[inactivewhore]

Fics you should support by liking, commenting and reblogging: Part 3

(part 1) (part 2) * stories with one asterisk beside the title mean it's only readable on AO3 ** stories with two asterisks beside the title mean that it has dark themes

Chris Evans x Reader

Severance by @punani

Coalescence I by @punani

Coalescence II by @punani

Coalescence III by @punani

Mister Friend Of Death by @balenciagabucky Steve Rogers x Reader Love Made In The Summer by @rodrikstark Lend Me Your Hand (We’ll Conquer Them All) (series) by@rodrikstark Everything And Beyond (series) by @rodrikstark Playbill by @rodrikstark S. Rogers + First Time Going To Bed Angry by @rodrikstark It's You That I Lie With (series) by @chanelfaerie The Riveter (series) by @pagesoflauren Promises & Sacrifice (series) by @pagesoflauren Soundtrack (series) by @sarahwroteathing Love Hate by @bucksfucks Marital Bliss by @trillian-anders The Thing About Trust by @christowhore Broken Promises by @christowhore Botanical Interest (series) by @dollslayer For Old Times' Sake by @egcdeath Non-Sequential (series) by @invisibleanonymousmonsters Killing Peggy Carter** by @chrisevansgoodgirl Burden Of Proof (series) by @sunriserose1023 Did You Ever Hear About That Girl Who Got Frozen? by@speechlessxx A Royal Scandal* (series) by @donutloverxo & LizzyGal Toxic* ** (series) by LizzyGal Ari Levinson x Reader Forever in Waiting by @punani Shakespearen Tragedy (series) by@strawbeariefaerie Frank Adler x Reader Careful Days (series) by @rodrikstark Ransom Drysdale x Reader Murder, He Wrote** (series) by @wiypt-writes The Highest Bidder (series) by @pagesoflauren Promises & Sacrifice (series) by @pagesoflauren Andy Barber x Reader Consciousness Of Guilt (series; sequel to Murder, He Wrote) by @wiypt-writes I Never Learn (series) by @punani Colin Shea x Reader Seeing Blind (series) by @pagesoflauren Curtis Everett x Reader Yours To Keep by @the-iceni-bitch Out Of Darkness** (series) by @jtargaryen18 A Claiming by @wanderinglunarnights Ties That Bind, Debts That Burden** by @mypoisonedvine Nick Vaughan x Reader First Steps First by @rodrikstark You Got A Fetish For My Love, I Push You Out And You Come Right Back by @chrisevansgoodgirl Sebastian Stan x Reader Let You Down (series) by @achillieus Bucky Barnes x Reader Take It Back (series) by @allandoflimbo Ashens (series) by @allandoflimbo Delicate Edges (series) by @wkemeup Graveyard by @wkemeup For The Love Of The Game (series) by @pellucid-constellations Always You, Forever by @pellucid-constellation And They Could Never Tear Us Apart (series) by @redgillan Under Pastel Skies (series) by @redgillan Good Morning Kisses by @houseravenclaws Never Again by @houseravenclaws Not Tonight by @houseravenclaws Smooth Like Butter by @baroquebucky What Would You Give For Love by @buckystarlight Does Your Mother Know? by @wxntersoldiers Eye For An Eye by @christowhore Peaches (series) by @buckycuddlebuddy The World's A Little Blurry (series) by @summergrls Remembrance by @achillieus FATWS Series (series) by @cjsinkythoughts Cure by @viperbarnes Like Nicotine by @babyboibucky Welcome Home by @whitestarbucky Please Don't Take Him (Even Though You Can) by @nsfwsebbie Thor X Reader A Wife For Thor (series) by @shreddedparchment Sherlock Holmes (Henry Cavill) x Reader Lies Untold** by @cherienymphe Dick Grayson x Reader x Bruce Wayne All Men Have Limits (series) by @invisibleanonymousmonsters

[satellite-evans]

the cure

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: It doesn't matter how Clark's love feels, it won't fix you.

Word count: 8k+

Warnings: angst, insecurities, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song

A/N:

hey guys!! don’t worry, part 2 of hula hoop is still coming <3 but I really wanted to post this fic because I genuinely think it was illegal for olivia rodrigo to release the cure??? The song is devastatingly beautiful. The second I heard it, i knew I wanted to write a fic about it.

This fic is really special to me and definitely one of the more emotional things i’ve written, so I really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :( xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The first time Clark kissed you, you cried afterward.

Not because it was bad. God, it was the opposite.

It happened in the kitchen of your apartment at two in the morning while rain hammered against the fire escape outside your window hard enough to rattle the metal. Your apartment smelled faintly like rain-damp laundry, and the tea Clark had insisted on making, even though both mugs now sat forgotten on the counter, steam long gone cold.

You wore one of his sweaters over sleep shorts, the sleeves hanging past your hands because Clark liked tugging them over your fingers absentmindedly when he talked to you. His glasses sat crooked beside the sink where he'd abandoned them while drying dishes, and without them he looked softer somehow. Less like the sharp-featured reporter from the Daily Planet and more like the man underneath all of it.

There had been music playing quietly from your phone somewhere in the living room, something low and old crackling through bad speakers. Clark had been talking about work, about Perry assigning him some impossible article, but you hadn't really been listening anymore because he kept looking at your mouth between sentences like he was trying not to.

That nervousness in him undid you.

Clark Kent, who could stop planes from falling out of the sky, looked terrified of kissing you wrong.

You leaned against the counter while he stood too close in your tiny kitchen, broad shoulders nearly blocking out the overhead light. He smelled like clean laundry and rainwater and something warm you could never fully name. Home, maybe. Safety. Whatever it was, it made your chest ache.

“You're staring,” you murmured.

A flush crept slowly up his throat, visible even in the dim light. “Sorry.”

“You don't sound sorry.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “Guess I'm not.”

You should have looked away then. You knew you should have. Moments like this always became dangerous eventually. Intimacy always carried the possibility of disappointment behind it, and disappointment had teeth.

But Clark looked at you like you were something worth being careful with.

That was your first mistake.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitant enough to give you time to move if you wanted to. When his fingers finally touched your jaw, warmth spread through you so quickly it almost frightened you. He held your face like he thought too much pressure might crack you apart, which was ironic considering he could probably shatter concrete without trying.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.

Not cocky. Not assuming.

You nodded before he even finished speaking, and Clark kissed you like he was trying to convince you of something.

Not with urgency. Not greedily. There was no performance in it, none of the practiced confidence you'd grown used to from other men. He kissed you with unbearable sincerity, like he was offering you every gentle thing inside himself all at once.

The hand on your jaw trembled slightly.

That nearly destroyed you.

Because nobody that powerful should have been nervous around you.

You kissed him back harder than you meant to, almost desperately. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt as if your body already knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet. Clark made this small sound against your mouth, startled and soft, and then his other hand slid carefully to your waist.

For one suspended, impossible second, your brain went quiet.

No comparisons. No inventory list of everything you wished you could carve away from yourself. No remembering every prettier woman you'd passed on the street that day or imagining all the girls Clark could have wanted instead.

Just him. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours and the slow drag of his thumb against your waist through the sweater, just relief so overwhelming it felt almost holy.

It hit you all at once then, sudden and devastating.

Oh.

This was what people meant, this unbearable quiet.

You felt it so strongly your eyes burned instantly.

Clark kissed you deeper, slow and careful, and your chest ached with terrible, desperate hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the thing you'd been waiting for your entire life. Maybe love really could reach into all the ruined places inside a person and pull them whole again.

You had spent years believing that.

And the second he pulled away, your chest cracked open with grief so sudden it embarrassed you.

The silence inside your head vanished all at once, replaced by something sharp behind your eyes.

Clark noticed immediately, of course he did.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You turned your face quickly before the tears could fully spill over, wiping beneath your eye with the sleeve of his sweater. “Sorry.”

Your laugh came out weak and embarrassed.

Clark's expression shifted instantly, concern softening every feature. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you answered too fast.

“Was it too much?”

The nervousness in his voice made guilt twist painfully in your chest. He looked genuinely worried he'd crossed a line somehow, his hand slipping from your waist slowly like he wasn't sure if he should still be touching you.

“No, Clark.” You shook your head quickly. “God, no.”

“Then why are you crying?”

You swallowed hard.

Because how were you supposed to explain that the kiss had felt too good somehow? That your emotions suddenly sat too close to the surface to hold back properly?

So instead, you lied.

“I think I'm just overwhelmed,” you said quietly, staring down at your hands. “I've been waiting for this for a long time.”

Clark's entire face softened at that.

Relief flickered visibly across his expression.

“Oh.”

You nodded quickly, forcing out another shaky laugh. “It's stupid.”

“It isn't stupid.”

His voice dropped softer then, warmer somehow, and before you could say anything else Clark stepped closer again carefully, like he was still trying to make sure this was okay.

“You scared me for a second,” he admitted.

The confession was so earnest it made your chest ache.

“Sorry,” you whispered again.

Clark frowned immediately. “Stop apologizing.”

Then he smiled a little, nervous and sweet in that way only he could manage, and brushed his thumb lightly beneath your eye where your tears had escaped.

“You know,” he murmured, “for the record, I've been waiting for this too.”

And somehow that made your throat tighten even more.

When you were younger, love looked medicinal.

Not literally, of course. Nobody ever sat you down and said one day another person will save you from yourself. It was quieter than that. Hidden inside every movie you watched late at night and every song you replayed until the lyrics hollowed something out inside you.

Love was always presented as transformation. The lonely girl became radiant. The insecure girl became chosen. The moment somebody looked at her with enough devotion, all the sharp little insecurities evaporated like they had never existed at all.

Every story seemed to promise the same thing in different packaging: you will be wanted, and then you will finally become whole.

You absorbed that message young enough for it to root deep.

You remember being fourteen and standing sideways in front of your bathroom mirror, sucking in your stomach until your ribs hurt because girls in magazines looked effortless, and you already understood somehow that effortlessness was the closest thing women were allowed to perfection. You remember tilting your chin different ways, pulling at your clothes, analyzing every inch of yourself with the detached cruelty of someone grading an exam.

Too soft here. Too awkward there. Not pretty in the right way.

You spent years believing there was a correct version of femininity everyone else had received instructions for except you.

At school, pretty girls moved through the world differently. People softened around them automatically. Conversations bent toward them like gravity. They laughed without covering their mouths afterward, existed without apologizing first, and you wanted that ease so badly it made your chest ache.

Instead, you became observant. Funny. Self aware in the exhausting way insecure people often are.

You learned how to laugh before anyone else could laugh first. Learned how to make yourself agreeable and easy to keep around. You became skilled at reading rooms within seconds of entering them, instinctively figuring out who needed you quieter, prettier, smarter, less emotional.

Smaller.

And underneath all of it lived jealousy so intense it frightened you sometimes. Not loud jealousy, but silent jealousy. The kind that sat in your stomach like swallowed poison while you smiled through it politely.

You would see a beautiful girl beside someone you liked and immediately begin dissecting yourself against her without even meaning to.

Her skin is clearer. Her waist is smaller. She doesn't look nervous all the time.

You could ruin entire days that way.

Then dating started, and everything got worse.

Because suddenly there were histories attached to people. Other girls who existed before you. You approached relationships like someone preparing for inevitable disappointment, every question feeling like gathering evidence before a trial.

How many exes have you had?

Have you ever been in love before?

How many girls have you slept with?

You always forced yourself to sound relaxed asking it, like the answers wouldn't matter. Then afterward you'd lie awake replaying every detail they gave you voluntarily and inventing dozens more they didn't.

Sometimes you'd stalk social media until three in the morning searching for faces you could attach to names. Then you'd compare yourself against carefully curated photos until your stomach hurt.

It became ritualistic in a horrible way. You'd spiral. You'd cry. You'd hate yourself for caring so much.

Then you'd do it again anyway.

The worst part wasn't even the jealousy. It was how humiliating love made you feel afterward. The neediness. The panic. The unbearable desire to be chosen permanently in a world where nothing actually stayed permanent.

You hated how quickly affection turned into fear inside your chest. Hated that one delayed text could unravel your entire evening. You wanted love desperately, but you resented what wanting it turned you into.

Then Clark arrived and complicated everything.

Not because he was Superman, though discovering the quiet reporter you'd started falling for could hear heartbeats from buildings away certainly rearranged your understanding of reality for a while.

No, Clark terrified you because of how gently he loved.

There was nothing calculated about him. No games. No strategic withholding. Clark cared openly, almost recklessly, like affection was the easiest thing in the world for him to give.

Most men you'd dated made you feel auditioned, even the good ones. There was always some underlying sense that attraction was conditional, that you were being evaluated against every other woman in the room.

But Clark looked at you with this steady certainty that made your chest tight. Like he wasn't searching for flaws. Like he had simply seen you and decided that was enough.

You didn't know what to do with that kind of acceptance.

The first few months of knowing him, you kept waiting for the illusion to crack. Waiting for him to notice something disappointing about you and pull away slightly afterward. You expected affection to fluctuate because every other version of love you'd encountered had.

But Clark remained painfully consistent.

He remembered things you mentioned once in passing. He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it after memorizing your order accidentally. He texted you when he got home safe without being asked. When you spoke, he listened with his full attention instead of scanning the room over your shoulder for someone more interesting.

And maybe none of those things sound extraordinary.

But to someone who had spent years feeling fundamentally replaceable, they were.

Clark made you feel seen in a way that bordered on unbearable.

Because part of you still believed love had to be earned constantly through beauty, usefulness, perfection, or whatever version of yourself seemed easiest for other people to keep.

And Clark loved you before you had proven any of those things.

That should have healed something.

Instead, it exposed every wound more clearly.

Because if someone like Clark could love you this sincerely and you still hated yourself afterward, then maybe the problem had never been a lack of love at all.

You met him at the Daily Planet on a Thursday afternoon that already felt cursed.

The air conditioning on your floor had broken sometime before noon, leaving the newsroom sticky with late summer heat and irritation. Phones rang endlessly from every direction. Someone in politics was arguing loud enough to be heard across the bullpen. Perry had shouted your name three separate times in the span of an hour, and by three o'clock you were surviving entirely on bad coffee and spite.

You were halfway through rewriting a headline when Lois appeared beside your desk like a hurricane in heels.

“You look terrible,” she informed you casually.

You didn't glance up from your computer. “And you look intrusive.”

“Good. Keep that energy.” She dropped a folder onto your keyboard before you could stop her. “I brought you something.”

“Unless it's a winning lottery ticket or hard liquor, I don't want it.”

Lois grinned, sharp and dangerous in the way only Lois Lane could manage. “Perfect. You two already sound married.”

You frowned and finally looked up.

That was when you saw him standing awkwardly a few feet behind her.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a button down rolled messily at the sleeves like he'd tried to look professional halfway and given up afterward. His tie sat slightly crooked beneath the collar, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make him push them back up every few seconds.

Clark looked painfully out of place against the chaos of the newsroom. Like someone had taken a small town librarian and accidentally dropped him into the middle of Metropolis.

“This,” Lois announced with immense satisfaction, “is Clark Kent. Small town farm boy. Be nice to him.”

Clark immediately looked embarrassed. “Lois.”

“What?” she said innocently. “It's accurate.”

You expected him to laugh it off smoothly.

Most men did.

Instead, Clark glanced at you with visible nervousness, like he genuinely cared whether or not you liked him already.

“Hi,” he said, offering a hand. “Clark Kent.”

His voice surprised you. Warm. Deep. Softer than someone his size should've sounded.

You shook his hand automatically and immediately noticed how careful he was. Most people shook hands absentmindedly. Clark held yours like he was worried about gripping too hard, despite the fact that you were not made of glass.

“Nice to meet you,” you said.

Clark smiled then.

And God.

He was beautiful. Not movie star beautiful, not the polished kind of attractive that made heads turn instantly when someone entered a room. Clark's beauty unfolded slower than that. It crept up on you quietly until suddenly you realized you'd been staring at him for too long.

He looked warm. Open. Like sunlight through curtains early in the morning.

There was something deeply unguarded about him that threw you off balance immediately. Most people in Metropolis wore layers. Professionalism. Charm. Calculation. Everyone at the Planet sharpened themselves into something harder just to survive the pace of the city.

Clark still looked soft around the edges.

Sincere in a way that almost seemed outdated.

You remember thinking, very suddenly and very clearly, 'This man is going to ruin my life.'

Not because he was intimidating, because he wasn't.

That was the problem.

Men like Clark always ruined you the worst. The gentle ones. The ones who listened too carefully and smiled too softly and made you feel safe enough to lower your guard before they left carrying pieces of you with them.

It was never the cruel men who did the most damage. Cruelty at least prepared you for impact. But kind men convinced you to trust them first.

Then they became irreplaceable.

Clark settled into your life slowly after that.

At first he was just another reporter weaving through the chaos of the newsroom, apologizing too much when he bumped into desks and always looking faintly overwhelmed by Lois' existence. You'd catch glimpses of him throughout the day — bent over notes, arguing quietly with Perry, carrying six coffees because apparently he knew everyone's orders within a week.

And he looked at people when they spoke.

Really looked at them.

Most conversations in the newsroom happened while typing emails or scanning headlines or mentally preparing responses before the other person finished talking. Everyone was moving too fast to fully pay attention.

