t even blame the guy for looking at your wife like she’s insane as he quietly wheels his cart away, terrified. little does she know, next time he’s bringing his wife with him because women terrify him.
your first checkup? she nearly starts a riot in the waiting room because no one offers you a seat. again—absolutely no one can tell you’re pregnant. but ellie insists she can feel your shoulders tensing, your poor spine straining and your body working overtime.”
౨ৎ treats you like actual royalty. she brings you snacks but won’t make eye contact while doing it, drops them off all awkward, without mumbling a single word (loser ellie nghh)
౨ৎ kisses your bump goodnight and gets shy if she catches you watching her.
౨ৎ sticks little anxious reminders on your nightstand on mornings she has to leave early for work.
“𝘱𝘭𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳!!! 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘵!!!”
“𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴 >:(”
“𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 + 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘺𝘰 ♡”
౨ৎ narrates everything to the baby. you eat strawberries and she talks directly to your stomach, rubbing it gently, “hear that? mama’s feeding you antioxidants.” later, you’re watching zootropolis together, a fox plush tucked against your side and she adds, “see, kiddo? absolute cinema.” like the baby can actually see through your eyes. she’s convinced it can.
౨ৎ thanks you out of nowhere, because not only you’ve chosen her as your forever partner like swans do, but you’re also building a family with her. “hey, thanks for doing this with me.” then she kisses your shoulder and immediately pretends she didn’t just get emotional, stomping away before you can catch her tearing up like a way-too-chalant lesbian she swears she’s not.
౨ৎ cries over baby clothes, you’ll be walking in walmart and other places and she’ll be crying as if she’s the one pregnant and a walking ball of stubborn, unpredictable hormones. “babe it’s so fucking small—look—wait, hold it against your belly again—oh my god—that’s OUR kid—”
you swat her hand away. “kid? ellie, it’s barely an embryo.”
“bite your tongue. that’s our fucking heir.” she’ll promptly hiss every time you remind her. swear to god she’ll make you apologize like you just said the worst thing imaginable.
౨ৎ checks your pregnancy app every morning before she even pees. you wake up to her perched in bed with her glasses on, “holy shit… the baby’s a blueberry today.” then she turns to you, grinning like a dork, “babe. you’re a blueberry mom.”
౨ৎ will clock that you’re sick before you even admit it.
౨ৎ cancels plans without even telling you because if her girl needs her, everything else can die. the world could literally collapse and crumble to the core of the underworld and she wouldn’t budge. you don’t even ask for her presence, ‘cause she’s already there like a sickening little parasite.
౨ৎ feels genuinely guilty when the morning sickness gets worse. you rush to the bathroom and somehow she beats you there. already kneeling behind you, holding your hair in a gentle fist and shielding your forehead from stubborn strands while you puke your soul out. rubs reassuring circles into your back with her palm, “’m sorry, baby… i’m so sorry you feel like this…” and she means that shit with her whole heart, like it’s her fault. “you’re doing so good. your body’s doing so much right now… i know it sucks ass, i know…” and the one that melts your insides every time, “my poor girls.”
౨ৎ goes down a rabbit hole about acupressure after reading somewhere in a facebook article dina sent her that it can help with nausea. the next morning you’re hunched over the sink complaining that you feel sick again and she’s already reaching for your wrist, “hold on, hold on, don’t move.” she presses her thumb on your wrist, right between your tendons, squinting back at you for any sign of improvement. “internet said this one’s for nausea.” when you tell her it actually helped a little, she sits back on the toilet lid looking waaay too proud of herself. “see? basically a doctor now.”
౨ৎ turns into a doberman about smells. you hate garlic, vinegar, anything sharp or fermented, so now she goes around sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “what the fuck is that? i said. no. funyuns. i told you the smell makes her gag. what the fuck is wrong with you?” and just like that, your friends are forever banned from your house.
౨ৎ sleeps lighter than ever when you’re feeling off. if you so much as shift or groan, she jolts awake like she’s just fallen into a void. “hey, hey… i’m here. what do you need?” even if what you need is just to complain.
౨ৎ refuses to complain herself, even when she’s exhausted, even when you keep her up all night because the nausea won’t leave you alone. she doesn’t say a word, doesn’t blame you, doesn’t take her stress out on you. even with dark circles under her eyes and all, she still rubs your shoulders, still makes you food, still reassures you. if you dare apologize, she shakes her head, shutting you up instantly. “don’t. you’re growing our baby and you’re sick. bare minimum. least i can do.”