Clark paid attention completely.

The first real conversation you had with him happened after midnight during a stormy deadline shift. Half the office had gone home already, leaving the bullpen dim and exhausted. You were rubbing at your eyes trying to finish edits before Perry lost his mind when Clark appeared beside your desk holding two vending machine coffees.

“I think this legally qualifies as motor oil,” he said, setting one beside you. “But it's warm.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me all week.”

His smile appeared slow and shy, like he wasn't used to making people laugh on purpose.

“You've been here since six this morning,” he said. “Figured you could use it.”

The comment startled you.

Not because it was invasive, because he'd noticed.

“You keeping tabs on me, Kent?”

A faint flush climbed his cheeks instantly. “No. I just... notice things.”

And there it was again.

That sincerity.

After that, Clark became impossible to keep at a distance.

He remembered things casually, effortlessly, in ways that made your chest ache without permission. If you mentioned liking a certain pastry once, he'd bring it the next week because he “happened to pass the bakery.” If you complained about insomnia, he'd text you ridiculous articles about sleep habits at two in the morning because apparently he was awake too.

You started expecting him without meaning to. Expecting the warmth of his voice drifting over your cubicle walls. Expecting him beside your desk asking if you'd eaten lunch yet because somehow he'd noticed you skipped it again.

One afternoon you muttered absentmindedly that your favorite pen had run out of ink.

The next morning there was an identical pack sitting on your desk.

No note. Just Clark shrugging awkwardly when you confronted him about it.

“You sounded upset,” he said simply.

The terrifying part wasn't grand gestures.

It was the consistency.

Clark cared in steady, unremarkable ways that slowly became devastating.

Even after you started dating, even after discovering he was Superman and spending several weeks mentally unraveling over that information specifically, he remained impossibly attentive.

He texted you after interviews. After late shifts. After nights out with friends.

Made it home safe?

That was it sometimes.

Four words.

But nobody had ever checked for you so consistently before.

There were nights he'd disappear suddenly in the middle of dinner because somewhere across the city a building was collapsing or someone screamed for help loud enough for only him to hear. Then hours later you'd receive a text at three in the morning.

Sorry. You asleep?

Did you remember to eat?

It made no sense. This man could be stopping disasters halfway across the planet and still remembered tiny details about you.

Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. Not staring. Something quieter than that. Like there was an ache inside him he didn't know what to do with.

You'd be talking about something completely meaningless — office gossip, bad takeout, a movie you hated — and Clark would watch you with this soft, almost wounded affection that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.

Like he couldn't believe you were real.

And slowly, horribly, you began to hope.

Not all at once. Hope arrived carefully, in pieces. In the way your body relaxed around him without permission. In the way silence stopped feeling dangerous when you were together. In the way you started believing him every time he called you beautiful, even if only for a few seconds before doubt returned.

You hated that hope most of all.

Because hope meant vulnerability. Hope meant believing this time might be different.

And deep down, beneath all the fear and jealousy and poison you'd carried for years, a small desperate part of you started whispering something terrifying every time Clark touched you gently enough to make your throat ache:

Maybe this was it.

Maybe this was finally the antidote.

One night, months into the relationship, you sat cross legged on Clark's couch while he cooked dinner behind you.

It was late autumn by then. Cold enough outside that the windows fogged faintly around the edges, the city glowing soft and blurred beyond the glass. Clark had left one of his sweaters draped over your shoulders the second you walked through the door because apparently your hands were “always freezing,” and now the sleeves swallowed your fingers while you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.

His apartment smelled like garlic and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Warm and comforting, the kind of smell people associated with home.

The television murmured quietly in the background, some black and white movie Clark loved because his parents used to watch it when he was little. You weren't paying attention to the plot, only the rhythm of it. The low static hum of old film. The occasional burst of orchestral music. Clark humming softly under his breath while he stirred the sauce.

It was domestic and safe, the kind of moment people wrote vows about.

That thought hit you strangely hard.

Because this was the sort of life you'd imagined wanting when you were younger. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just this. Someone moving comfortably around a kitchen while you existed together in easy silence.

Clark looked over his shoulder toward you then, wooden spoon still in hand.

“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Because I was starving twenty minutes ago too.”

A smile tugged at his mouth.

God, even that smile hurt now.

Not in a bad way. In the way beautiful things sometimes did when you loved them too much.

You watched him move around the kitchen for a moment longer. The sleeves of his gray henley pushed to his elbows. His glasses slipping down his nose while he cooked. The quiet ease in his posture now that he was home with you instead of carrying the weight of the world somewhere on his back.

Clark in private still stunned you sometimes.

Superman belonged to everyone; Clark Kent belonged only to you.

Then Clark's phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You glanced down automatically, thinking it was a text message, and felt your stomach drop almost instantly.

A girl from Clark's college years had followed him on Instagram.

You knew that because her profile included the university initials, and because her picture was beautiful enough to make something sour twist beneath your ribs before you even clicked it.

You should've ignored it.

Instead your thumb moved anyway.

The first photo loaded, and she was pretty.

Of course.

Not intimidatingly glamorous. Worse than that. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of beauty that looked untouched and easy. Soft brown eyes. Tiny waist. Bright smile that didn't seem practiced at all.

You clicked the next photo.

Then another.

And another.

A sickness bloomed slowly beneath your skin because now your brain had something to work with.

A real face. A real woman who had existed in Clark's life before you.

You imagined them younger. Meeting in college hallways. Sitting too close together at parties. Her laughing at something he said while touching his arm casually like beautiful girls always seemed to do without fear.

Had he loved her?

Had he looked at her the way he looked at you now?

Had she ever stood in this kitchen?

You hated how quickly your thoughts spiraled.

Nothing had even happened. A follow request, that was all.

But your body reacted like betrayal had already entered the room.

Your chest tightened painfully. Heat crawled up your throat. You kept scrolling even while nausea spread hot beneath your ribs because some ugly part of you needed to know exactly what kind of woman Clark had once wanted.

Every photo became evidence against yourself.

Her legs are thinner than yours.

She looks easy to love.

She probably doesn't overthink every little thing.

Clark noticed the shift immediately.

Of course he did.

“You okay?”

His voice came from behind you, gentle and immediate.

You locked your phone too quickly. “Fine.”

The answer came automatic, almost too fast.

You heard the stove click off behind you almost instantly.

Silence settled over the apartment except for the television murmuring softly in the background.

“Hey.”

You looked up to find him watching you carefully from the kitchen doorway. Concern already written across his face. He wiped his hands absentmindedly on a dish towel before crossing toward the couch.

“Talk to me.”

The kindness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.

You hated that sometimes. Hated how quickly tenderness made tears burn behind your eyes these days. It felt embarrassing, how fragile you became whenever he handled you gently.

“I just...” You laughed shakily. “God, this is stupid.”

Clark's brow furrowed immediately.

“It isn't stupid if it's hurting you.”

There it was again. That awful, beautiful softness. Like your pain mattered to him even when it made no logical sense.

Clark crouched in front of the couch slowly, close enough for your knees to brush his chest. His expression stayed open and patient, waiting instead of pushing.

You stared down at your locked phone in your lap.

Then whispered, “Do you ever compare me to other girls? I don't know, like girls you know, girls you dated before me, girls you see walking on the street. Do you?”

The question sat between you for a second too long.

Clark's face softened immediately, something sad flickering across his expression. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Just the quiet hurt of hearing someone he loved talk about themselves that way.

“No,” he said softly.

You looked away first.

“But you've loved people before.”

“I cared about people before,” he corrected gently.

The distinction should've comforted you. Instead it made your throat tighter.

“Sometimes I think about everyone you've ever been with before me and I feel physically sick.”

Clark went very still.

The television laughed faintly in the background at some joke neither of you heard.

Silence stretched between you then, but not the dangerous kind. Not irritated silence. Sad silence. The kind that came from watching someone you loved hurt themselves in real time and not knowing how to stop it.

Clark reached for your hands carefully enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted.

You didn't.

His palms were warm around yours, steady.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I don't want anyone else.”

“But that's not the point.” Your voice cracked unexpectedly on the last word.

Because suddenly this wasn't really about the girl on Instagram anymore.

It was about the ugly thing underneath all of it. The constant, gnawing belief that eventually everyone would realize you were harder to love than they first thought.

That one day Clark would wake up and see you clearly. Really clearly. All the insecurity and jealousy and fear curled underneath your skin. All the exhausting ways you constantly needed reassurance while simultaneously distrusting it.

And once he saw it fully, he'd leave too.

Maybe not cruelly.

Maybe sadly.

But he'd leave.

Because people always did eventually.

Clark searched your face carefully like he was trying to read thoughts you couldn't say aloud.

“What is the point? Please tell me.”

And there it was.

The impossible question.

You stared at him, devastated suddenly by how badly you wanted him to answer it for you.

Fix me.

Please.

Tell me why I feel this way all the time.

Tell me how to stop measuring myself against every woman who walks into a room.

Tell me how to believe you when you say you love me.

Tell me why being loved still feels terrifying instead of safe.

Clark waited patiently while tears gathered in your eyes again.

“I thought...” Your voice trembled badly. “I thought being loved would make me feel different.”

The words landed heavily between you.

Clark looked heartbroken.

Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just devastated in this quiet, aching way, like he'd finally realized how much grief you'd been carrying silently the entire time he'd known you.

“Baby,” he said softly, “you think I don't see how hard you are on yourself?”

That did it.

You started crying fully then.

Because the worst part was that he did see it. Every flinch in front of mirrors. Every shift in your mood after seeing prettier women nearby. Every self deprecating joke disguised as humor.

He saw every ugly little fracture inside you and loved you anyway.

That should have healed something. Instead, it made the grief sharper.

Because now there was proof. Proof that even being loved completely and wholeheartedly still didn't silence the ache inside you.

And that realization terrified you more than loneliness ever had.

Clark moved immediately, sitting beside you on the couch and pulling you into him before you could apologize for crying.

You folded against his chest instinctively.

His arms wrapped around you carefully, one hand moving slowly up and down your spine while the other cradled the back of your head against his shoulder. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and warm and painfully human despite everything extraordinary about him.

“I've got you,” he murmured softly.

The words nearly broke you apart.

Because he meant them, completely.

“You don't have to earn love,” he whispered into your hair after a long silence.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

Because logically, rationally, you knew he was right. You knew people weren't meant to perform perfect versions of themselves just to deserve softness from others. Clark had spent months trying to show you that through every small, steady act of care he gave so naturally.

But somewhere deep inside you, underneath all the warmth of his body against yours and the comfort of being held, another voice still lingered quietly.

Small.

Persistent.

Cruel.

Then why doesn't it feel like enough?

Loving Clark felt like standing in sunlight with frostbite.

Warmth reached you, it did. That was what made it so confusing sometimes. Because Clark loved you beautifully. Consistently. There was never any shortage of tenderness between you, never any question about whether or not he cared.

And yet some parts of you stayed numb anyway.

Some wounds remained untouched by all that warmth no matter how desperately you wanted them healed.

Clark tried so hard.

Sometimes you thought loving you must feel like trying to hold water in his hands. Every time he soothed one hurt, another crack opened somewhere else. Another insecurity. Another spiral. Another night where your own mind turned against you so viciously it left you exhausted.

And Clark met every single one of those moments with gentleness.

That was the unbearable part.

He never mocked your fear or rolled his eyes at the things that sent you spiraling. Even when he clearly didn't fully understand why your mind turned ordinary things into catastrophes, he still handled your feelings carefully, like they deserved compassion instead of ridicule.

Like you deserved compassion instead of ridicule.

There were nights he'd find you sitting on the bathroom floor after staring too long at yourself in the mirror, knees pulled to your chest while shame crawled hot beneath your skin for reasons you couldn't even fully articulate. Clark would crouch in front of you immediately, concern softening his face before you'd spoken a single word.

“Hey,” he'd say quietly. “Talk to me.”

And sometimes you couldn't.

Sometimes there wasn't language for the heaviness sitting inside your ribs. How do you explain to someone that your reflection feels wrong in ways too abstract to name? How do you explain the exhaustion of constantly fighting your own brain just to exist comfortably inside yourself?

Clark never pushed when you couldn't answer. He would just sit beside you on the cold tile floor, broad shoulders pressed against yours, waiting silently until your breathing slowed again.

Once, after a panic attack left you shaking so badly you could barely unclench your hands, Clark sat cross legged on the edge of your bed and held your face between both palms with such impossible care it made fresh tears spill from your eyes.

The room was dark except for the small lamp glowing beside the bed. Your breathing still hurt from crying too hard, too long. Clark had arrived halfway through it, still wearing his glasses and rumpled work clothes, concern written all over his face the second he saw you curled against the headboard struggling to breathe properly.

He hadn't panicked, hadn't overwhelmed you with questions.

He just climbed onto the bed carefully and stayed close until the worst of it passed.

“Look at me,” he whispered gently once your breathing started slowing.

You tried. God, you tried.

But your vision blurred too badly with tears, and shame crawled hot beneath your skin at the thought of him seeing you like this again. Broken open. Unsteady. Too much.

“I can't,” you admitted weakly.

Clark's expression softened immediately. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away tears with a tenderness that almost hurt to endure.

“Yes, you can,” he murmured. “There you are.”

The words lodged somewhere painful inside your chest.

Not 'calm down.'

Not 'get it together.'

Not 'what's wrong with you?'

There you are.

Like he'd been searching for you beneath all the panic and noise. Like he still believed there was a version of you worth finding underneath all the unraveling.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of loving Clark Kent sometimes, the way he looked at you during your worst moments like you were still someone gentle and precious underneath all the damage.

Clark kissed every scar like reverence.

Not literally at first. It was quieter than that.

The scar near your knee from childhood. The stretch marks you once apologized for instinctively before he frowned and asked why you were apologizing at all. The parts of yourself you tried to hide automatically because past experiences had taught you softness was conditional.

Clark handled all of it carefully.

The first time he traced his fingers over the faint scars on your thigh without hesitation, your throat tightened so suddenly you had to look away.

It happened late at night while the two of you lay tangled together beneath his sheets, rain tapping softly against the windows while Clark talked about something you weren't really listening to anymore. Your attention had caught entirely on the gentle drag of his fingertips across skin you'd spent years trying not to think about too hard.

Then his thumb brushed over the scars.

He didn't freeze or pretend not to notice them. He simply touched them with the same tenderness he touched every other part of you.

Your chest tightened instantly.

Because he wasn't recoiling. Wasn't silently evaluating your body piece by piece beneath his hands.

Clark looked at your body like it was simply yours. Human and real and deserving of affection exactly as it was.

And still, somehow, you couldn't fully absorb it.

That disconnect tortured you quietly.

Because you knew how lucky you were. You knew people spent entire lifetimes searching for love this gentle, the kind that remained patient even when confronted with the ugliest parts of someone.

Clark loved you in a way that should have felt healing.

Instead, it often felt heartbreaking.

Not because he failed you. Because every time he held you through another spiral and the spiral still returned eventually, grief settled heavier inside your chest.

You started realizing love and healing were not the same thing.

That realization gutted you.

Sometimes Clark would wake in the middle of the night and find you staring at the ceiling beside him while thoughts churned endlessly inside your head.

“You're thinking too loud again,” he'd mumble sleepily, voice rough with exhaustion.

You'd laugh weakly. “Sorry.”

Clark always hated when you apologized for hurting.

Even half asleep, you could feel him frown.

“C'mere.”

Then he'd pull you against him immediately, large arms wrapping around your body until your back pressed firmly to his chest. Sometimes his hand would settle over your sternum like he was trying to steady the frantic rhythm underneath.

And slowly, eventually, your heartbeat would begin matching his.

Steady.

Clark held you like proximity itself could protect you from your own mind.

And maybe sometimes it helped.

There were moments where the noise inside your head softened enough for relief to slip through. Moments where Clark kissing your temple absentmindedly while half asleep made you feel briefly anchored to something solid.

But eventually the pain always returned.

You would wake the next morning and still feel fragile in your own skin. Still compare yourself against strangers without meaning to. Still flinch at compliments some days because part of you remained convinced love could disappear without warning.

And every time that happened, guilt followed immediately after.

Because Clark was trying so hard.

You'd catch him watching you carefully after another spiral with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he hated that he couldn't save you from something invisible. Superman could stop earthquakes. Could hold collapsing buildings above his head.

But he couldn't pull the self hatred out of your bloodstream.

And the cruelest part was that some broken, childish part of you still wanted him to.

You kept waiting for the moment his love would finally outweigh your fear. For the day you'd look in the mirror and hear his voice louder than your own cruelty.

But healing didn't work like that.

Love didn't either.

That realization came slowly and painfully. It lived in the quiet moments after comfort faded. In the mornings where Clark kissed your forehead before work and you still spent twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward.

Clark's affection was real. Powerful, even.

There were parts of you that survived entirely because he'd loved them gently instead of harshly. Loving Clark changed you in undeniable ways. It made the world feel safer. Made tenderness feel possible again.

But it was not a cure.

His love could hold you while you unraveled, but it could not stop the unraveling itself.

And maybe that was the hardest truth of all.

Not that Clark failed to save you.

But that he was never supposed to.

The fight happened in winter.

It wasn't explosive or cruel, which somehow made it worse.

There was no screaming. No slammed doors. No sharp words designed to wound on purpose. If anything, the entire thing unfolded too softly, like watching something precious crack in slow motion while neither of you knew how to stop it.

The work gala had been sitting on your calendar for weeks. Some charity event hosted high above the city in a building full of people who looked expensive even standing still. Lois had been excited for it. You had been dreading it quietly since the invitation arrived.

By the time the night finally came, your anxiety already sat heavy beneath your ribs before you'd even started getting ready.

The apartment bathroom glowed warm with yellow light while snow drifted past the windows outside. Makeup products cluttered the counter beside half empty glasses of water and abandoned earrings you'd decided you hated the second you put them on. Three dresses lay discarded across the bedroom behind you like evidence from some humiliating crime scene.

Nothing fit right.

Or maybe it fit fine and your brain simply refused to let you see it correctly anymore.

The black dress pinched too tightly around your waist.

The blue one made your shoulders look broad.

The silk one clung wrong at the stomach.

Every angle in the mirror felt unbearable.

You stood there twisting sideways beneath the bathroom light, arms wrapped around yourself while shame crawled hot and vicious through your chest. The longer you stared, the less recognizable your reflection became. Every insecurity sharpened under scrutiny until it felt impossible to imagine leaving the apartment at all.

Outside the bathroom door, Clark moved quietly through the bedroom gathering his wallet and watch, the soft sounds of hangers shifting and drawers opening carrying faintly through the apartment.

“We're gonna be late,” he called gently.

Not irritated. Never irritated. Even now, with the evening slipping away while you stood frozen in front of the mirror fighting yourself, his voice stayed patient and warm.

You squeezed your eyes shut briefly. “I know.”

There was a small pause before he spoke again, softer this time, closer to the door like he'd started making his way toward you.

“You look beautiful.”

The compliment hit something raw inside your chest.

Your laugh came out brittle before you could stop it. “You don't have to say that.”

Silence answered immediately.

Heavy silence.

The kind that made your stomach sink because you knew, instantly, you'd hurt him.

Clark stepped inside the bathroom carefully, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt if startled too quickly. He'd already changed into his suit, dark tie loosened slightly at the collar while snowlight filtered pale through the bedroom windows behind him.

God.

Even then, part of you noticed how beautiful he was.

Not intimidatingly beautiful, just unfairly kind looking.

Clark took in the scene immediately. The dresses scattered across the room. Your mascara beginning to smudge beneath your eyes. The way your arms folded tightly around your middle like you were trying to physically hold yourself together.

Concern softened his face instantly.

“You've been in here almost an hour,” he said quietly.

You looked away from the mirror first. “I can't find anything that looks right.”

Clark frowned slightly, confused in that earnest way he always became when confronted with pain he couldn't logic through.

“You've changed three times,” he said gently. “You looked beautiful in every dress.”

Your throat tightened immediately.

Because he meant it.

That was the problem.

Clark wasn't saying it automatically or carelessly. He wasn't throwing compliments at you just to end the conversation faster. He genuinely looked confused standing there in the bathroom doorway, like he couldn't understand why you were seeing something so completely different in the mirror than what he saw standing in front of you.

“I don't understand why you can't just believe me.”

The words were quiet. Careful. Not accusatory in the slightest, but they still split something open inside your chest.

Because there was hurt in them too.

Not anger.

Just the soft, exhausted sadness of someone trying desperately to hand you love in a language you still didn't know how to accept.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the tears gathering humiliatingly fast in your eyes, and suddenly anger flared sharp beneath all the shame.

Not at him.

Never at him.

At yourself. At the exhaustion of carrying this feeling everywhere you went. At how impossible it seemed to escape your own mind no matter how deeply Clark loved you, no matter how gently he held you, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were something worth cherishing.

Something inside you snapped.

“Because you love me.”

The words came out harsher than you intended, echoing off the bathroom tiles in the silence between you.

Clark blinked, visibly thrown by the sudden sharpness in your voice. “Yeah,” he said slowly.

You laughed once under your breath, bitter and shaky all at once. “So of course you don't see me clearly.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, regret crashed into you.

You watched the pain cross his face in real time.

Not offense. Not anger.

Pain.

Real, quiet pain that softened his expression instantly, like you'd reached into his chest and pressed against something bruised there. Clark stared at you for a long second without speaking, and somehow that hurt worse than if he'd snapped back. He looked at you like you'd just reduced his love to something naive. Like you'd taken something honest and beautiful he'd been trying to offer you and called it blindness instead. Like you'd struck something tender directly with your bare hands.

“Is that what you think love is?” he asked softly. “Blindness?”

You opened your mouth, and closed it again.

Because maybe it was.

Maybe some part of you truly believed love required delusion to survive. Maybe you thought people only stayed because affection distorted reality enough to make flaws tolerable.

Otherwise, why would anyone stay at all?

The silence stretched painfully between you.

Clark stepped closer slowly.

Snow drifted quietly outside the windows behind him while the radiator hissed softly in the apartment, filling the room with warmth that somehow never reached your skin.

“I know what you look like,” he said carefully.

You shook your head immediately. “Clark...”

“No.” His voice stayed gentle, but steadier now. “Listen to me.”

He moved closer until he stood directly behind you in the mirror.

Not trapping.

Just there.

Grounding.

“I know every version of you,” he continued quietly. “I know when you're insecure before you even say anything. I know when you're pretending you're okay because your left eye starts twitching when you're anxious.” A sad smile flickered briefly across his face. “I know you leave cabinet doors open. I know you steal my shirts even though you claim you don't. I know you cry when dogs get hurt in movies and pretend it's allergies afterward.”

Your chest hurt.

Clark's voice softened further.

“I know you.”

The words landed heavily.

Completely.

“And I still love you.”

His voice wavered slightly on the last part.

That nearly destroyed you.

Because there it was again. The unbearable truth of him. Clark wasn't loving some idealized fantasy version of you. He saw the mess. The insecurity. The spiraling thoughts and sharp edges and ugly fears.

And he loved you anyway.

Tears blurred your vision instantly.

“But why doesn't that fix me?” you whispered.

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Raw.

Ugly.

Honest in a way that made your stomach twist afterward.

Why wasn't his love enough?

Why did you still stand in mirrors feeling fundamentally wrong even after being loved this deeply? Why did panic still crawl through your bloodstream at parties full of prettier women? Why did reassurance dissolve so quickly inside you no matter how sincerely he offered it?

Why could Superman hold collapsing buildings together with his bare hands but not the inside of your chest?

Clark looked devastated.

Not because you'd insulted him, and not because he was angry. It was worse than that. You watched understanding settle over his face slowly, painfully, like he was finally seeing the full shape of something that had been hurting right in front of him this entire time.

The problem had never been that he wasn't loving you enough.

The problem was that somewhere along the way, you'd started expecting love itself to save you. To reach into years of fear and insecurity and self hatred and somehow cut them out cleanly. Like being loved deeply enough would finally silence every ugly thing you believed about yourself.

And Clark, for all his strength, could not survive carrying that responsibility forever.

He reached toward you slowly then, hands careful and uncertain in a way that made your chest ache. Like your heart had become something fragile in his hands, something he was terrified of hurting further.

“This isn't something I can save you from.”

The words shattered something inside you.

Not because they were cruel.

Because they were true.

You felt the truth of them immediately, sinking heavy into your ribs with devastating clarity. Clark could hold you through every panic attack. Could kiss every scar on your body gently enough to make you cry. Could love you with terrifying sincerity for the rest of your life.

But he could not heal wounds he didn't create.

Your knees gave out before you fully realized you were crying.

You slid down against the bathroom wall hard enough for the tile to sting through the thin fabric of your dress, sobs tearing out of your chest so violently it hurt to breathe. Everything inside you felt split open. Years of impossible hope collapsing all at once under the weight of reality.

Clark followed you down immediately.

Suit forgotten. Gala forgotten. Everything forgotten except you.

He knelt in front of you on the cold bathroom floor, both hands reaching for your face while tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him.

“Hey,” he whispered urgently. “Hey, look at me.”

You couldn't.

Everything hurt too badly.

“You're your own hero in this story, baby,” he murmured shakily, pressing his forehead against yours. “But I don't want to lose you to this.”

The words cracked something open inside you all over again.

Because Clark sounded scared.

Not exhausted. Not resentful.

Scared.

Like he was watching someone he loved drown right in front of him while knowing he couldn't jump into the water and breathe for them.

“You won't,” you whispered automatically.

But even to your own ears, the words sounded uncertain.

Because for the first time, truly, you were beginning to understand how exhausting it must be to love someone who kept asking for proof love could resurrect them.

Clark closed his eyes briefly, his breath uneven against your skin before he spoke again.

“I'll stay,” he said quietly. “But you have to stop asking me to heal something I didn't break.”

That one hurt the most.

Not because it was harsh.

Because he was right.

Love would hold you. Comfort you. Change you in small, tender ways over time. But it would never become the cure you spent your whole life searching for, and somewhere beneath all the grief pouring out of you on that bathroom floor, you finally understood that.

Love won't fix you.

taglist : @sunlightkent @mollymal @clarkswhore-jpeg @kristne13 @slytherinscreamqueen

[inactivewhore]

[theworstwolvie]

daybreak - false devotion (finale)

summary: when kal-el finally returns to you, he brings a few consequences with him. do either of you care enough about them to stay separated? and, more importantly - will apollo spare his favorite son for defiling his head priestess?

CWs: 18+ MDNI!!!! demigod!kal-el x priestess!reader, explicit descriptions of sex, fingering (f!receiving), kissing, unprotected p in v, pet names, no use of y/n, is this blasphemy?, they fuck on top of an altar, so much ANGST and ARGUING but there's a happy ending, flashbacks and hints of jealousy, perhaps a little historically inaccurate but i tried my best ok!, i think that's it!

word count: just below 9.7k (im so sorry)

author's note: thank you to everyone who has supported this insane project. i love you all dearly. i hope you all love this insanely massive finale. and the porn. let me know your thoughts below!

previous part | series masterlist

You can still remember what it felt like the first time Kal-El returned to you from a long quest. 

It’s hard to explain the relief that comes to you when your half-blooded lover returns to you. Usually, it takes him less than a week. Less than seven days to slay a beast, or find an object for his Father, or track down some random person you’ve never heard of just to hand them over to Hades. 

Less than a week to come back to you. To sneak into your bedroom in the middle of the night when everyone else is sleeping and get reacquainted with the feeling of your body against his. To whisper soft, sweet promises into your neck while trying his absolute hardest to make you the mother of his future children. To cradle you until the sun rises—fingers intertwined while he asks you to tell him everything that happened with you while he was gone—and sneak out after stealing a few gentle kisses and whispering something only you hear from him against your lips: 

“I love you, my heart.” 

So, on the evening of his 28th day being gone, your nerves are fried within your skin. Completely frayed and undone. Completely destroyed. Mirroring your heart, in a way. 

“He will return, dear. Pay no mind to the number of days he’s been gone,” your mother says after she kisses your temple. She’s been sitting next to you on your bed, arm around your shoulders, comforting you through every silent fallen tear and soft mutter about how much you miss him. 

“It has never been this long,” you whisper. She presses her lips into a thin line and tightens her grip on you. When you were a child and you were this upset, she would pull you into her lap and cradle you for as long as you needed the comfort. Sometimes—especially on a night like tonight—you wish you were still small enough for it. 

“I’m starting to fear the worst.” 

There’s a whimpered little cry that accompanies your confession. It’s almost as if that cry was trying to fight that sentence from leaving you, trying to fight an unintended manifestation of your worst nightmare. All your mother does is chuckle at you and give you a soft squeeze. 

“That boy cannot stay away from you. No matter how hard the gods try to keep him at bay, he will return.” 

You push out a weak little laugh. Your hands find their way to your face so you can wipe your tears away. 

“He is almost as stubborn as his Father,” you offhandedly mumble. Your mother hums. 

“Aren’t they all?” 

With another kiss, this time pressed to the top of your head, she pulls away from you and stands up from your bed. She pats your shoulder and says, “Sleep. You’ll fall ill if you keep worrying over him like this.”

You send her a smile. It’s hardly there. A subtle lift of the corners of your lips. When she’s on her way out of your room, you exchange a set of whispered “I love you”s before everything around you falls silent. Your mother has a beautiful way of silencing your worried thoughts. Now that she’s gone, they’ve returned in full swing. 

How long has he been dead? Did it happen quickly? Did his Father willingly let him walk into death? Had he been prepared for it? Is that why he almost refused to leave you this time, or why he asked you to run away with him? Did he think of you in his final moments? 

Was your name the last thing to grace his tongue before it lost its ability to speak?

Oh, that one is terrible. Selfish and cruel, as a matter of fact. You shake your head and run a hand over your face. With a sniffle and a harsh internal chastising, you scoot back onto your bed and lie down. Your eyes meet the ceiling of your home. The bland, dull white of it is boring enough to put anyone to sleep no matter their mental torment. 

Moments before sleep finally takes you, a gentle breeze brushes over the side of your face and shoots a shiver down your spine. You huff and gently push yourself up onto your elbows. You love your mother more than life itself, but her nasty habit of accidentally leaving your bedroom window open is going to kill you one day. 

When you open your eyes, you see a shape in the corner of your room. A massive, dark shape in the form of a person; your exhausted mind figures it must be some sort of specter. You gasp and lurch forward to run out of your room. The sharp inhale echoes, bouncing off the walls. 

Seconds later, Kal-El’s lunging forward to cover your mouth with one massive hand, attempting to quiet your scream before it can materialize in the first place. 

“Shh! It’s only me!” He laughs quietly to himself and shakes his head. 

“If you want me to stay, I suggest you keep your scream in.” 

You groan against his palm and smack at his broad shoulders with both of your hands. He doesn’t so much as wince, but his smile and the mischievous glint in his eye grows every time a blow lands. When he pulls his hand off of your mouth, you whisper shout, “Are you trying to frighten me to death?!” 

All he does is lean forward and kiss you as a response. You can’t help the fire burning in your cheeks and the smile growing on your lips while he does so. Reuniting with him and all of his infuriating habits always brings you the most joy you’ve ever felt. A kiss so deep, so loving, so filled with his adoration for you usually strikes all of his annoyances away.

When you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into your bed as you fall back down into it, you both laugh into the kiss. The momentary bliss doesn’t last long, though; he’s too busy pulling away from the kiss and looking down at you. 

“If that happened, I would be the first to venture down to Hades and retrieve you.” 

“Your confidence will be the end of you one day, Kal-El,” you tease. He rolls his eyes. His big, blue, beautiful eyes. They’re just as bright in the moonlight as they are in the sunlight, and yet so much more striking this close up. You allow yourself to drink him in, to reacquaint yourself with his sharp and yet soft, lovely features you could never dream of forgetting. 

“You spend your days complimenting my confidence. I’m convinced it is your job to do so,” he counters while he spreads your legs and settles between them. 

“Confidence may not have been the right word, then. Perhaps I was talking about your stubbornness.” 

That one gets him to scoff at you. 

“Do you really believe I’m as stubborn as my Father?” he asks while kneeling between your legs. It’s an excuse for him to reach up and open your curtains, to let a little more light into your room so he can see you for the first time in a month. You sit up to follow him, interrupting the way his eyes were drinking in your features beneath the blue moonlight. 

“Stop listening to my conversations!” you hiss. “And, anyway, I said you are almost as stubborn as your Father.” 

He huffs. His hands ghost over your arms, slowly dragging up to your shoulders so he can brush your hair off of them. When his warm, calloused palms cradle your cheeks, you soften. Your nerves stitch themselves back together. The aches and pains in your heart dissipate. For the first time in a month, everything feels right. This is where you’re meant to be. This is who you’re meant to be worshipped by. 

You couldn’t possibly be angry with him. Not when he’s returned to you, as he promised he would.

“I missed you.” 

When tears started pooling in your eyes, you’re not sure. But they’re there, and as they slip down your cheeks with those three little words, Kal-El thumbs them away. 

“Words cannot describe how much I missed you. The only thing preventing me from losing my head was knowing each one of my steps brought me closer to you,” he coos in return. He leans down to connect your lips, but only for a moment. When he breaks the kiss again, you fear you’ll go insane. Your hands find their way to his breastplate. Usually, you beg him to rid his body of it. Of any clothing, really. 

But you’re so happy that he’s back here, that he’s finally with you again, that you’d let him keep it on forever if he so pleased. 

“You were away for far too long,” you whine. “I feared you were dead.” 

He chuckles. Shakes his head and pulls back just to look at you, just to drink you in once again. 

“Not even death itself could keep me away from you, my heart.” 

That feeling—that relief—floods your system when, for the first time in five years, he stands in front of you. There’s no smile on his face. No moonlight illuminating his eyes as he glues them to yours. No smile on his lips and no promise that you’ll get to kiss them within only a few seconds. Just a solemn, darkened look in his eyes, and a scowl you’ve never seen before, and a harsh, hardened mask that you’re struggling to read. 

This is still the same Kal-El you grew up with. His face has not changed much. His eyes are still bluer than the sky, and his full lips would probably feel the same on your skin, and his broad shoulders are as commanding as ever. 

And yet he is much different. 