౨ৎ cannot stand when men so much as glance at your bump or say anything remotely sweet to you. “that’s how it starts. smiling. then asking what school the kid goes to. next thing you know, he’s trying to be the father that steps up. not on my fucking watch.”
౨ৎ cries at your first ultrasound because the baby has her nose. honestly, you were glad. but then she says weird shit, “look at that shrimp spine. head’s huge as fuck, babe! definitely got my brain in there. my swimmers were built different.” the nurse looks at her weird.
౨ৎ prints out an image of your ultrasound, laminates it and keeps it inside the back of her phone case just to peek at it when she’s having a bad day :(
౨ৎ has a completely blank sketchbook she plans to fill only with baby drawings.
౨ৎ spoons you extra gentle at night, with one hand over your bump and her mouth in the curve of your neck, “you smell different,” when you ask her to elaborate, you feel her shrug behind you, “like… mom energy. sweeter. ripe. i dunno.”
౨ৎ is suffocatingly obsessive the entire pregnancy—waking you up at 3am to make sure you feel okay or if you need to pee. sometimes, you have to sleep on the couch just to get away from her. when you wake up, she’s passed out on the carpet right beside you. you even accidentally step on her the first time. arghh.
౨ৎ starts rearranging the entire house in the middle of the night to make sure the closets are neat and everything even remotely dangerous for a baby shoved out of the way (despite the fact that you’re barely a few months in).
౨ৎ keeps calling the baby “big sister” as if having this one in the incubator somehow means you’re already open to more kids.
“babe, she’s not even born yet.” (utterly irrelevant to ellie)
“doesn’t matter. mentally preparing her. she’s gotta know she’s not gonna be an only child.” she’s so excited it physically pains you to demolish that delusion of hers. “also i ordered matching onesies that say ‘1st round’ and ‘2nd round’—” and the cherry on top, “fuck it, let’s go full lesbian duggar family.”
“ah hell naww. i’m divorcing you.”
౨ৎ lowkey gets horny when hormones start fucking you up hard. you don’t cry, you’re just mean as fuck… to ellie it’s foreplay. she blushes and her pussy starts throbbing in about 0.34 seconds. immediate reaction.
“i said no fucking pulp.” you narrow your eyes, pissed as fuck. all because she got you the wrong type of juice. “fucking useless piece of shit.”
she wishes you were like this 24/7. snapping, mean, reminding her how stupid and pathetic and useless her existence is.
she doesn’t argue. can’t. actually, you catch that fucking loser stifling a groan—maybe a moan, you’re not entirely sure. all you know is she’s drooling between her legs. “right. yeah. i’m so sorry… wanna spank me? i deserve it, ma’am.”
౨ৎ the mornings are consistently tragic. she wakes up, unfortunately—that’s her first mistake. the rambling starts before her eyes are even open, words spilling out as her legs swing off the bed like her brain never truly powered down overnight.
you’re at the table, swirling your cereal, already soggy and sinking depressingly to the bottom of the bowl. she won’t stop pacing, won’t stop fucking talking. you check the clock more than once. ten full minutes of this and you’re at your limit.
“—in addition to that, i was reading that hedgehogs—”
your spoon clinks sharply against the porcelain. “oh. my. fucking. god.” she blinks, genuinely startled, thinking she’s missed a cue you never gave her. confusion seems to shut her up, granting you a sacred moment of momentary peace. your irritation, however, keeps growing. “do you ever shut the fuck up?” you snap, “do you have a switch? or did you wake up with an eminem up your fucking ass?”
ellie has always known that the normal response would be to get offended. to shut down, perhaps. cry. maybe even to snap back. only she knows how many times she’s wished that she could be normal about this. because unpredictability gets under her skin in the worst ways and she never knows which version of you she’s waking up to. way to keep the marriage alive!
౨ৎ spends actual hours tracing your stretch marks with her tongue before head time, “fuckin’ marked by me” like she’s proud of leaving permanent scars on your temple of a body (which is every other night because she claims orgasms keep the baby healthy.)
౨ৎ fucks you with a strap when you’re in the second trimester and gets anxious as hell. it starts before even getting you naked. you’re doing chores and randomly huff, frustrated, telling her you need her inside.
“oh! okay. yup. happening. bedroom. now. careful—let me hold you—no, don’t walk that fast—babe slow down—BABE YOU’RE PREGNANT.”
when she gets on top of you it’s even worse. she’s rocking the strap into you at the pace of a fucking snail. no cocky shit, no dirty talk, just a super focused look on her face like she’s scared of giving you an abortion with her strap.
you wrap your legs around her hips, the heel of your foot pressing into her butt as some type of encouragement. “ellie... faster.”
she tries to mask the nervousness with cockiness. doesn’t work. “…yeah?”
“yes. faster. please.” you pant, restless and impatient and worked up, watching her through a blur as she hesitates and deliberately keeps the same pace, dragging the slow strokes out like it’s a punishment. “are you—” you claw at her shoulder, visibly losing it. “what the hell is this? you fuck me slower than the wifi at my grandma’s.”
she’s offended, maybe even tries to defend herself, “i’m—m’not slow.”
“it’s awful. i’m pregnant, not a fabergé egg.”
“‘m just… savoring it, y’know?”
“oh my god,” you smack her hand off your tit, “you’re scared you’re gonna hurt the baby.”
she legit freezes mid-thrust. “…no?”
“ellie, the baby is in my uterus, not hanging out in the hallway waiting to get hit.”
still doesn’t speed up, stubbornly sabotaging your orgasm. “yeah, but… what if she’s, like, right here?” her hand drifts to the underside of your stomach.
you actually laugh at that and smack her hand away once again. “right where? in my fucking cervix? do you seriously think your strap has prenatal combat abilities?”
“i just don’t wanna bonk her in the head or somethin’.”
you cover your face with both hands, in disbelief. you aren’t sure if you find this hot or embarrassing. “ellie,” longest sigh she’s ever heard from you, “i am so close to flipping us over and doing this myself.” you threaten.
“oh my god. are you seriously pissed at me for protecting our child?”
“from silicone?!”
“from reckless parenting!—fetus cost me over ten thousand dollars, ma. think i’m about to knock it loose ‘cause you’re horny?” all of it punctuated by yet another slow thrust, “no thanks.”
“that’s not even how–”
“gotta protect the investment, bro.”
“call me bro again and you’re dead.”
in the end, you flip her over and grind down slow and deep. you don’t stop, not even after you’ve already come, not even when her fingers clutch at your hips in an anxious attempt to stop you. you had to. next time, you’re tying her to the headboard so you can fuck her properly.
౨ৎ keeps a tally on the fridge called “times she let me touch the belly” when you start getting self-conscious about the stretch marks on your body, about how different you feel in your own skin. some days you can’t even bear to let her rest a hand there, let alone kiss it. you erase the tally every time you see it, feeling embarrassed and completely overwhelmed. but she’s more stubborn, more determined. she starts it over every single time, even adding smiley faces to the days you let her kiss it, repeating every day “you’re even prettier like this” without fail, until it finally absorbs.
౨ৎ doesn’t ask questions when you’re upset or crying, because she’s aware hormones don’t always make sense, like that one time you sobbed over giraffes not having proper shelter during storms. she’ll disappear for a minute and come back with one of those microwaveable lavender plushies because she’s read somewhere—deep in a reddit thread full of other pregnant women swearing by it—that lavender and chamomile help calm the nervous system. aromatherapy. figured it was worth a shot. ever since that precious discovery, the routine’s been the same. she settles behind you in bed, tucking the warm plush against your chest and wrapping herself around you like a safe blanket. no talking, no trying to cheer you up at all costs, just warm lavender filling your nostrils and quiet reassurance. if you start crying anyway, she rubs slow circles into your arm, “yeah, i know, baby. hormones are evil.”
౨ৎ screams when your water breaks, not a cute gasp, not an excited “oh my god,” but something ugly. high-pitched, even. straight out of a horror movie. she even notices before you do. she’s mid-sentence when her eyes drop to your lap and goes dead silent for half a second before it dawns on her. “uh.” her breath stutters, “uh.” the scream that follows makes you flinch. “IT’S HAPPENING.”
you’re still processing, barely feeling any pain, and she’s already sprinting down the hallway like the house is on fire. drawers are slamming, cabinets are opening, she’s grabbing the hospital bag she packed three weeks ago at 2am, your phone charger, her wallet, your pillow(??) and somehow a random framed photo from the nightstand. as if you’ll need it. as if that’ll make the pain more tolerable.
౨ৎ keeps dropping things because her hands are shaking so bad. the keys hit the floor several times, the suitcase tips over at least twice. she tries to carry all of it at once and looks like a raccoon stumbling out of a 7-eleven, caught stealing whiskey.
you waddle after her, annoyed and contracting at the same time, clutching at your belly. “ellie. calm. down.”