Despite that, your relief and elation persist. They worm their way through your skin, your muscles, your bones. Warm your cheeks and steal your breath from your chest. You’d almost forgotten how to breathe until your body forced you to suck in some of the already electrified air between you two. 

Your voice finds its way back to you when you rasp, “What are you doing here?”

Incredible. The first time you see him in five years, and that’s what your cursed brain and vocal chords spit out. 

Kal-El stays planted in his spot, unflinchingly rigid. Stuck in it, standing just a few steps away from your door, hands twitching at his sides while he continuously balls them into fists and releases them. The rough heave of his chest is visible even in your widened distance. Each rise and fall of it sees the shadows of all the slashes on his worse-for-wear breastplate shifting and growing. 

“Is it too late to receive a prophecy?” he gruffly asks. His voice brings you comfort despite sounding angrier and deeper than it once was. Your head aches, light from your ritualistic fasting and from the dark, low timbre rising from his throat, crossing the distance between you, and floating into your ears. 

You clear your own throat. Swallow once, then twice, just to get the lump out of it enough to reply to him. Steady your knees so that collapsing isn’t an option, so that he won’t be able to run over and save you from cracking your head open on the shaky floor beneath your feet. 

He doesn’t deserve to save you after this long, right?

“The ritual is over, and—and I know you can speak to your Father without my help.” 

He nods. It was more of a bowing of his head. His eyes remain on you. You aren’t sure what he’s about to say, but you know for a fact that you aren’t scared of it. 

Nothing can be worse than the five year silence you’ve endured from him. 

“May I speak to you, then?” 

“Are you not speaking to me now?” you return. A barbed, rough thing that you unintentionally threw his way. It gets his stone-set frown to twitch, the corners of his mouth to tick upward for a split second. Maybe the Kal-El you remember is still in there somewhere. 

“Well played. I missed your quick wit,” he mumbles. He looks down at the floor between you. At the few feet of distance that feel like miles. When he lifts his eyes to meet yours, they shoot a shiver down your spine that only he could conjure. 

He takes one step forward. 

You take one step back. 

“I have a question for you.” 

His voice is still deep, but it’s a little hesitant, now. Not as confident. That backward step of yours must have knocked some of his confidence you love so much away.

“What manner of question?” you inquire. As your chest heaves and your voice trembles, you can’t help but wonder if he’s seeing and hearing that. If he’s sensing your nervousness. If he’s picking up on the adrenaline and exhaustion coursing through your veins. If he still knows you as well as you know him.

“Personal,” he answers. Straightforward and honest. Not as playful as he once was, but still just as curious. 

You press your lips into a thin line. How dare he? 

“You—” you cut yourself off with a scoff and shake your head. After letting out a harsh little pointed laugh, you ball your fists up at your sides and continue. 

“You are out of your mind. You resurface after five years of the darkest, most vindictive silence, and you believe you still have the right to my personal life?”

“I did not believe asking the Oracle a question would cause so much strife. Is it not your life’s calling to answer them?”

“Asking the Oracle a personal question is causing the strife. You should have been here if you were interested in my life.”

He laughs at your venom; venom you feel bad about throwing at him, but venom he’s earned, if you were being honest. You haven’t heard his laugh in what feels like an eternity. It’s a sound that threatens to knock the breath right out of your chest and have you barreling toward him. A sound that might make you throw away all of your hesitations about accepting his apology—if it ever comes. 

“A general question, then?” 

You roll your eyes.

“Very well,” you mumble. Your left hand waves him on while you walk over to your bed. Tries to yank the question out of him just to get it over with. Kal-El shifts on his feet—stumbles just a bit—before he stills and plants himself across your room from you once again. 

He misinterpreted your wave. You weren’t calling him over to your bed, despite the fact that you very much want to. With a gentle clearing of his throat and a soft whisper of your name, he pushes out the question that he mentioned:

“Will you ever trust me again?” 

It hangs in the thick air between you. You answer him first, silently, with a few quick blinks and a rough glare. But your words, angry and hurt, find their way out of your mouth soon after.

“That was your general question?” you viciously quip. “I see that these last five years have turned you into a liar.”

You gnaw on your bottom lip for a moment. Suck in a deep breath before you release it and clench your jaw. You weren’t supposed to get this angry, but how could you have stayed calm? 

“No. I don’t believe I can trust you anymore.” 

His face twitches; a reaction you’ve only seen once before, when you told him what your future held for you and your relationship. He’s taken aback. Shocked. Betrayed. 

How ironic.

He mutters your name once more, a little louder than last time, then says, “I am the same man you once knew.” 

You hold a hand up to silence him when he attempts to continue speaking. It works instantly. He heels like an obedient dog. Despite the fact that your head nearly started spinning from hearing his tongue form your name twice in less than a minute, you push forward.

“You could not possibly be the same man I once knew, because he would not have left me for five years without so much as a single uttered word. My Kal-El would not have done that.” 

You pull your sheets back and sit down on your bed. It’s easier to turn your back to him when you say this, but your head tilts to the left just a bit. Just enough to keep him in your peripheral. 

Your voice returns. Soft. Hesitant. Weak.

“This is the equivalent of a stranger breaking into my bedroom. You may have my Kal-El’s face, but you don’t have his heart.” 

Your head falls at the same time that his does. While you’re too busy looking at the fabric of your dress, fingers picking at the soft weave of it and eyes stinging with bitter, confused tears, you hear him shuffling. Usually steady hands fumbling with something while his footsteps slowly march toward you. What a rare gift it is to hear the footsteps of someone who usually moves in silence. 

What a gift it is to hear him at all. 

When he rounds your bed and enters your view again by standing just in front of you, you can feel his warmth before you see him. Although you refuse to raise your head and meet his eyes, you’re still surrounded by him. Inescapable in body and in mind, apparently. 

But the avoidance of eye contact doesn’t last long, because he reaches down to cradle your jaw and tilt your head up. A shiver runs down your spine, followed by a shockwave through all your nerve endings. The first time he’s touched you in nearly an eternity, and his calloused hands are still as soft in their handling of you as they always were.

His thumb runs over your bottom lip. A soft touch that distracts you from the fact that he’s no longer wearing his breastplate, that his top half is completely bare. That explains all the shuffling you heard behind you. It also explains the heartbeat blooming between your thighs as your eyes not-so-subtly rake over the body you’ve longed for. 

The candlelight you’ve yet to extinguish is falling on him as any light does. Cascading over his skin before seemingly sinking into it. You’d never know he had been through years of battles where he’d almost gotten his life taken from him judging by the innate perfection of his body. No scars. No bruising. No bleeding wounds. 

Simply golden, glowing, and perfect. The pure perfection of a god’s favored child. 

He calls your name again and you force your eyes away from his body. 

“I don’t have his heart?” he softly asks. Then, he kneels in front of you. Now that his face is mere inches from yours, he releases your chin. His eyes flicker from your gaze to your lips. Back and forth. Slow, gentle flits in which his eyelashes are speaking louder than his words. Communicating all of his desires within one simple repetitive motion.

Your breathing hitches in your throat as you feel his fingers slowly, softly curling around your right wrist. His heat is almost unbearable. A once comforting feature of the person you were entangled with now twisted and contorted into a hateful reminder of the past. It radiates off of him and bleeds into your skin, threatening to scorch it beyond repair.

And yet you find yourself leaning into him, almost as though your bodies are magnetic. As if his being is supposed to merge with yours. As if the only way to complete that merge is to press yourself into and against him for all of eternity. 

“You recognize his heart, don’t you?” he questions. He raises one brow as he finally peers directly into your eyes. 

“Would you know it if you felt it?”

When did his face close in on yours enough to feel his breath fanning out over your skin?

You don’t respond with words; just a simple nod of your head. You’re too busy staring into his eyes and trying to control your own breathing, trying to prevent passing out. They’re still bluer than the sky but hiding something deep within them that you can’t place. A secret, probably. He likely has millions of them now.  

He lifts your hand and presses it against his chest, right over the racing heart within his ribcage. The rough, quick, recognizable thump of it makes you whimper. It gets quicker and harder when you whisper his name and shake your head. You want to tear your hand away, want to pull off of his chest and send him away. 

“Is this not the heart you know?” 

A tear slips down your cheek. His other hand immediately rises to your face, cradles it, and thumbs that tear away. Your brain and tongue want to decline him. 

Your heart has other plans.

“Yes,” you admit through a sob. “Yes, it is.” 

He smiles. His heart races beneath your fingers once again. The creases at the corners of his eyes are deeper than you remember, but the brightness within his irises and the beam of his smile are the same. All of it is just as heartbreakingly beautiful as you remember, and although it should feel good, it hurts. 

Just as he’s sliding his hand down from your cheek to your neck and bracing his thumb against your jaw, you shake your head and back away from and push off of him. Skitter backwards and deeper into your bed. 

“You should not be touching me,” you regretfully mumble through the lump in your throat. More regretful words follow a soft hiccup and the frantic wiping away of your tears with the back of your hands. 

“And I should not be touching you. You know as well as I do that this is not permitted.” 

“But—”

“No,” you aggressively cut him off while leaning back on your elbows. Your glare is harsh. Unforgiving, in a way; something you force upon yourself just so that you can make the inevitable of having to turn him away easier on you.

“Why did you come here in the first place?”

He pushes himself up from the floor to kneel on your bed. His knees press into the mattress, tucked between your legs while his hands gently caress them. The feeling of his palms is something you know all too well. All heavy and hot and familiar against your ankles, slowly sliding up your calves before he grips your knees. Before his fingers brush against the bottom hem of your dress. 

Soon enough, his hands fly up to your hips so he can keep you from running any further. 

“Is it not acceptable for me to see you? Is my potential visitation not the reason you chose this very temple to dedicate yourself to?” he aggressively responds. 

You try to push his hands off of you and open your mouth to chastise him for touching you again, but you don’t get far. His grip tightens until it’s almost bruising your hips. You should hate the way it feels. Why don’t you hate the way it feels?

And then someone standing in your still-open doorway speaks, instead. 

The women in the temple fawn over Kal-El unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. It almost makes you regret bringing him to the gathering room in the middle of it instead of stowing him away in your bedroom, but you had no choice. The idiot had left your door open and, as a priestess was walking by in the middle of the night, she happened to see him in your room.

It cut the conversation you were having—and his desperate, topless groveling—short just before he could dive into you.

Now, you’re dealing with a group of priestesses being diminished to a bunch of jittery, lovesick school-girls. Feeding him praises, asking him questions, fawning over everything he does and every gift he displays. 

The worst part of it all? Kal-El seems to love it.

“How strong are you, Kal-El? Is there no limit to what you can lift?” 

“May we see another one of your gifts?”

“Can you really dash across the city in the blink of an eye?”

“Have you always been so handsome?”

That last one has you scoffing. Has you crossing your arms over your chest and smirking to yourself as you fall to the back of the crowd of priestesses. That ought to do a lot for his ego. Or, his confidence, as he refers to it. 

They don’t know that it took him years to grow into his ears. That he wasn’t always so muscular, that he once favored a twig instead of the tree trunk that very same twig fell from. That he used to hide his eyes in conversation by gluing them to the floor because he was too scared to speak to others. That he used to be so shy you thought you’d never hear his voice.

That you loved him despite all of that, and that you still love him.

He’s the complete opposite, now. He looks at all of them and speaks to each person directly. He winks at them. He asks them questions to get to know them a little better, and he acts like he’s surprised at everything they show him within the temple. 

The only thing that’s the same is the way he still loves you.

You let them encircle the man you still love, too. They can have their fun. 

Because, no matter how much they demand his attention, you notice him staring at you. Taking any chance he can get to look at you, to ensure you’re still there, that you’re still looking at him. It’s subtle; the only time he’s ever been subtle in his adult life, perhaps. 

“Does your Father speak to you about us?” one of the newer priestesses asks. You roll your eyes. What a stupid question. There’s a decent possibility that his Father doesn’t even exist, at this point. If that’s the case, you have a few questions to ask him about who was sending him on those tasks so many years ago.

“Oh,” Kal-El mutters through what you know as an awkward laugh, but what they’ll think is a charming, relaxed one. “Of course. He is aware of your dedication and incredibly appreciative of it.”

You cock one eyebrow up. Kal-El’s eyes meet yours as he’s scanning through the crowd. It’s almost as if he can see through them. 

“Liar,” you mouth. 

He winks at you, this time. 

“What brings you to Delphi, Kal-El?” another girl asks. He keeps his eyes on you, although it’s clear that he heard the girl. She’s looking up at him with all the love in the world, and yet all he can do is stare at you. 

“Just visiting an old friend,” he answers without hesitation. It’s annoying how the corners of your lips tick upwards at the sound of it. Some of the girls start barking their questions to him, but they bounce right off of him. 

“An old friend? Are you not visiting for your Father, instead?” you ask above all the voices. He smiles at you. 

“A little of this, a little of that.” His response is nonchalant. Playful. Enough to make your temper from earlier dissipate the tiniest bit. Your brow ticks up in amusement, as do the corners of your lips. 

Another girl steals his attention. 

You turn on your heel and retreat to your room. Sometimes, his light is too much to bear.

When your feet brush over your bedroom’s cold, stony floor, you get rewarded with a shiver shooting up and down your spine. The chill of it is something you never get used to, especially when all you’re accustomed to is warmth. Warmth from the sun. Warmth from Kal-El. 

You sigh as you look down at the altar to Apollo pressed against the foot of your bed.

“Your son will be the death of me and of the girls. Best you collect him now and send him off on a task if you want priestesses here come Spring,” you mutter to a god who isn’t listening. To a god who doesn’t exist, for all you know. 

You round the altar to get to your bed, but the sound of your door opening and shutting makes you punch out an embarrassing little fearful squeak and spin on your heel to see who’s there. You should have known who it’d be. Even though you’d like to delay the inevitable, he barrels into it head first. Of course he does.

Kal-El mutters a soft apology for frightening you, then starts toward your bed. Toward you. When you back away—just like you did earlier—he stops in his tracks.

“Your priestesses seem to like me.”

“They don’t get to meet a half-blood every day. Especially not one descending from their god,” you confess. 

Their god. Not yours.

You don’t want to look up at your god, so you focus on your bed instead. On the feeling of the soft linen beneath your fingertips. The more you look at him, the less likely you’ll be to send him away like you know you must do. 

He hums. Shoots you a smile that you’ve dreamt of seeing for eons. One you can feel even though you’re not looking directly at it. 

“I remember when you once treated me as they do. As though I was exciting to you.” 

You roll your eyes. Couldn’t fight back your own little smirk if you tried, but at least you can keep yourself from looking at him. From falling into him like you desperately want to. 

“Don’t fool yourself. You lost your beautiful, half-blooded luster to me the very first day we met. Do you remember that? When I greeted you and you ran behind your mother?”

“I thought we agreed we would never speak of that!” he tosses back at you. You laugh to yourself.

With a soft clearing of your throat and a few gentle blinks to rid yourself of your suddenly stinging tears, you reply, “Maybe, but…I think of that shy little boy more often than not.”

He says nothing. When you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you can see the pink dusting over his cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight you’ve yet to snuff out. Kal-El shifts a bit. Shifts as though he’s uncomfortable in his own skin. You choose to continue for him. 

“We agreed on a lot of things that neither of us have upheld, anyway. You have broken your promises, and I have broken mine. That’s just…” 

You pause to let out a sigh. You wave your hand. You finally look at him, and he looks just as broken as you feel. Shoulders slumped. Lips set in a frown. Hands twitching at his sides, balling up then releasing. You’re not happy with the amount of times you’ve seen that in one night.

“I don’t know. Life, perhaps. The horrid whirlwind of life. Of our life.”

Things fall silent for a while as he contemplates his own response—if you can call a maximum of 10 seconds “a while.” He’s always been more of a doer than a thinker. 

“Our life?” 

His voice is quiet, but the look in his eyes is loud. Accusatory. Maybe a little hateful. You’re not accustomed to seeing rage in his eyes—especially not rage being directed at you. But you’ve been here once before. You know what it looks like.

Your face flushes with an unbearable heat. Sharp, prickling, embarrassed tears start welling in the corners of your eyes. Your chest caves in on itself and you let go of your sheets in order to take a single step closer to him.

“No, you misunderstood, I simply meant—”

Your attempt at deflecting falls on deaf ears because he interrupts you. Should have expected that. You said what you said, and his penchant for being headstrong will take it and run with it.

“Do you ever think about what our life would have been like had you not chosen this?” 

You frown, and your rebuttal dies in your throat. The tears that had been pooling in your eyes grow larger and larger until they finally slip down your cheeks. With a trembling bottom lip and a refusal to look at him anymore, you shrug your shoulders.

“No,” you eventually, half-heartedly whisper. A lie that floats over to him and pisses him off. 

“You left me, Kal-El. I stopped thinking about you some time within your five years of silence.” 

That pisses him off more. 

“Your heart has been hammering within your chest from the moment you saw me. Tell me again that you have stopped thinking of me without your heart betraying your tongue,” he seethes. You grumble a few curses beneath your breath. After you ball up your fists at your sides and glare at him, he sends you a glare of his own to match.  

Maybe it’s your subconscious that forces you to close in on him. Some unspoken desire that causes you to storm up to him and give him a rough push on the front of his breastplate. It’s disheartening how all of your strength barely makes him move an inch.