“CALM DOWN?” she shrieks, “WE TRAINED FOR THIS!”
she barrels toward the front door, flings it open with way too much force and makes it halfway down the stairs before you realize something. “ELLIE YOUR FUCKIN’ SHOES. PUT YOUR SHOES ON!”
she freezes mid-step, looks down at her star wars socks, then looks back at you. “FUCK. FUCK. SHOES!” she glitches in place, like a badly programmed 2000s npc lacking any real sense of awareness, turning left, then right. “WHERE ARE MY— I HAD THEM— I—” she runs back inside, collides with the wall, then trips over the edge of the carpet, moving too fast for her own coordination. she yanks her converse on without untying them, nearly falling again as she tries to shove her heel in, hopping around on one foot like a deranged baby chimp.
౨ৎ has absolutely zero skills under pressure. she backs out of the driveway without checking the mirrors, knocking over your lined-up trash cans and the neighbors’. she honks at a random pedestrian who was literally just walking, screaming, “HOLY SHIT— THE BABY— THE BABY—” she nearly runs a red light and kills you both.
౨ৎ tries so hard to be supportive in the delivery room, letting you demolish her hand, stroking your sweaty hair, kissing your feverish forehead… until she makes the mistake of looking directly between your legs mid-push. she goes pale in 000.11 seconds, “oh my god—s’that—s’that supposed to— oh, fuck— OH—” and then she collapses to the floor.
౨ৎ wakes up and tries to pretend she didn’t faint even with a confused medical student fanning her, sitting up like, “i’m fine, i’m fine.” gets up again, pushes the nurse out of the way, “keep going, ‘m so proud of-” looks between your thighs again and… lights out.
౨ৎ fully wakes up at last, when the baby is already out of you, crying on your chest. she’s missed the entire thing and will forever hate herself for it.
౨ৎ follows you around like an anxious golden retriever every time your daughter makes any noise, “babe???? is that normal? do they always breathe like that??”
౨ৎ insists on taking the night shift so you can sleep, rocking the baby in the dim lit living room, “hey, baby girl… mommy’s tired. let her rest, ’kay? i gotchu, i gotchu…” when the baby finally drifts off, she tiptoes back into the bedroom and tucks the blanket around you with the same dedicated care.
౨ৎ always makes sure the bathroom cabinets stay stocked with extra diapers for the baby and extra postpartum pads for you.
౨ৎ becomes so domestic in the most adorable way your heart aches, doing everything she can to make postpartum easier, even if she looks like she’s two seconds away from passing out every day. she washes bottles, folds tiny onesies with crazy precision, brings you snacks and water without being asked, and holds the baby while you shower. sometimes she’s the one passing out on the couch from exhaustion, and you have to tuck her into bed again :( poor baby.
౨ৎ is understanding at first when, after birth, your body and its healing process don’t really leave space for intimacy. she’s supportive, loving, so patient it almost hurts, “you’ve been through so much, babe. just rest. i got you.” she gives you extra love and attention, takes care of you, makes you food when you forget to eat, rubs your legs when they ache from walking back and forth to the bassinet, and your tummy when you get cramps. because she loves you.
౨ৎ starts to get grumpy once you’re cleared to have sex and actually try to initiate it, only to get cockblocked by your own daughter. like, extremely bitchy. she folds laundry with too much force, cabinet doors no longer experience gentle closing. you swear you even hear her mutter “fuckin’ blue-balled in my own house” under her breath while warming a bottle.
౨ৎ the first time you ride her again after birth, she’s laid out flat on the bed, arms limp at her sides, eyes a little dazed like she still thinks she’s dreaming. it happens after the baby has finally fallen asleep in her crib (handmade by joel), you close the bedroom door like you’re planning a louvre heist.
“you’ve got fifteen minutes before she wakes up again,” you’d said and ellie makes it her side quest.
no strap this time, claiming she needs to feel the warmth she’s been missing for so long. she’s too overwhelmed just watching you hover over her, your tits bigger, fuller, your hips rolling slowly against hers, your stomach soft with loose skin and marked with lines she loves so much it makes her dizzy.
she just lies there with her mouth slack while you ride her slick cunt, so slippery you nearly struggle to anchor yourself against her. the wet sounds are louder than they should be in a quiet house. at one point, you lean over her, moaning into her mouth as your tits bounce and one leaks directly onto her throat. an accident that makes her whole body jerk like she’s been tased, clawing at your hips. she doesn’t think, doesn’t speak, just breathes heavily, letting out a strangled, wet “uhnngh—” that sounds like her soul leaving her body and something else taking over—a succubus, perhaps.
she’s already close when you grope your own chest, milk spilling over your fingers as it drips slowly down your wrist. that’s what truly breaks her. she whimpers like a kicked dog, rocking up into you, desperate, mindless rolls of jerky hips while she pants through a red face and damp mouth, “fuck—baby, you’re dripping. m’gonna cum—don’t stop—keep making a mess, fuckfuckfuck—”
౨ৎ googles “is it safe to breastfeed your wife” after accidentally licking your nipple clean earlier with the brightness all the way down. blueprint forever ruined.
౨ৎ genuinely starts tweaking when your tits leak through shirts and tank tops. even buries her face between them, motorboating you, greedy hands everywhere, mouth trailing down between your thighs, not giving two shits if you’re moaning into the baby monitor or how many times you try to push her head away. “she won’t remember this. shut up and take it.”
౨ৎ conveniently starts wearing a strap under her clothes like it’s a uniform. when the baby is finally out cold, she sneaks up behind you and starts palming you real slow, intentions clear in the greediness of her palms. “could just slide it in real quick. five minutes, tops—two if you’re loud.” if you try to protest, she has her answer ready. “hey, m’not tryna force it, baby, just sayin’. you’re dripping. math is mathing again.”
౨ৎ sends you texts from across the room while your family is over to see the baby.
“your tits look heavy. come sit on my face after they leave.”
“leak on me and i’ll build you another kid.”
when you look at her, she’s pretending to listen to whatever your aunt is saying about swaddling techniques, nodding and smiling all politely, while your phone lights up again in your lap like she’s not two feet away, acting completely normal.
౨ৎ gets ridiculously turned on when you whine “my tits hurt,” pacing around the house in one of her tanks while it slowly soaks through at the nipple. eyeing you from the couch, manspreading, she offers to help relieve the pressure with her mouth like it’s a public service, hoping the throbbing in her sweats will disappear if she lets her intrusive thoughts win. “that sucks, babe… do you want… me to, uhh… do something about it…?”
౨ৎ starts pulling little tricks. it always begins with an innocent shoulder massage, hands working the knots out of your tense muscles before her fingers disappear under the hem of your shirt when you’re most distracted. “i just wanna feel you,” she’ll claim before pulling your nursing bra down in one quick tug, pretending to be shocked when you leak. “oh nooo. oops.” the proud little smirk that follows genuinely makes you want to split her skull in half.
౨ৎ you find a folder on her phone named “ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏᴍɪʟᴋᴇʀs” and it’s just videos of you leaking through your shirts or nipple play.
her search history is worse, though.
⌕ “lactation kink + pornhub”
⌕ “is it normal to nut from taste of breastmilk reddit”
⌕ “wifey boob.fullplease help”
⌕ “www.betterhelp.com”
the kinkshaming goes crazy. “the fuck are you on. it’s not a kink, it’s just objectively hot. and you leaked on me last night, so that’s on you.” she’s just devoted like that. how dare you kinkshame your wife for worshipping you.
౨ৎ drags you into the backseat after grocery shopping and fucks you there with the diaper bag half-open beside you, its contents spilling out haphazardly. in broad daylight, in a walmart parking lot. the two car window sunshades barely hiding your naked lower half, your pants bunched around your ankles, shoes still firmly in place like shackles. her fingers plunging deep into your dripping pussy, her mouth stealing every moan from you. all because she couldn’t wait until nightfall, when the baby would finally surrender to a sweet slumber.
౨ৎ can’t sleep unless her hand is under your shirt and cupping one leaking tit. tries to be chill about it but whimpers a little every time you shift away ;((
౨ৎ goes through real grief when you stop lactating, wandering around the house sighing like a tormented spirit that never found the light, “miss ’em heavy.” she’s mourning</3
౨ৎ talks to your daughter like she’s an adult who just happens to be gnome-sized.
౨ৎ lets her “help” with everything, even if it makes the task ten times longer. even if it includes your kid handing her socks one by one while she’s folding laundry. even if your baby is just standing on a chair stirring absolutely nothing in her bowl. ellie never rushes her nor complains ‘cause—“we’re doing it together, that’s the whole point.”
౨ৎ never misses bedtime routine. she reads the same damn book every single night because your daughter insists and ellie reads the same lines she read the night before with the same excitement in her tone, switching between all the voices anyway, even when she’s exhausted. and if you dare suggest skipping a page or skipping reading before bed, ellie gives you a look, as if you’d just suggested abandoning your child in the woods with no water, no food, no caretakers. she’s a dedicated mom and you couldn’t be more proud.