“Perhaps my heart has given me away, but it races when it sees you because I’m reminiscing about the man you once were! The one who never would have left me even though we could not be together!” 

He shakes his head and his face falls. He says nothing, but you can see his jaw ticking over and over again as though he’s chewing on the words he wants to say to you. Why he’s holding them back, you’re not sure—but you don’t give him a chance to expel them, anyway.

“You gave up on us! I made my choice because I still wanted you to be in my life! You ran away like a coward! Like an imposter of your own title!” you shout. 

Every few words are punctuated with rough punches against his chest. Your hands ache, knuckles bruising and breaking open from each repeated impact on his battle-worn breastplate. Hitting him feels like punching a stone wall. 

Worth it.

You pull back once your hands are numb. Your face and knuckles are soaking wet; with tears, with blood, with your steadily bubbling hatred for the man you’ve loved your entire life. As you pace around in front of the altar at the foot of your bed, you berate him more:

“Why do you claim to be a hero? You didn’t save me! You abandoned me when you always promised me you never would! You were the only person I could count on, the only god I believed in, and you left me!”

 It’s as though a dam has broken. You’ve kept these thoughts in for far too long. Lived with them. Let them rot your heart and soul. If he’s here visiting an old friend, doesn’t he deserve an update on how she’s been feeling?

Kal-El punches out a loud, angry groan and closes the distance between you two within the blink of an eye. He covers your mouth with one large palm and wraps his other arm around your waist, something that forcibly stops your frantic movements as you try to wriggle out of his tight, unforgiving hold. 

Any other day, you’d be grateful to have him on you in such a way. But when he’s got you this close, when he’s this angry, and when you can feel the edge of his Father’s altar digging into the back of your thighs and the heat of his body bleeding into yours, you’re not as welcoming to it. 

“I did not abandon you by choice! It was forced upon me!” he booms. 

You still to process his words while you try to rid yourself of the fear of being yelled at by someone stronger than any living being in the world. His palm stays glued to your mouth. Your hands fly up to his exposed biceps. 

He lowers his volume, but he’s still irate when he says, “This abandonment was my attempt at saving you.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. All you can do is blink up at him. To rid yourself of your tears, to clear your line of sight and ensure that this is actually happening. That he’s this close. That you’re not imagining this. That he just said what he said. 

When he reopens his eyes, you have no choice but to look into them. Where else would you look, anyway? Nothing is as appealing as his eyes.

“I know how utterly relentless my Father is to His Oracle,” Kal-El confesses. The low vibration of his voice bleeds through his chest and into yours. Is it wrong that it’s stoking a fire deep in your belly?

“He would have ruined you. These rituals would have driven you mad. He would have used you as a beacon for His voice and torn your body and mind to shreds, and He wanted to tear you apart. He wanted to destroy you.” 

You tense in his arms. Your blood runs cold despite his heat bleeding into you while he holds you like you’ll shatter and disappear if he lets you go. How on Earth are you supposed to go forward with a revelation like that? 

Kal-El smiles at your suddenly widened, worried eyes. It’s weak. A gentle lift of the corners of his lips, one corner going a bit higher than the other like it always does. You see this crooked smile every time you close your eyes. What a blessing it is to see it in person once again.

“You were the only thing that could take me away from Him. Don’t you remember that?”

He sighs, a deep, heavy thing that he expels from his nose. His palm slides off of your mouth so he can cradle your cheek instead. So his thumb can slowly glide back and forth over the soft apple of your cheek and swipe away your tears. As his fingers curl around your jaw and his other hand tightens around your waist again, he mutters, “I obviously couldn’t let Him get His hands on you. He knew I wouldn’t stand for it.” 

“What did you do?” you whisper. A sad—but relieved—little question that you push out from the depths of your chest. At least he stood up for you, right?

“I made a deal with Him,” he answers. His hand falls from your cheek to his own bicep where your hand lies. As your fingers interlock and he gives your hand a squeeze, your heart swells within your chest. This is what your body is made for: Being pressed against and intertwined with Kal-El’s. 

“My silence for His.” 

The confused knitting of your brow makes him laugh to himself. He pauses. Swallows so thickly, so roughly, that you can hear it. 

“He would not acknowledge you as long as I stayed away from you. As long as I continued to do His bidding.”

All of the air leaves your chest in a pathetic, shaky sigh. The truth would have been easier for you to handle if he had simply said he was angry with you for leaving him. The silence, both from Father and son, would have been easier to digest if that was the case.

Instead, you have a man still in love with you and yet barred from being with you, and a god who hates you. 

Poetic.

You finally tear your eyes off of his by leaning forward and pressing your forehead against his left shoulder. It hurts to look at him. It hurts to be close to him, but it hurt even more when he was away. Seems like no matter what happens tonight, you’ll wake up in pain in the morning.

His hand releases yours so he can lift it up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers curling into your hair and gently pulling on it. It’s a soft maneuver; one that earns him a quick glance into your eyes again. You whine. Whether it was from need or exhaustion, you aren’t sure. It might have been both. 

Then, he descends. Presses his forehead against yours, brushes his nose against yours, lets his lips ghost over yours in a way that makes your knees tremble and your nails dig deeper into his biceps. 

“No,” you unconvincingly whisper while you turn your head away. “We can’t. Your Father, He…”

Kal-El ignores your little plea. Ignores his Father, too, when he presses a soft, featherlight line of kisses along your jaw. Before you know it, your body is arching into his; exhibiting a mind of its own, especially when he starts kissing down to your neck.

“He will kill us both,” you quickly mutter. Another whine accompanies your statement as soon as his tongue laves over your pulse point. He hums, ignoring your warning and slipping his hand out of your hair and toward your left hip. His other arm tightens, pulling your hips flush against his. 

“He’ll have, ah—” you cut yourself off with a moan as soon as you feel him suckling on that sensitive spot just below your ear. One he knows well. One he’s spent a lot of time mapping out. 

“Your head! He’ll have your head for defiling His Oracle!” you pathetically squeak out while your hips buck against his. Kal-El shakes that very head that his Father will likely rip off of his body. 

“I think we should let Him watch.” 

His fingers ghost over the hem of your dress where it lays at your mid thighs. He pushes you back further onto the altar belonging to his Father, lays you out on top of it, without caring about the sound of things falling off of it and clattering to the floor.

You’re both going to die. This will certainly seal your fate. 

“Kal-El,” you whisper. He looks up at you as his hands slide further and further up your thighs, fingers curling around the soft flesh of them so he can spread your legs and slot between them. His fingerprints burn into your skin all the same. How you’ve missed that burn.

“We will not survive His wrath if we do this,” you warn him while splaying out on the altar beneath you. The cool stone of it does marvels for your heated skin as it permeates through your thin dress. 

“My wish to spend eternity with you will be fulfilled, then,” Kal-El quips while he pulls back just to rid himself of his clothing. You roll your eyes, but the heat welling in your cheeks and the smile spreading on your lips is unavoidable. That sharp tongue is still the same.

His breastplate being off gives you the ability to touch his body when he returns to you and climbs atop of you on this altar and settles between your legs. You try your best not to focus on his hardened length, on how it’s flush against his stomach because of how big he is, on the way the tip of it is slowly dribbling small, soft white pearls of precum down onto your dress when he’s above you, now.

If you think about it too much, you’ll drool.

As your palms glide up from his abdomen and stomach to his chest, he works on winding your legs around his waist.  

“We can’t do this,” you whimper, nails digging into the soft, fleshy skin of his chest. When you press your hand flat against the left side of it, you find his heart racing beneath your palm.

“Tell me you want me to stop,” he purrs. “Banish me from the temple. From your body.” 

You can’t. You won’t. So you stay silent.

Before you know it, he’s leaning down to press a litany of kisses on your skin. He starts at the corner of your lips, then moves down to your chin and your jaw. Those distracting, sweet little things make it hard for you to notice one of his hands has slipped beneath your dress and is inching up to the soft apex of your inner thigh. 

Your hips raise to his intoxicating touch despite your mouth saying, “This is wrong, Kal-El.” 

He scoffs. When he pulls the thin, wispy excuse of a pair of panties you’ve got on to the side and runs two fingers through your folds, he smiles. Your body jolts but raises again, weak and dizzy and drunk off of him just from this small reuniting of your skin. 

Skin that should have never been separated.

“It seems as though your mouth does not agree with your body,” he coos.

He collects a tiny bit of your seemingly unending wetness before sliding his fingers up to your clit and simply pressing them against the sensitive bud. You squeal and arch your back into him, your clothed chest pressing against his bare one. 

Why on Earth has he not taken this dress off of you?

Maybe he can read your thoughts, because not even a second later, he takes his hand out from beneath your dress and grabs onto the neckline of it where it sits just above your breasts. It’s an illusionary soft touch, though, because within the blink of an eye, he’s ripping that dress in half in only a few rough pulls and exposing your bare upper body to him. 

You gasp in shock, but your cunt flutters around nothing and you push out a moan you didn’t even know you had in you. 

“If you are my Father’s Oracle, and I do His bidding, do I not have a right to defile this body?” he asks, dipping his head down and kissing your neck and chest. His stubble scratches over your skin, roughness that overtakes each tender kiss, and has you bucking your hips up in a desperate attempt to meet his once more. 

Then his wicked fingers return to and start circling your clit; the movement is gentle and slow, lacking any of the force you need to actually finish. You keen and shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck and tangling your fingers in his thick, curly hair. Those curls are much longer than they was all those years ago when you last clung onto them for dear life while he brought you to the light. 

A rough tug on them has him picking his head up and detaching his lips from your skin. He shoots you a charming little wink. Something to remind you this is the same Kal-El you’re dealing with despite his rougher, more frantic touches. 

“Although,” he lowers his head just a bit, lips brushing over the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I recall you calling me your god.” 

With a smirk on his lips and honey in his deep, tempting voice, he purrs, “So perhaps I’m taking what’s rightfully mine. That would make you my Oracle. My priestess. I’m taking what belongs to me.” 

You couldn’t stop your eyes rolling back into your head if you tried. Oh, how you’ve missed this filthy mouth and these skilled fingers. 

You tug on his hair again and punch out an embarrassingly loud moan, your hips gently chasing each circle he draws on your clit. Kal-El replaces his fingers with the pad of his thumb, continuing the circles as he slowly pushes those two fingers inside of your weeping, messy cunt. 

The sting from the stretch of his fingers forces a yelp from your throat. Your legs twitch around his waist and you attempt to squeeze your thighs together, but to no avail. He’s too broad between your legs. Too big. Too heavy. 

You try to skitter away. Try to pull back yourself back. But he’s got a tight grip on your waist with that other hand; one that keeps you still, one that squeezes your hip and pins you down beneath him.

He kisses your cheek and sets a soft, steady pace when he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

Kal-El pulls back to look you in the eyes. It’s hard to resist him when he’s knuckle-deep in your severely neglected cunt and cooing, “Rest your tired body. It’s been far too long since someone’s taken care of you, hasn’t it?” 

With tears pooling in your eyes and an inability to look away from him, you nod. You cling to him, tightening your arms around his neck so you can pull yourself up and press your lips against his. The kiss is frantic. Hot and heavy. Clicking teeth. Clashing tongues. Five years’ worth of anger, of hatred, of longing and lust—all coming to the surface. 

You moan when he softly bites and tugs on your bottom lip. After it snaps back into place, you giggle and try to kiss him again, but you’re too busy falling back down onto the altar and crying out in pleasure, instead. He’s started to curl his fingers deep inside of you after each soft thrust of them, brushing up against that soft spot that always makes your thighs shake and your head spin. He remembers your body almost better than you already know it.

“That’s it,” he whispers through kiss-swollen lips and a prideful smile as he gazes down at you. “Let me take care of you.” 

“You must stop,” you brokenly whimper, hips squirming and stomach tightening more and more with each swipe of his thumb over your clit and thrust of his fingers into your cunt. It’s not like you want him to stop; not when you’re this close, not when you’ve missed him for this long. But maybe if it seems like you’re protesting this, you won’t be punished as harshly. 

“Just a bit longer, my heart,” he coos. You melt immediately. Tears slip down your cheeks as you arch off of the altar pressing into your back. My heart. That affectionate name hasn’t been spoken to you in ages, and yet it still sounds exactly the same. Reverent. Sweet. Caring. You must be dreaming.

Except you very much aren’t. Kal-El’s still moving his fingers and drawing soft circles on your clit with his thumb. He’s still pressing kisses into your skin as though he’s praying into it, his lips brushing against your collarbones, his teeth marking your now exposed skin as he trails down to your breasts and eventually sucks your right nipple into his mouth.

You curse. You dig your nails into his bare shoulders and claw down the broad expanse of his back. You cry out his name. Then you come so hard that there are stars in your vision, that your body is uncontrollable beneath his, and that you’re gushing around his fingers and dripping down onto the altar beneath you. 

Kal-El pulls off of your nipple with a pop, but he continues working your clit to help you ride out your orgasm. He kisses you, then. Slow and sweet with a gentle glide of his tongue against your bottom lip. As he slips his tongue into your mouth, you slide one of your hands down his chest, abdomen, and stomach, fingers brushing against his toned body so you can reorient yourself with him. 

“Tell me who you belong to,” Kal-El whispers against your mouth when he breaks the kiss and pulls his fingers out of you. His hips buck as soon as you wrap your hand around his cock and give it a few gentle, teasing pumps. The breathy little moan he pushes into you is enough to get you to come again. 

“You know it has always been you,” you whisper back. You guide the tip of his cock to your cunt and allow him to glide it through your folds. The fleeting contact on the sensitive little bundle of nerves with each roll of his hips makes you whine and squirm, but he wraps one arm around your waist to still you and continues moving. He shudders. Then whimpers. 

“Say it again. Who do you belong to?” he gruffly commands. It’s always been cute to you when he tries to steel himself as he’s falling apart.

He punctuates that question by pushing the tip of his cock into your dripping cunt, and your breath hitches in your throat. You manage to expel it when he buries himself in you to the hilt with no resistance, but it’s only because his size knocks all of the air out of your lungs. 

“You! I belong to you!” you keen. Your head meets the altar beneath you, fully tossed back and eyes squeezed shut as he nearly splits you in half. He nods despite his face slipping down and being buried in your neck. As he pulls his hips back and slowly pushes them back in to meet yours, you cry out in some sort of mix of pleasure, pain, despair, and happiness. 

Kal-El groans, eyes lidded and chest heaving. The twitch of his cock against your walls tells you he’s already close. He was right when he said it’s been far too long.

You remember this ache, this burn, this stretch all too well. The further Kal-El dives into your cunt, the more convinced you are that he’s in your stomach. That he’s trying to become one with you judging by how deeply he’s buried in you, how his arms are tightly locked around your waist, how every inch of his skin is on yours. If your bodies could meld together, he’d have figured out how to do it by now.

“You’re all mine,” he breathes into your skin between hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck and each moan that tumbles from his lips. He pushes himself up onto one hand so he can peer down at you. The other hand slips away from your waist so he can grab your chin and force you to look at him. You do as he wants, although it’s through lidded eyes and teary, blurred vision. 

“Denounce my Father on His own altar. Tell Him who your real god is,” Kal-El demands, voice low and deep and hateful—but not towards you. Towards the god you’re supposed to worship. Towards the Father you both have nothing but disdain for. 

What else are you supposed to do? Deny the truth?

“You’re my god,” you confess while you squirm under the intensity of his gaze. High-pitched and breathy and desperate, but it’s the full truth. Always has been. Always will be. 

“That’s right. I’m your god,” he growls, cocky and full of himself and somehow hotter than he’s ever been.

He smiles down at you. Odd to see that big, beautiful, crooked grin when he’s spewing nothing but filth out of his mouth, but that makes him all the more enticing. He rolls his hips against yours a few times. The tip of his length bumps against your cervix and has your body recoiling from the shock, but only seconds later, you belt out your loudest moan of the night.

“I love you,” Kal-El professes just as his thrusts get a little sloppy. As his hand meets your waist and his fingers leave a few dark marks on your left hip from his rough grip. As he desperately tries to hold back a whimper from the tight squeeze of your fluttering walls—and fails.

You work up just enough strength to lift your head and squeak out, “I love you.” 

A gentle repetition of his own words. 

Something that floats up to him, has him flushing a soft pink, and leaning down to press your lips together. 

“May I ask why you returned after so long?” you softly inquire. 

Kal-El shifts beneath you. Stiffens and tightens his hold on your waist before he gently shrugs. He presses a soft kiss on your temple and tugs your blankets up and over your shoulders.

“Something told me you needed me.” 

You huff against his neck and your eyes flutter shut. You brand a smile into his skin the same way that he’s branding his fingerprints into yours.

“I’ve needed you every day for the last five years, Kal-El,” you mumble against the side of his neck. He chuckles. His fingers, much gentler than earlier, glide up and down your back. A soft, repetitive drag that makes it harder and harder for you to stay awake. 

“I saw your father upon my arrival in Delphi, and I took that as a sign.”

You smile again. Your hand slides up to his chest and your palm presses over the left side of it. The thump of his heart is slow and steady. Likely the last bit of comfort you’ll have before sunrise. 

“He warned me you were here. He still does not like you.” 