౨ৎ lets your kid sit on the counter while she cooks. “this is garlic… it smells insane—don’t touch it,” she warns gently as the toddler’s finger wanders toward it, eager to poke it. when she touches it, ellie simply sighs but doesn’t get mad. “okay. now you know.”
౨ৎ tries to get the kid to say “mah-mah” again, but the first word that comes out of her mouth is a very firm “noh.” ellie bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh in the baby’s face. “strong boundaries. we love to see it.” later on, she tries again, crouching in front of the little gremlin and tapping her own chest. “say… love you. loh-ve you,” the kid squints, thinking very hard, then proudly produces a clumsy “wah-yoo.” ellie grins like she just won the lottery, her heart practically bursting. “yeah. wah-yoo too, kiddo.”
౨ৎ becomes the kid’s personal elevator. every five minutes, the toddler waddles up to her on unsure feet, arms stretched straight up, bouncing like a little spring because she barely knows how to walk yet. “UHP! EH-YEE!” (a gibberish version of her name) ellie sighs like she’s completely exhausted with the life she chose, but bends down to scoop her up anyway. “yeah yeah, uhp. i gotchu, bug.”
౨ৎ accidentally teaches her sarcasm before manners. you’ll hear your toddler drop her toy and dramatically exclaim, “oh great!” ellie grins proudly at you from across the kitchen. “what? she used it correctly.” she’s ellie’s daughter.
౨ৎ is weirdly gentle about scraped knees. you’ve never seen her panic over your daughter tripping or getting small cuts. instead, she’ll crouch down, inspect it like a professional and blow on it after disinfecting it. “okay. that sucks, i know, bug.” she applies my little pony band-aids and kisses all her boo-boos. done. that’s it. the kid immediately stops crying.
౨ৎ saves every drawing your daughter makes. every scribble, every half-ripped, crumpled piece of misunderstood art. you always find them tucked into her sketchbook, her wallet, or even her jacket pockets—the latter usually discovered after you’ve shoved the jacket into the washing machine and the drawing comes out soggy and ruined. when you ask why she feels the urge to collect them all like pokémon cards, she’ll say: “they’re important.”
౨ৎ teaches her music early. hands her headphones that are way too big for her head and lets her pluck the strings on her guitar. she nods proudly and pretends it sounds good. “you’ve got rhythm, peanut.”
౨ৎ never says “because i said so.” ever. because she doesn’t want to be like her dad. she’d rather overexplain everything, even when she’s tired as hell.
౨ৎ packs her lunch every damn morning before kindergarten. sandwiches with little faces, tiny cupcakes ellie bakes just for her, star-shaped pieces of fruit she meticulously cuts with tiny cookie cutters.
౨ৎ gives her adult reassurance in tiny doses. “hey peanut, it’s okay to be bad at things. that’s how you get good.” it makes you wanna rip your hair out. in a good way.
౨ৎ lets your kid tattoo her or color over her already existing tattoos with washable markers, then forgets to wash them off before going out.
౨ৎ teaches her that asking for help is normal by doing it herself. now, she’s the first to hate relying on other people, but she wants to set an example. “hey babybug, help me open this?” your daughter beams, a gummy smile with barely a few teeth on display and uses all her strength. ellie thanks her like she just saved her life, boosting her tiny confidence straight through the roof.
౨ৎ has a secret handshake with her that changes weekly (mostly because your daughter keeps forgetting it) and no one else is allowed to learn it.
౨ৎ goes insanely overboard for the kid’s third christmas. sometime after midnight, you wake up to noises in the living room, only to find ellie crouched on the floor with a bag of flour, making tiny snowy footprints across the floor from the window to the tree, like santa broke in like a cheap burglar and walked around the house. she even takes one of your boots and lightly stamps it in the flour to make it look ““realistic.”” when your toddler wakes up in the morning and waddles into the living room, she freezes in awe and points at the floor excitedly, “sah-nah! sah-nah he come! mama, look!” big, dreamy green eyes look up at you, tugging at your pajama pants, “he WALK!” and ellie’s standing behind you trying so hard not to laugh, shoulders shaking, covering her mouth as she nudges you gently in the ribs, “holy shit. it actually worked.”
౨ৎ gets two bouquets on valentine’s day, one for each of her fav girls. your toddler’s is mainly a tiny bundle of plush flowers tied with a pink ribbon, a little rainbow dash tucked in the middle because ellie knows it’s her favorite pony. yours, meanwhile, is an absurdly massive bouquet that barely fits through the door or into a vase. roses, peonies, every fucking flower she was able to find in the store. when you raise a brow at her, she goes, “she’s my valentine,” she nods toward the gnome-sized, freckled mess of a kid proudly clutching rainbow dash and zooming around the living room. “but you’re my wife. there are levels.”