Kal-El laughs at you. You furrow your brow and sneak a peek up at him. 

“It isn’t a laughing matter.” 

“It is,” he hums against your lips when he leans forward to kiss you. “Because my Father still does not like you. All of the cards are stacked against us.” 

You groan and pull away from him. Your head gently smacks against the bare skin of his chest as you bury your face into it. 

“What will we do?”

He could probably sense the worry in your shaky voice. Because, when he gives you a squeeze, tangles your legs together, and kisses your head for what seems like the thousandth time tonight, he remains calm to combat your fright. 

“Whatever it is, we will do it together, my heart.”

taglist: @clarkscolumn @unificsation @luvekent @tooloudarts @clarknsun @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @thceseus @sparklingsin @anon-188 @avgdestitute @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @maiamore @scorpioriesling @aviesnapkindoodles @loverreid @tehesoapytehe @icybarness @finco99

[inactivewhore]

[theworstwolvie]

daybreak - false devotion (finale)

summary: when kal-el finally returns to you, he brings a few consequences with him. do either of you care enough about them to stay separated? and, more importantly - will apollo spare his favorite son for defiling his head priestess?

CWs: 18+ MDNI!!!! demigod!kal-el x priestess!reader, explicit descriptions of sex, fingering (f!receiving), kissing, unprotected p in v, pet names, no use of y/n, is this blasphemy?, they fuck on top of an altar, so much ANGST and ARGUING but there's a happy ending, flashbacks and hints of jealousy, perhaps a little historically inaccurate but i tried my best ok!, i think that's it!

word count: just below 9.7k (im so sorry)

author's note: thank you to everyone who has supported this insane project. i love you all dearly. i hope you all love this insanely massive finale. and the porn. let me know your thoughts below!

previous part | series masterlist

You can still remember what it felt like the first time Kal-El returned to you from a long quest. 

It’s hard to explain the relief that comes to you when your half-blooded lover returns to you. Usually, it takes him less than a week. Less than seven days to slay a beast, or find an object for his Father, or track down some random person you’ve never heard of just to hand them over to Hades. 

Less than a week to come back to you. To sneak into your bedroom in the middle of the night when everyone else is sleeping and get reacquainted with the feeling of your body against his. To whisper soft, sweet promises into your neck while trying his absolute hardest to make you the mother of his future children. To cradle you until the sun rises—fingers intertwined while he asks you to tell him everything that happened with you while he was gone—and sneak out after stealing a few gentle kisses and whispering something only you hear from him against your lips: 

“I love you, my heart.” 

So, on the evening of his 28th day being gone, your nerves are fried within your skin. Completely frayed and undone. Completely destroyed. Mirroring your heart, in a way. 

“He will return, dear. Pay no mind to the number of days he’s been gone,” your mother says after she kisses your temple. She’s been sitting next to you on your bed, arm around your shoulders, comforting you through every silent fallen tear and soft mutter about how much you miss him. 

“It has never been this long,” you whisper. She presses her lips into a thin line and tightens her grip on you. When you were a child and you were this upset, she would pull you into her lap and cradle you for as long as you needed the comfort. Sometimes—especially on a night like tonight—you wish you were still small enough for it. 

“I’m starting to fear the worst.” 

There’s a whimpered little cry that accompanies your confession. It’s almost as if that cry was trying to fight that sentence from leaving you, trying to fight an unintended manifestation of your worst nightmare. All your mother does is chuckle at you and give you a soft squeeze. 

“That boy cannot stay away from you. No matter how hard the gods try to keep him at bay, he will return.” 

You push out a weak little laugh. Your hands find their way to your face so you can wipe your tears away. 

“He is almost as stubborn as his Father,” you offhandedly mumble. Your mother hums. 

“Aren’t they all?” 

With another kiss, this time pressed to the top of your head, she pulls away from you and stands up from your bed. She pats your shoulder and says, “Sleep. You’ll fall ill if you keep worrying over him like this.”

You send her a smile. It’s hardly there. A subtle lift of the corners of your lips. When she’s on her way out of your room, you exchange a set of whispered “I love you”s before everything around you falls silent. Your mother has a beautiful way of silencing your worried thoughts. Now that she’s gone, they’ve returned in full swing. 

How long has he been dead? Did it happen quickly? Did his Father willingly let him walk into death? Had he been prepared for it? Is that why he almost refused to leave you this time, or why he asked you to run away with him? Did he think of you in his final moments? 

Was your name the last thing to grace his tongue before it lost its ability to speak?

Oh, that one is terrible. Selfish and cruel, as a matter of fact. You shake your head and run a hand over your face. With a sniffle and a harsh internal chastising, you scoot back onto your bed and lie down. Your eyes meet the ceiling of your home. The bland, dull white of it is boring enough to put anyone to sleep no matter their mental torment. 

Moments before sleep finally takes you, a gentle breeze brushes over the side of your face and shoots a shiver down your spine. You huff and gently push yourself up onto your elbows. You love your mother more than life itself, but her nasty habit of accidentally leaving your bedroom window open is going to kill you one day. 

When you open your eyes, you see a shape in the corner of your room. A massive, dark shape in the form of a person; your exhausted mind figures it must be some sort of specter. You gasp and lurch forward to run out of your room. The sharp inhale echoes, bouncing off the walls. 

Seconds later, Kal-El’s lunging forward to cover your mouth with one massive hand, attempting to quiet your scream before it can materialize in the first place. 

“Shh! It’s only me!” He laughs quietly to himself and shakes his head. 

“If you want me to stay, I suggest you keep your scream in.” 

You groan against his palm and smack at his broad shoulders with both of your hands. He doesn’t so much as wince, but his smile and the mischievous glint in his eye grows every time a blow lands. When he pulls his hand off of your mouth, you whisper shout, “Are you trying to frighten me to death?!” 

All he does is lean forward and kiss you as a response. You can’t help the fire burning in your cheeks and the smile growing on your lips while he does so. Reuniting with him and all of his infuriating habits always brings you the most joy you’ve ever felt. A kiss so deep, so loving, so filled with his adoration for you usually strikes all of his annoyances away.

When you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into your bed as you fall back down into it, you both laugh into the kiss. The momentary bliss doesn’t last long, though; he’s too busy pulling away from the kiss and looking down at you. 

“If that happened, I would be the first to venture down to Hades and retrieve you.” 

“Your confidence will be the end of you one day, Kal-El,” you tease. He rolls his eyes. His big, blue, beautiful eyes. They’re just as bright in the moonlight as they are in the sunlight, and yet so much more striking this close up. You allow yourself to drink him in, to reacquaint yourself with his sharp and yet soft, lovely features you could never dream of forgetting. 

“You spend your days complimenting my confidence. I’m convinced it is your job to do so,” he counters while he spreads your legs and settles between them. 

“Confidence may not have been the right word, then. Perhaps I was talking about your stubbornness.” 

That one gets him to scoff at you. 

“Do you really believe I’m as stubborn as my Father?” he asks while kneeling between your legs. It’s an excuse for him to reach up and open your curtains, to let a little more light into your room so he can see you for the first time in a month. You sit up to follow him, interrupting the way his eyes were drinking in your features beneath the blue moonlight. 

“Stop listening to my conversations!” you hiss. “And, anyway, I said you are almost as stubborn as your Father.” 

He huffs. His hands ghost over your arms, slowly dragging up to your shoulders so he can brush your hair off of them. When his warm, calloused palms cradle your cheeks, you soften. Your nerves stitch themselves back together. The aches and pains in your heart dissipate. For the first time in a month, everything feels right. This is where you’re meant to be. This is who you’re meant to be worshipped by. 

You couldn’t possibly be angry with him. Not when he’s returned to you, as he promised he would.

“I missed you.” 

When tears started pooling in your eyes, you’re not sure. But they’re there, and as they slip down your cheeks with those three little words, Kal-El thumbs them away. 

“Words cannot describe how much I missed you. The only thing preventing me from losing my head was knowing each one of my steps brought me closer to you,” he coos in return. He leans down to connect your lips, but only for a moment. When he breaks the kiss again, you fear you’ll go insane. Your hands find their way to his breastplate. Usually, you beg him to rid his body of it. Of any clothing, really. 

But you’re so happy that he’s back here, that he’s finally with you again, that you’d let him keep it on forever if he so pleased. 

“You were away for far too long,” you whine. “I feared you were dead.” 

He chuckles. Shakes his head and pulls back just to look at you, just to drink you in once again. 

“Not even death itself could keep me away from you, my heart.” 

That feeling—that relief—floods your system when, for the first time in five years, he stands in front of you. There’s no smile on his face. No moonlight illuminating his eyes as he glues them to yours. No smile on his lips and no promise that you’ll get to kiss them within only a few seconds. Just a solemn, darkened look in his eyes, and a scowl you’ve never seen before, and a harsh, hardened mask that you’re struggling to read. 

This is still the same Kal-El you grew up with. His face has not changed much. His eyes are still bluer than the sky, and his full lips would probably feel the same on your skin, and his broad shoulders are as commanding as ever. 

And yet he is much different. 

Despite that, your relief and elation persist. They worm their way through your skin, your muscles, your bones. Warm your cheeks and steal your breath from your chest. You’d almost forgotten how to breathe until your body forced you to suck in some of the already electrified air between you two. 

Your voice finds its way back to you when you rasp, “What are you doing here?”

Incredible. The first time you see him in five years, and that’s what your cursed brain and vocal chords spit out. 

Kal-El stays planted in his spot, unflinchingly rigid. Stuck in it, standing just a few steps away from your door, hands twitching at his sides while he continuously balls them into fists and releases them. The rough heave of his chest is visible even in your widened distance. Each rise and fall of it sees the shadows of all the slashes on his worse-for-wear breastplate shifting and growing. 

“Is it too late to receive a prophecy?” he gruffly asks. His voice brings you comfort despite sounding angrier and deeper than it once was. Your head aches, light from your ritualistic fasting and from the dark, low timbre rising from his throat, crossing the distance between you, and floating into your ears. 

You clear your own throat. Swallow once, then twice, just to get the lump out of it enough to reply to him. Steady your knees so that collapsing isn’t an option, so that he won’t be able to run over and save you from cracking your head open on the shaky floor beneath your feet. 

He doesn’t deserve to save you after this long, right?

“The ritual is over, and—and I know you can speak to your Father without my help.” 

He nods. It was more of a bowing of his head. His eyes remain on you. You aren’t sure what he’s about to say, but you know for a fact that you aren’t scared of it. 

Nothing can be worse than the five year silence you’ve endured from him. 

“May I speak to you, then?” 

“Are you not speaking to me now?” you return. A barbed, rough thing that you unintentionally threw his way. It gets his stone-set frown to twitch, the corners of his mouth to tick upward for a split second. Maybe the Kal-El you remember is still in there somewhere. 

“Well played. I missed your quick wit,” he mumbles. He looks down at the floor between you. At the few feet of distance that feel like miles. When he lifts his eyes to meet yours, they shoot a shiver down your spine that only he could conjure. 

He takes one step forward. 

You take one step back. 

“I have a question for you.” 

His voice is still deep, but it’s a little hesitant, now. Not as confident. That backward step of yours must have knocked some of his confidence you love so much away.

“What manner of question?” you inquire. As your chest heaves and your voice trembles, you can’t help but wonder if he’s seeing and hearing that. If he’s sensing your nervousness. If he’s picking up on the adrenaline and exhaustion coursing through your veins. If he still knows you as well as you know him.

“Personal,” he answers. Straightforward and honest. Not as playful as he once was, but still just as curious. 

You press your lips into a thin line. How dare he? 

“You—” you cut yourself off with a scoff and shake your head. After letting out a harsh little pointed laugh, you ball your fists up at your sides and continue. 

“You are out of your mind. You resurface after five years of the darkest, most vindictive silence, and you believe you still have the right to my personal life?”

“I did not believe asking the Oracle a question would cause so much strife. Is it not your life’s calling to answer them?”

“Asking the Oracle a personal question is causing the strife. You should have been here if you were interested in my life.”

He laughs at your venom; venom you feel bad about throwing at him, but venom he’s earned, if you were being honest. You haven’t heard his laugh in what feels like an eternity. It’s a sound that threatens to knock the breath right out of your chest and have you barreling toward him. A sound that might make you throw away all of your hesitations about accepting his apology—if it ever comes. 

“A general question, then?” 

You roll your eyes.

“Very well,” you mumble. Your left hand waves him on while you walk over to your bed. Tries to yank the question out of him just to get it over with. Kal-El shifts on his feet—stumbles just a bit—before he stills and plants himself across your room from you once again. 

He misinterpreted your wave. You weren’t calling him over to your bed, despite the fact that you very much want to. With a gentle clearing of his throat and a soft whisper of your name, he pushes out the question that he mentioned:

“Will you ever trust me again?” 

It hangs in the thick air between you. You answer him first, silently, with a few quick blinks and a rough glare. But your words, angry and hurt, find their way out of your mouth soon after.

“That was your general question?” you viciously quip. “I see that these last five years have turned you into a liar.”

You gnaw on your bottom lip for a moment. Suck in a deep breath before you release it and clench your jaw. You weren’t supposed to get this angry, but how could you have stayed calm? 

“No. I don’t believe I can trust you anymore.” 

His face twitches; a reaction you’ve only seen once before, when you told him what your future held for you and your relationship. He’s taken aback. Shocked. Betrayed. 

How ironic.

He mutters your name once more, a little louder than last time, then says, “I am the same man you once knew.” 

You hold a hand up to silence him when he attempts to continue speaking. It works instantly. He heels like an obedient dog. Despite the fact that your head nearly started spinning from hearing his tongue form your name twice in less than a minute, you push forward.

“You could not possibly be the same man I once knew, because he would not have left me for five years without so much as a single uttered word. My Kal-El would not have done that.” 

You pull your sheets back and sit down on your bed. It’s easier to turn your back to him when you say this, but your head tilts to the left just a bit. Just enough to keep him in your peripheral. 

Your voice returns. Soft. Hesitant. Weak.

“This is the equivalent of a stranger breaking into my bedroom. You may have my Kal-El’s face, but you don’t have his heart.” 

Your head falls at the same time that his does. While you’re too busy looking at the fabric of your dress, fingers picking at the soft weave of it and eyes stinging with bitter, confused tears, you hear him shuffling. Usually steady hands fumbling with something while his footsteps slowly march toward you. What a rare gift it is to hear the footsteps of someone who usually moves in silence. 

What a gift it is to hear him at all. 

When he rounds your bed and enters your view again by standing just in front of you, you can feel his warmth before you see him. Although you refuse to raise your head and meet his eyes, you’re still surrounded by him. Inescapable in body and in mind, apparently. 

But the avoidance of eye contact doesn’t last long, because he reaches down to cradle your jaw and tilt your head up. A shiver runs down your spine, followed by a shockwave through all your nerve endings. The first time he’s touched you in nearly an eternity, and his calloused hands are still as soft in their handling of you as they always were.

His thumb runs over your bottom lip. A soft touch that distracts you from the fact that he’s no longer wearing his breastplate, that his top half is completely bare. That explains all the shuffling you heard behind you. It also explains the heartbeat blooming between your thighs as your eyes not-so-subtly rake over the body you’ve longed for. 

The candlelight you’ve yet to extinguish is falling on him as any light does. Cascading over his skin before seemingly sinking into it. You’d never know he had been through years of battles where he’d almost gotten his life taken from him judging by the innate perfection of his body. No scars. No bruising. No bleeding wounds. 

Simply golden, glowing, and perfect. The pure perfection of a god’s favored child. 

He calls your name again and you force your eyes away from his body. 

“I don’t have his heart?” he softly asks. Then, he kneels in front of you. Now that his face is mere inches from yours, he releases your chin. His eyes flicker from your gaze to your lips. Back and forth. Slow, gentle flits in which his eyelashes are speaking louder than his words. Communicating all of his desires within one simple repetitive motion.

Your breathing hitches in your throat as you feel his fingers slowly, softly curling around your right wrist. His heat is almost unbearable. A once comforting feature of the person you were entangled with now twisted and contorted into a hateful reminder of the past. It radiates off of him and bleeds into your skin, threatening to scorch it beyond repair.

And yet you find yourself leaning into him, almost as though your bodies are magnetic. As if his being is supposed to merge with yours. As if the only way to complete that merge is to press yourself into and against him for all of eternity. 

“You recognize his heart, don’t you?” he questions. He raises one brow as he finally peers directly into your eyes. 

“Would you know it if you felt it?”

When did his face close in on yours enough to feel his breath fanning out over your skin?

You don’t respond with words; just a simple nod of your head. You’re too busy staring into his eyes and trying to control your own breathing, trying to prevent passing out. They’re still bluer than the sky but hiding something deep within them that you can’t place. A secret, probably. He likely has millions of them now.  

He lifts your hand and presses it against his chest, right over the racing heart within his ribcage. The rough, quick, recognizable thump of it makes you whimper. It gets quicker and harder when you whisper his name and shake your head. You want to tear your hand away, want to pull off of his chest and send him away. 

“Is this not the heart you know?” 

A tear slips down your cheek. His other hand immediately rises to your face, cradles it, and thumbs that tear away. Your brain and tongue want to decline him. 

Your heart has other plans.

“Yes,” you admit through a sob. “Yes, it is.” 

He smiles. His heart races beneath your fingers once again. The creases at the corners of his eyes are deeper than you remember, but the brightness within his irises and the beam of his smile are the same. All of it is just as heartbreakingly beautiful as you remember, and although it should feel good, it hurts. 

Just as he’s sliding his hand down from your cheek to your neck and bracing his thumb against your jaw, you shake your head and back away from and push off of him. Skitter backwards and deeper into your bed. 

“You should not be touching me,” you regretfully mumble through the lump in your throat. More regretful words follow a soft hiccup and the frantic wiping away of your tears with the back of your hands. 

“And I should not be touching you. You know as well as I do that this is not permitted.” 

“But—”

“No,” you aggressively cut him off while leaning back on your elbows. Your glare is harsh. Unforgiving, in a way; something you force upon yourself just so that you can make the inevitable of having to turn him away easier on you.

“Why did you come here in the first place?”

He pushes himself up from the floor to kneel on your bed. His knees press into the mattress, tucked between your legs while his hands gently caress them. The feeling of his palms is something you know all too well. All heavy and hot and familiar against your ankles, slowly sliding up your calves before he grips your knees. Before his fingers brush against the bottom hem of your dress. 

Soon enough, his hands fly up to your hips so he can keep you from running any further. 

“Is it not acceptable for me to see you? Is my potential visitation not the reason you chose this very temple to dedicate yourself to?” he aggressively responds. 

You try to push his hands off of you and open your mouth to chastise him for touching you again, but you don’t get far. His grip tightens until it’s almost bruising your hips. You should hate the way it feels. Why don’t you hate the way it feels?

And then someone standing in your still-open doorway speaks, instead. 

The women in the temple fawn over Kal-El unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. It almost makes you regret bringing him to the gathering room in the middle of it instead of stowing him away in your bedroom, but you had no choice. The idiot had left your door open and, as a priestess was walking by in the middle of the night, she happened to see him in your room.

It cut the conversation you were having—and his desperate, topless groveling—short just before he could dive into you.

Now, you’re dealing with a group of priestesses being diminished to a bunch of jittery, lovesick school-girls. Feeding him praises, asking him questions, fawning over everything he does and every gift he displays. 

The worst part of it all? Kal-El seems to love it.

“How strong are you, Kal-El? Is there no limit to what you can lift?” 

“May we see another one of your gifts?”

“Can you really dash across the city in the blink of an eye?”

“Have you always been so handsome?”

That last one has you scoffing. Has you crossing your arms over your chest and smirking to yourself as you fall to the back of the crowd of priestesses. That ought to do a lot for his ego. Or, his confidence, as he refers to it. 

They don’t know that it took him years to grow into his ears. That he wasn’t always so muscular, that he once favored a twig instead of the tree trunk that very same twig fell from. That he used to hide his eyes in conversation by gluing them to the floor because he was too scared to speak to others. That he used to be so shy you thought you’d never hear his voice.

That you loved him despite all of that, and that you still love him.

He’s the complete opposite, now. He looks at all of them and speaks to each person directly. He winks at them. He asks them questions to get to know them a little better, and he acts like he’s surprised at everything they show him within the temple. 

The only thing that’s the same is the way he still loves you.

You let them encircle the man you still love, too. They can have their fun. 

Because, no matter how much they demand his attention, you notice him staring at you. Taking any chance he can get to look at you, to ensure you’re still there, that you’re still looking at him. It’s subtle; the only time he’s ever been subtle in his adult life, perhaps. 

“Does your Father speak to you about us?” one of the newer priestesses asks. You roll your eyes. What a stupid question. There’s a decent possibility that his Father doesn’t even exist, at this point. If that’s the case, you have a few questions to ask him about who was sending him on those tasks so many years ago.

“Oh,” Kal-El mutters through what you know as an awkward laugh, but what they’ll think is a charming, relaxed one. “Of course. He is aware of your dedication and incredibly appreciative of it.”

You cock one eyebrow up. Kal-El’s eyes meet yours as he’s scanning through the crowd. It’s almost as if he can see through them. 

“Liar,” you mouth. 

He winks at you, this time. 

“What brings you to Delphi, Kal-El?” another girl asks. He keeps his eyes on you, although it’s clear that he heard the girl. She’s looking up at him with all the love in the world, and yet all he can do is stare at you. 

“Just visiting an old friend,” he answers without hesitation. It’s annoying how the corners of your lips tick upwards at the sound of it. Some of the girls start barking their questions to him, but they bounce right off of him. 

“An old friend? Are you not visiting for your Father, instead?” you ask above all the voices. He smiles at you. 

“A little of this, a little of that.” His response is nonchalant. Playful. Enough to make your temper from earlier dissipate the tiniest bit. Your brow ticks up in amusement, as do the corners of your lips. 

Another girl steals his attention. 

You turn on your heel and retreat to your room. Sometimes, his light is too much to bear.

When your feet brush over your bedroom’s cold, stony floor, you get rewarded with a shiver shooting up and down your spine. The chill of it is something you never get used to, especially when all you’re accustomed to is warmth. Warmth from the sun. Warmth from Kal-El. 

You sigh as you look down at the altar to Apollo pressed against the foot of your bed.

“Your son will be the death of me and of the girls. Best you collect him now and send him off on a task if you want priestesses here come Spring,” you mutter to a god who isn’t listening. To a god who doesn’t exist, for all you know. 

You round the altar to get to your bed, but the sound of your door opening and shutting makes you punch out an embarrassing little fearful squeak and spin on your heel to see who’s there. You should have known who it’d be. Even though you’d like to delay the inevitable, he barrels into it head first. Of course he does.

Kal-El mutters a soft apology for frightening you, then starts toward your bed. Toward you. When you back away—just like you did earlier—he stops in his tracks.

“Your priestesses seem to like me.”

“They don’t get to meet a half-blood every day. Especially not one descending from their god,” you confess. 

Their god. Not yours.

You don’t want to look up at your god, so you focus on your bed instead. On the feeling of the soft linen beneath your fingertips. The more you look at him, the less likely you’ll be to send him away like you know you must do. 

He hums. Shoots you a smile that you’ve dreamt of seeing for eons. One you can feel even though you’re not looking directly at it. 

“I remember when you once treated me as they do. As though I was exciting to you.” 

You roll your eyes. Couldn’t fight back your own little smirk if you tried, but at least you can keep yourself from looking at him. From falling into him like you desperately want to. 

“Don’t fool yourself. You lost your beautiful, half-blooded luster to me the very first day we met. Do you remember that? When I greeted you and you ran behind your mother?”

“I thought we agreed we would never speak of that!” he tosses back at you. You laugh to yourself.

With a soft clearing of your throat and a few gentle blinks to rid yourself of your suddenly stinging tears, you reply, “Maybe, but…I think of that shy little boy more often than not.”

He says nothing. When you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you can see the pink dusting over his cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight you’ve yet to snuff out. Kal-El shifts a bit. Shifts as though he’s uncomfortable in his own skin. You choose to continue for him. 

“We agreed on a lot of things that neither of us have upheld, anyway. You have broken your promises, and I have broken mine. That’s just…” 

You pause to let out a sigh. You wave your hand. You finally look at him, and he looks just as broken as you feel. Shoulders slumped. Lips set in a frown. Hands twitching at his sides, balling up then releasing. You’re not happy with the amount of times you’ve seen that in one night.

“I don’t know. Life, perhaps. The horrid whirlwind of life. Of our life.”

Things fall silent for a while as he contemplates his own response—if you can call a maximum of 10 seconds “a while.” He’s always been more of a doer than a thinker. 

“Our life?” 

His voice is quiet, but the look in his eyes is loud. Accusatory. Maybe a little hateful. You’re not accustomed to seeing rage in his eyes—especially not rage being directed at you. But you’ve been here once before. You know what it looks like.

Your face flushes with an unbearable heat. Sharp, prickling, embarrassed tears start welling in the corners of your eyes. Your chest caves in on itself and you let go of your sheets in order to take a single step closer to him.

“No, you misunderstood, I simply meant—”

Your attempt at deflecting falls on deaf ears because he interrupts you. Should have expected that. You said what you said, and his penchant for being headstrong will take it and run with it.

“Do you ever think about what our life would have been like had you not chosen this?” 

You frown, and your rebuttal dies in your throat. The tears that had been pooling in your eyes grow larger and larger until they finally slip down your cheeks. With a trembling bottom lip and a refusal to look at him anymore, you shrug your shoulders.

“No,” you eventually, half-heartedly whisper. A lie that floats over to him and pisses him off. 

“You left me, Kal-El. I stopped thinking about you some time within your five years of silence.” 

That pisses him off more. 

“Your heart has been hammering within your chest from the moment you saw me. Tell me again that you have stopped thinking of me without your heart betraying your tongue,” he seethes. You grumble a few curses beneath your breath. After you ball up your fists at your sides and glare at him, he sends you a glare of his own to match.  

Maybe it’s your subconscious that forces you to close in on him. Some unspoken desire that causes you to storm up to him and give him a rough push on the front of his breastplate. It’s disheartening how all of your strength barely makes him move an inch.

“Perhaps my heart has given me away, but it races when it sees you because I’m reminiscing about the man you once were! The one who never would have left me even though we could not be together!” 

He shakes his head and his face falls. He says nothing, but you can see his jaw ticking over and over again as though he’s chewing on the words he wants to say to you. Why he’s holding them back, you’re not sure—but you don’t give him a chance to expel them, anyway.

“You gave up on us! I made my choice because I still wanted you to be in my life! You ran away like a coward! Like an imposter of your own title!” you shout. 

Every few words are punctuated with rough punches against his chest. Your hands ache, knuckles bruising and breaking open from each repeated impact on his battle-worn breastplate. Hitting him feels like punching a stone wall. 

Worth it.

You pull back once your hands are numb. Your face and knuckles are soaking wet; with tears, with blood, with your steadily bubbling hatred for the man you’ve loved your entire life. As you pace around in front of the altar at the foot of your bed, you berate him more:

“Why do you claim to be a hero? You didn’t save me! You abandoned me when you always promised me you never would! You were the only person I could count on, the only god I believed in, and you left me!”

 It’s as though a dam has broken. You’ve kept these thoughts in for far too long. Lived with them. Let them rot your heart and soul. If he’s here visiting an old friend, doesn’t he deserve an update on how she’s been feeling?

Kal-El punches out a loud, angry groan and closes the distance between you two within the blink of an eye. He covers your mouth with one large palm and wraps his other arm around your waist, something that forcibly stops your frantic movements as you try to wriggle out of his tight, unforgiving hold. 

Any other day, you’d be grateful to have him on you in such a way. But when he’s got you this close, when he’s this angry, and when you can feel the edge of his Father’s altar digging into the back of your thighs and the heat of his body bleeding into yours, you’re not as welcoming to it. 

“I did not abandon you by choice! It was forced upon me!” he booms. 

You still to process his words while you try to rid yourself of the fear of being yelled at by someone stronger than any living being in the world. His palm stays glued to your mouth. Your hands fly up to his exposed biceps. 

He lowers his volume, but he’s still irate when he says, “This abandonment was my attempt at saving you.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. All you can do is blink up at him. To rid yourself of your tears, to clear your line of sight and ensure that this is actually happening. That he’s this close. That you’re not imagining this. That he just said what he said. 

When he reopens his eyes, you have no choice but to look into them. Where else would you look, anyway? Nothing is as appealing as his eyes.

“I know how utterly relentless my Father is to His Oracle,” Kal-El confesses. The low vibration of his voice bleeds through his chest and into yours. Is it wrong that it’s stoking a fire deep in your belly?

“He would have ruined you. These rituals would have driven you mad. He would have used you as a beacon for His voice and torn your body and mind to shreds, and He wanted to tear you apart. He wanted to destroy you.” 

You tense in his arms. Your blood runs cold despite his heat bleeding into you while he holds you like you’ll shatter and disappear if he lets you go. How on Earth are you supposed to go forward with a revelation like that? 

Kal-El smiles at your suddenly widened, worried eyes. It’s weak. A gentle lift of the corners of his lips, one corner going a bit higher than the other like it always does. You see this crooked smile every time you close your eyes. What a blessing it is to see it in person once again.

“You were the only thing that could take me away from Him. Don’t you remember that?”

He sighs, a deep, heavy thing that he expels from his nose. His palm slides off of your mouth so he can cradle your cheek instead. So his thumb can slowly glide back and forth over the soft apple of your cheek and swipe away your tears. As his fingers curl around your jaw and his other hand tightens around your waist again, he mutters, “I obviously couldn’t let Him get His hands on you. He knew I wouldn’t stand for it.” 

“What did you do?” you whisper. A sad—but relieved—little question that you push out from the depths of your chest. At least he stood up for you, right?

“I made a deal with Him,” he answers. His hand falls from your cheek to his own bicep where your hand lies. As your fingers interlock and he gives your hand a squeeze, your heart swells within your chest. This is what your body is made for: Being pressed against and intertwined with Kal-El’s. 

“My silence for His.” 

The confused knitting of your brow makes him laugh to himself. He pauses. Swallows so thickly, so roughly, that you can hear it. 

“He would not acknowledge you as long as I stayed away from you. As long as I continued to do His bidding.”

All of the air leaves your chest in a pathetic, shaky sigh. The truth would have been easier for you to handle if he had simply said he was angry with you for leaving him. The silence, both from Father and son, would have been easier to digest if that was the case.

Instead, you have a man still in love with you and yet barred from being with you, and a god who hates you. 

Poetic.

You finally tear your eyes off of his by leaning forward and pressing your forehead against his left shoulder. It hurts to look at him. It hurts to be close to him, but it hurt even more when he was away. Seems like no matter what happens tonight, you’ll wake up in pain in the morning.

His hand releases yours so he can lift it up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers curling into your hair and gently pulling on it. It’s a soft maneuver; one that earns him a quick glance into your eyes again. You whine. Whether it was from need or exhaustion, you aren’t sure. It might have been both. 

Then, he descends. Presses his forehead against yours, brushes his nose against yours, lets his lips ghost over yours in a way that makes your knees tremble and your nails dig deeper into his biceps. 

“No,” you unconvincingly whisper while you turn your head away. “We can’t. Your Father, He…”

Kal-El ignores your little plea. Ignores his Father, too, when he presses a soft, featherlight line of kisses along your jaw. Before you know it, your body is arching into his; exhibiting a mind of its own, especially when he starts kissing down to your neck.

“He will kill us both,” you quickly mutter. Another whine accompanies your statement as soon as his tongue laves over your pulse point. He hums, ignoring your warning and slipping his hand out of your hair and toward your left hip. His other arm tightens, pulling your hips flush against his. 

“He’ll have, ah—” you cut yourself off with a moan as soon as you feel him suckling on that sensitive spot just below your ear. One he knows well. One he’s spent a lot of time mapping out. 

“Your head! He’ll have your head for defiling His Oracle!” you pathetically squeak out while your hips buck against his. Kal-El shakes that very head that his Father will likely rip off of his body. 

“I think we should let Him watch.” 

His fingers ghost over the hem of your dress where it lays at your mid thighs. He pushes you back further onto the altar belonging to his Father, lays you out on top of it, without caring about the sound of things falling off of it and clattering to the floor.

You’re both going to die. This will certainly seal your fate. 

“Kal-El,” you whisper. He looks up at you as his hands slide further and further up your thighs, fingers curling around the soft flesh of them so he can spread your legs and slot between them. His fingerprints burn into your skin all the same. How you’ve missed that burn.

“We will not survive His wrath if we do this,” you warn him while splaying out on the altar beneath you. The cool stone of it does marvels for your heated skin as it permeates through your thin dress. 

“My wish to spend eternity with you will be fulfilled, then,” Kal-El quips while he pulls back just to rid himself of his clothing. You roll your eyes, but the heat welling in your cheeks and the smile spreading on your lips is unavoidable. That sharp tongue is still the same.

His breastplate being off gives you the ability to touch his body when he returns to you and climbs atop of you on this altar and settles between your legs. You try your best not to focus on his hardened length, on how it’s flush against his stomach because of how big he is, on the way the tip of it is slowly dribbling small, soft white pearls of precum down onto your dress when he’s above you, now.

If you think about it too much, you’ll drool.

As your palms glide up from his abdomen and stomach to his chest, he works on winding your legs around his waist.  

“We can’t do this,” you whimper, nails digging into the soft, fleshy skin of his chest. When you press your hand flat against the left side of it, you find his heart racing beneath your palm.

“Tell me you want me to stop,” he purrs. “Banish me from the temple. From your body.” 

You can’t. You won’t. So you stay silent.

Before you know it, he’s leaning down to press a litany of kisses on your skin. He starts at the corner of your lips, then moves down to your chin and your jaw. Those distracting, sweet little things make it hard for you to notice one of his hands has slipped beneath your dress and is inching up to the soft apex of your inner thigh. 

Your hips raise to his intoxicating touch despite your mouth saying, “This is wrong, Kal-El.” 

He scoffs. When he pulls the thin, wispy excuse of a pair of panties you’ve got on to the side and runs two fingers through your folds, he smiles. Your body jolts but raises again, weak and dizzy and drunk off of him just from this small reuniting of your skin. 