౨ৎ keeps snacks in every pocket of every hoodie for every eventuality. when your toddler asks for one, ellie pretends to be surprised every time she happens to find snickers tucked in her pockets. “woah! how did that get there?” your kid genuinely thinks ellie is a magician.
౨ৎ thanks your daughter for the smallest things, it’s either “thank you for trying,” or “thank you for telling me.”
౨ৎ on nights your toddler falls asleep between you, ellie brushes your hair out of your face and mumbles “you’re such a good mom,” eyes full of pride, gratitude making her heart throb.
౨ৎ becomes that parent with the camera roll. your phone has maybe ten photos of the baby. ellie’s has thousands. blurry ones, mid-yawn ones, ones where the kid’s just staring at nothing like a confused potato with not a single thought behind her irises. at some point, it genuinely starts to feel like she’s documenting a rare species.
౨ৎ sets one of her favorite girls as her lockscreen: your kid asleep on your chest, drooling on your shoulder and her tiny hand clutching your shirt.
౨ৎ loves motherhood far more than she ever expected, but more than anything, she loves seeing you round, glowing, growing an entire human inside you. she loves the ugly parts of it, too—the stress, the anxiety, the sleepless nights, the excitement that sits in her chest like it might burst into tiny sparks, but would you want to go through it again the way she would?
you’ve been out with friends all day when she finally finds the courage to bring it up. funny enough, they’d just had a baby. a newborn. ellie had held him for a while, rocking him gently while he fussed, nose pressed to the crown of his head, which smelled faintly like cinnamon. it made her chest ache with nostalgia, holding something that tiny again, she realized she missed it.
it comes up later at home, while you’re both getting ready for bed. “what if she had a sibling,” ellie mumbles suddenly, after spitting toothpaste into the sink, looking at you through the mirror while you brush your teeth, shoulders bumping together. “like, one that’s just as annoying. that’d be kinda cute, right?”
“you mean another baby?” you question, already clocking the look on her face, watching her slide the hair tie off her wrist and gather her hair into a messy, low bun.
she hums casually, “one more can’t hurt.” for a second, you think she’s talking about gummy bears.
“i dunno. we already have our hands full, el.” you sigh. “babies take a lot of time—we barely survived the first one.”
she shrugs, already committed to the idea, determined to put the idea into your head. “you’ve already been pregnant once... what’s one more?”
you don’t answer. you just leave the bathroom and crawl under the comfort of your blankets, hoping silence will kill the conversation, but nothing ever dies with her. she’s sliding into bed a second later, scooting closer like a clingy koala. “we already have one kid,” she continues, “might as well go for the dlc.”
“dlc is crazy,” you smile despite yourself, “go to sleep.”
“huh. g’night, ma.” she presses a kiss to your shoulder when you turn into her arms, facing the wall. “...sleep on it, though.”
PART ONE / KILLSHOT : Clark Kent scores an interview with Bruce Wayne's infamous sister — you. Except you don't make it easy for him.
PART TWO / MINDS OF MEN: Clark gets more well-acquainted with Bruce Wayne's sister — covering a gala following the death of Gotham's mayor.
✶ MANCHILD!
✶ CRY ME A RIVER
PART ONE / MANCHILD! : Clark saves the life of one of Lex Luthor's lab techs — but doesn't realise what he does cost her everything.
PART TWO / CRY ME A RIVER: Clark can't help but tell the truth — and that gets him in trouble.
✶ HOUSE OF EL
✶ UNMADE
Clark's not the only Kryptonian to have survived other than his Kara — and you're hell-bent on making him realise that his role on earth was still unfulfilled.
✶ GIRL NEXT DOOR
✶ RESPONSIBLE GUY
PART ONE / GIRL NEXT DOOR : Clark takes care of his neighbour.
PART TWO / RESPONSIBLE GUY: Clark brings his party girl-trouble-maker of a neighbour back home.
O N E S H O T S
✶ TWIST
Clark Kent brings his city girlfriend back to the Kent Farm.
✶ PLUG IN, BABY
You work in the nights where Fortress sleeps, making sure Superman's kept healthy and ready. But what happens when the lines are blurred between you both? Alternatively — you overhear Clark Kent masturbating and can't stop thinking about how good he sounded.
✶ HEY, STRIPPER!
You go undercover at a nightclub, and you run into someone familiar — inspired by Smallville.
✶ LUCKY GIRL
Clark is a very handsy man. Inspired by this tiktok of Lois & Clark.
✶ LOSE MY COOL
Clark & you were trying for a baby — and it isn't as easy as it seems.
✶ LOVE,LOVE,LOVE
Clark prefers to take intimate photos of you in a more personal way.
✶ BEAST
Clark is hunted by a super-villain who knows how to weaponize his one weakness — Kryptonite.
✶ THE NUTCRACKER
Clark Kent is sent to cover the iconic Christmas feature in the heart of Metropolis.
✶ NIGHTCRAWLER
What if Clark Kent met someone he just couldn't help but clash with? Inspired by Nightcrawler (2014)
✶ SHORT N'SUPER
What if…Pop-Star!Reader wore a Sabrina Carpenter-inspired Superman Outfit? Inspired by this TikTok.
✶ MESSY
Clark accidentally reveals that he's Superman.
✶ SMILE! YOU'RE A STAR
Superman's sex-tape was about to get leaked and...you're featured?
✶ XO | Clark Kent x F!Reporter Reader
Clark sees that you have nipple piercings while he has his X-Ray vision activated.
✶ THE 'YES' LIST
You get to fulfil your 'to-fuck' list with Superman.
✶ AFTER HOURS
Clark needs a favour from his secret informant.
✶ ON-RECORD
Clark & you make a sex-tape together.
✶ LIKE THE REAL THING
You send the guy you were dating pictures of you in lingerie by accident.
✶ CARELESS TYPE
You find out that Clark Kent is Superman.
✶ SETTLE4TONIGHT
Clark can't seem to let go of his ex.
✶ DEAR IVY
Clark meets The Daily Planet's 'Love' Columnist.
✶ BURNING BLUE
Superman goes to a gala where he's being honoured and steals some time from a very hard to get Congresswoman — you.
✶ EVERYBODY HERE WANTS YOU
Clark and you share a room at a motel for the night.
✶ LOVEGAME
Clark gets himself in a sticky situation in the coat closet with the new co-editor-in-chief.
✶ STRANGER
Clark seems different. (Red kryptonite!clark kent)
✶ RESONANCE
You go looking for your colleague, Clark, when he turns unavailable the same time Superman disappears.
✶ ILLEGAL
Superman is assigned his very own secret service detail — not to protect him, but to babysit him.
✶ TELL ME A LIE
You think Clark is about to propose, but he breaks up with you instead.
✶ VICTOR, VICTROLA
Clark attempts to obtain an inside scoop from the daughter of a wealthy politician.
✶ THE CHAIN
Superman has a bounty on his head after pissing off inhabitants from other planets.
✶ AIN'T NO MOUNTAIN HIGH ENOUGH
When all else fails, you call for the one person who would always show up for you — the superhero who'd been chasing you.
✶ SUGAR! HONEY! LOVE!
Clark thinks he has his identity revealed.
✶ CUFF IT
You tell Clark that it's impossible for him to lift you up just on his biceps — he proves you wrong.
✶ HOOKED ON A FEELING
You sleep with Clark once in a whim, and now he thinks you're dating.
✶ GET NAK*D
In a world where Superheroes are no longer welcome — Superman goes off the grid.
✶ SOMETHING MORE
You're off on a girl's trip in your second trimester, and Clark just can't help but worry. (PREGNANCY KINK)
D R A B B L E S
✶ RIVAL REPORTER CLARK
✶ LASER-BEAM
✶ FUCKING YOU WITH HIS FORMAL SUIT ON
✶ RED-SUN + KARA/PARTY UNIVERSE
✶ CLARK + LOUVRE MUSEUM
✶ THE SISTER PACT
✶ LYING TO CLARK
✶ ORAL FIXATIONS
✶ APOLOGISING TO CLARK KENT + ANAL
✶ FUCKING YOU WITH SOCKS ON
✶ SLEEP-GROPING
✶ YOUR FIRST TIME WITH CLARK
✶ FUCKING YOU DUMB
✶ STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR
✶ GOSSIP COLUMNIST!READER DRABBLE | P.2
✶ EX-BOYFRIEND!CLARK DRABBLE
✶ THE WAY CLARK KISSES
✶ CLARK LIFTING YOU UP WHEN HE HUGS YOU
✶ ER DOCTOR!READER
D A V I D M C D O U G A L L
O N E S H O T S
✶ HIT 'EM UP
Your ex comes back into your life after vanishing for months — you don't make it easy for him.
S C O T T M I L L E R
O N E S H O T S
✶ GOTTA GIVE IT TO HER
Working late with Scott quickly turns to something more.
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