Skin that should have never been separated.

“It seems as though your mouth does not agree with your body,” he coos.

He collects a tiny bit of your seemingly unending wetness before sliding his fingers up to your clit and simply pressing them against the sensitive bud. You squeal and arch your back into him, your clothed chest pressing against his bare one. 

Why on Earth has he not taken this dress off of you?

Maybe he can read your thoughts, because not even a second later, he takes his hand out from beneath your dress and grabs onto the neckline of it where it sits just above your breasts. It’s an illusionary soft touch, though, because within the blink of an eye, he’s ripping that dress in half in only a few rough pulls and exposing your bare upper body to him. 

You gasp in shock, but your cunt flutters around nothing and you push out a moan you didn’t even know you had in you. 

“If you are my Father’s Oracle, and I do His bidding, do I not have a right to defile this body?” he asks, dipping his head down and kissing your neck and chest. His stubble scratches over your skin, roughness that overtakes each tender kiss, and has you bucking your hips up in a desperate attempt to meet his once more. 

Then his wicked fingers return to and start circling your clit; the movement is gentle and slow, lacking any of the force you need to actually finish. You keen and shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck and tangling your fingers in his thick, curly hair. Those curls are much longer than they was all those years ago when you last clung onto them for dear life while he brought you to the light. 

A rough tug on them has him picking his head up and detaching his lips from your skin. He shoots you a charming little wink. Something to remind you this is the same Kal-El you’re dealing with despite his rougher, more frantic touches. 

“Although,” he lowers his head just a bit, lips brushing over the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I recall you calling me your god.” 

With a smirk on his lips and honey in his deep, tempting voice, he purrs, “So perhaps I’m taking what’s rightfully mine. That would make you my Oracle. My priestess. I’m taking what belongs to me.” 

You couldn’t stop your eyes rolling back into your head if you tried. Oh, how you’ve missed this filthy mouth and these skilled fingers. 

You tug on his hair again and punch out an embarrassingly loud moan, your hips gently chasing each circle he draws on your clit. Kal-El replaces his fingers with the pad of his thumb, continuing the circles as he slowly pushes those two fingers inside of your weeping, messy cunt. 

The sting from the stretch of his fingers forces a yelp from your throat. Your legs twitch around his waist and you attempt to squeeze your thighs together, but to no avail. He’s too broad between your legs. Too big. Too heavy. 

You try to skitter away. Try to pull back yourself back. But he’s got a tight grip on your waist with that other hand; one that keeps you still, one that squeezes your hip and pins you down beneath him.

He kisses your cheek and sets a soft, steady pace when he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

Kal-El pulls back to look you in the eyes. It’s hard to resist him when he’s knuckle-deep in your severely neglected cunt and cooing, “Rest your tired body. It’s been far too long since someone’s taken care of you, hasn’t it?” 

With tears pooling in your eyes and an inability to look away from him, you nod. You cling to him, tightening your arms around his neck so you can pull yourself up and press your lips against his. The kiss is frantic. Hot and heavy. Clicking teeth. Clashing tongues. Five years’ worth of anger, of hatred, of longing and lust—all coming to the surface. 

You moan when he softly bites and tugs on your bottom lip. After it snaps back into place, you giggle and try to kiss him again, but you’re too busy falling back down onto the altar and crying out in pleasure, instead. He’s started to curl his fingers deep inside of you after each soft thrust of them, brushing up against that soft spot that always makes your thighs shake and your head spin. He remembers your body almost better than you already know it.

“That’s it,” he whispers through kiss-swollen lips and a prideful smile as he gazes down at you. “Let me take care of you.” 

“You must stop,” you brokenly whimper, hips squirming and stomach tightening more and more with each swipe of his thumb over your clit and thrust of his fingers into your cunt. It’s not like you want him to stop; not when you’re this close, not when you’ve missed him for this long. But maybe if it seems like you’re protesting this, you won’t be punished as harshly. 

“Just a bit longer, my heart,” he coos. You melt immediately. Tears slip down your cheeks as you arch off of the altar pressing into your back. My heart. That affectionate name hasn’t been spoken to you in ages, and yet it still sounds exactly the same. Reverent. Sweet. Caring. You must be dreaming.

Except you very much aren’t. Kal-El’s still moving his fingers and drawing soft circles on your clit with his thumb. He’s still pressing kisses into your skin as though he’s praying into it, his lips brushing against your collarbones, his teeth marking your now exposed skin as he trails down to your breasts and eventually sucks your right nipple into his mouth.

You curse. You dig your nails into his bare shoulders and claw down the broad expanse of his back. You cry out his name. Then you come so hard that there are stars in your vision, that your body is uncontrollable beneath his, and that you’re gushing around his fingers and dripping down onto the altar beneath you. 

Kal-El pulls off of your nipple with a pop, but he continues working your clit to help you ride out your orgasm. He kisses you, then. Slow and sweet with a gentle glide of his tongue against your bottom lip. As he slips his tongue into your mouth, you slide one of your hands down his chest, abdomen, and stomach, fingers brushing against his toned body so you can reorient yourself with him. 

“Tell me who you belong to,” Kal-El whispers against your mouth when he breaks the kiss and pulls his fingers out of you. His hips buck as soon as you wrap your hand around his cock and give it a few gentle, teasing pumps. The breathy little moan he pushes into you is enough to get you to come again. 

“You know it has always been you,” you whisper back. You guide the tip of his cock to your cunt and allow him to glide it through your folds. The fleeting contact on the sensitive little bundle of nerves with each roll of his hips makes you whine and squirm, but he wraps one arm around your waist to still you and continues moving. He shudders. Then whimpers. 

“Say it again. Who do you belong to?” he gruffly commands. It’s always been cute to you when he tries to steel himself as he’s falling apart.

He punctuates that question by pushing the tip of his cock into your dripping cunt, and your breath hitches in your throat. You manage to expel it when he buries himself in you to the hilt with no resistance, but it’s only because his size knocks all of the air out of your lungs. 

“You! I belong to you!” you keen. Your head meets the altar beneath you, fully tossed back and eyes squeezed shut as he nearly splits you in half. He nods despite his face slipping down and being buried in your neck. As he pulls his hips back and slowly pushes them back in to meet yours, you cry out in some sort of mix of pleasure, pain, despair, and happiness. 

Kal-El groans, eyes lidded and chest heaving. The twitch of his cock against your walls tells you he’s already close. He was right when he said it’s been far too long.

You remember this ache, this burn, this stretch all too well. The further Kal-El dives into your cunt, the more convinced you are that he’s in your stomach. That he’s trying to become one with you judging by how deeply he’s buried in you, how his arms are tightly locked around your waist, how every inch of his skin is on yours. If your bodies could meld together, he’d have figured out how to do it by now.

“You’re all mine,” he breathes into your skin between hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck and each moan that tumbles from his lips. He pushes himself up onto one hand so he can peer down at you. The other hand slips away from your waist so he can grab your chin and force you to look at him. You do as he wants, although it’s through lidded eyes and teary, blurred vision. 

“Denounce my Father on His own altar. Tell Him who your real god is,” Kal-El demands, voice low and deep and hateful—but not towards you. Towards the god you’re supposed to worship. Towards the Father you both have nothing but disdain for. 

What else are you supposed to do? Deny the truth?

“You’re my god,” you confess while you squirm under the intensity of his gaze. High-pitched and breathy and desperate, but it’s the full truth. Always has been. Always will be. 

“That’s right. I’m your god,” he growls, cocky and full of himself and somehow hotter than he’s ever been.

He smiles down at you. Odd to see that big, beautiful, crooked grin when he’s spewing nothing but filth out of his mouth, but that makes him all the more enticing. He rolls his hips against yours a few times. The tip of his length bumps against your cervix and has your body recoiling from the shock, but only seconds later, you belt out your loudest moan of the night.

“I love you,” Kal-El professes just as his thrusts get a little sloppy. As his hand meets your waist and his fingers leave a few dark marks on your left hip from his rough grip. As he desperately tries to hold back a whimper from the tight squeeze of your fluttering walls—and fails.

You work up just enough strength to lift your head and squeak out, “I love you.” 

A gentle repetition of his own words. 

Something that floats up to him, has him flushing a soft pink, and leaning down to press your lips together. 

“May I ask why you returned after so long?” you softly inquire. 

Kal-El shifts beneath you. Stiffens and tightens his hold on your waist before he gently shrugs. He presses a soft kiss on your temple and tugs your blankets up and over your shoulders.

“Something told me you needed me.” 

You huff against his neck and your eyes flutter shut. You brand a smile into his skin the same way that he’s branding his fingerprints into yours.

“I’ve needed you every day for the last five years, Kal-El,” you mumble against the side of his neck. He chuckles. His fingers, much gentler than earlier, glide up and down your back. A soft, repetitive drag that makes it harder and harder for you to stay awake. 

“I saw your father upon my arrival in Delphi, and I took that as a sign.”

You smile again. Your hand slides up to his chest and your palm presses over the left side of it. The thump of his heart is slow and steady. Likely the last bit of comfort you’ll have before sunrise. 

“He warned me you were here. He still does not like you.” 

Kal-El laughs at you. You furrow your brow and sneak a peek up at him. 

“It isn’t a laughing matter.” 

“It is,” he hums against your lips when he leans forward to kiss you. “Because my Father still does not like you. All of the cards are stacked against us.” 

You groan and pull away from him. Your head gently smacks against the bare skin of his chest as you bury your face into it. 

“What will we do?”

He could probably sense the worry in your shaky voice. Because, when he gives you a squeeze, tangles your legs together, and kisses your head for what seems like the thousandth time tonight, he remains calm to combat your fright. 

“Whatever it is, we will do it together, my heart.”

taglist: @clarkscolumn @unificsation @luvekent @tooloudarts @clarknsun @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @thceseus @sparklingsin @anon-188 @avgdestitute @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @maiamore @scorpioriesling @aviesnapkindoodles @loverreid @tehesoapytehe @icybarness @finco99

[theworstwolvie]

darkness - false devotion (part one)

summary: five years after your denying of kal-el's proposal, you find yourself struggling to focus during delphi's final oracular ritual of the year. all you can think about is your former lover, his five-year long silence, and how much you hate your father and his.

CWs: nothing much other than ANGST!, i cannot stress enough that this is just straight up angst!!!!, lots of negative self-talk, clark goes by kal-el for this whole fic, fem!priestess!reader x demigod!clark, oracular ritual, angst, angst, ANGST, no use of y/n, overbearing parents, amirite?, probably not fully historically accurate but i tried my best ok !!!

word count: just over 4k!

author's note: it's gonna get so much worse before it gets better (in the next chapter) (i promise) <3 thank u to all of the lovely people who beta-read this first part, you know who you are and i love you more than words can express <3

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“My lady,” a random minor priestess timidly calls out to you upon her entering your sequestered room. One of the new ones. One that you don’t remember the name of. Oh well. These girls rotate so frequently that it’s a miracle you even remember her face. 

You stand from your bed. When you find the will to speak, it’s weak.

“Yes?” is all you can push out. It’s all your tired, worn down body has to offer. Five years of this, and your body still hasn’t taken to the ritualistic fasting for the seventh day of each non-winter month. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least. It certainly has nothing to do with how you’ve been crying all morning. How ritual days are the worst because you can only think of one person when you’re supposed to be attending to and speaking for a god on high. How every seventh day of the non-winter months makes you violently ill. How you’re supposed to be talking to his Father, and yet how both of them are ignoring you. 

“The priests have arrived.” 

“Come closer, dear,” you gently command. “I need assistance with my veil.” 

The quiet, shy thing crosses the cold stone floor of your room in order to follow your orders. When her fingers are nimbly hooking your veil into your hair, you act as though it was because you couldn’t see the top of your head to avoid the ugly truth. 

That your arms were too heavy and your body was too weak to lift them.

She helps you lay the purple veil over your face. The fabric is beautiful. Softer than silk and perfectly weaved together, as if Lady Athena herself had crafted it. It blurs your eyesight and casts your room in a deep, royal purple color. The blurring softens the harsh edges of the room. Softens it enough to make it seem like an enjoyable place instead of a self-inflicted prison cell. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. The girl interlocks her arm with yours. Gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Her eyes are impossible to not feel as they burrow into the side of your head. 

“The Radiant One will shine on you today. He will heal you as soon as the ritual is over.” 

What a lie, you want to tell her. He’s never even spoken to me, much less healed me.

“His allowing me to be His prophet is healing enough,” is what you actually tell her. If He has any mercy on you, if He makes this day easier for you, you’ll be surprised. There’s a decent chance that He’s forgotten you. Lost in the shuffle. Not important enough to care for. Abandoned, perhaps. 

Like Father, like son. 

But you don’t have time to think of Kal-El. Not before a ritual is supposed to begin. Not when he hasn’t shown up in the entire five years you’ve been here. Not when you’ve been thinking about him all day already. So you shake him out of your head and avoid the stinging in your eyes.

Your quickened steps, somewhat forced by the priestess next to you, are heavier than you wish they’d be. This is the ninth month. The most tiring one. The final ritual of the year, when all of the most important people come to you begging for a prophecy from a god who refuses to speak to you. To speak through you. 

She’s excited because she knows nothing about it. She’s walking you as quickly as possible because she thinks she’s about to hear from Apollo. If only she knew that you’ve been Apollo all along. 

The two priests are waiting for you at the end of the hallway that leads to your room, like she said they’d be. When the minor priestess hands you off to them, she quietly whispers, “Good luck, my lady. He will care for you and ensure your safety.” 

He will not. He does not care about me at all.

That’s what you want to say, but you give her a soft, grateful nod instead. An act. Something that says you enjoy doing this, that you love destroying your body and making up prophecies for people who you’ve never met in your life. It’s as though you’re a player in the theatre. And He should be happy about that, shouldn’t He? He’s the patron of the arts.

Your eyes track her for as long as possible, but you eventually lose sight of the girl when she passes you off to the priests. You still don’t remember her name, and that makes you ache with grief. With guilt. She’s been so kind to you. Cared for you and checked on you. And yet, like your god and like His favorite son does to you, you’ve neglected her. 

You don’t remember these priests’ names, either. It’s hard to commit people to memory when you don’t particularly care for them. Besides, it’s not like they care about you. They just care about what you do, and anyone could do this. It could have been any unfortunate girl. Of course, it was you. You aren’t the first. You won’t be the last. 

You’re just another cow in their herd. 

Everything that ensues when you’re handed off is a blur. The priests walk you through the front of the temple. They chant their chants to kick everything off. You put on a brave face behind your veil as they lead you toward the Castalian Spring. Stoic. Unflinching. 

When you shed your clothing at the foot of the Castalian, they divert their eyes by turning around. Another part of the ritual. It gives you some privacy.

Privacy. How ridiculous. It’s broad daylight right now. There are no clouds in the sky today. The light from the sun is illuminating every part of your body as you step into the water, bouncing off of it and making you glow.

Apollo, if He’s there, can see all of you. He’s supposed to be watching you, anyway; illuminating the spring and supporting you as though you’re His wife. His light is falling on your skin. His light is claiming you. 

His way of marking His territory is much different from His favorite son’s. Kal-El would hide you from the sunlight. He would take you in the moonlight, instead, so his Father couldn’t see and couldn’t take you from him. He would mark you as his with a series of soft bites and gentle suckles all over your body, with soft, slow thrusts that turned the two of you into one. With whispered praises about how much he loved you and how he wanted you all to himself. With promises that he'd never let you get taken away.

The sunlight can never nip at your skin like his teeth could. It can’t warm you up like his body could. It can’t love you like he could. That much is true to you, and it always rings truest on a ritual day.

You glance over your shoulder and back at the priests. Their backs are still turned to you, giving you the illusion that you’re completely alone here. Apollo isn’t watching. He doesn’t care. The priests aren’t allowed to watch. Kal-El hasn’t shown his face here for the entire five years you’ve been the oracle. 

Perhaps you are utterly alone in this moment.

You wade a little deeper into the water. When you cup some of it and bring it up to your face, relief is brought to your exhausted body and soul. As each lingering droplet slowly slides down your face and back toward the spring, you can pretend it’s simply the water and that you’re not crying. 

Upon your arrival at the temple so many years ago, the priests and priestesses made you aware of one simple fact: 

“You will know The Radiant One has arrived when there is a sweetness suspended in the air around you.”

It was uncanny, really, how so many of them told you that. What isn’t uncanny is how you’ve never picked up on the sweetness that He supposedly brings in the air of this temple—but you’ve tasted the soft sweetness of the Cassotis every time you’ve done this ritual. You hesitate to give Him the credit for that despite everyone wanting to. 

That sacred water was named after the nymph He chased and tailed like a rabid dog. If anything, it should be sweet because of Her. That’s something you’ve always given Her. At least one person in this temple isn’t afraid of the truth. 

That sweetness within the second spring you visit during each ritual day reminds you that, clearly, someone is watching over you. It’s just never the god—or, rather, the son of said god—you want it to be. 

Now, as you perch yourself on this godsforsaken ritualistic tripod, you taste none of that sweetness. The mist rising up through the cracks of the temple floor brings nothing saccharine; just a foggy cloud that makes it harder to see the people in front of you. 

Which means that Apollo, like you figured, isn’t here. You’re on your own again despite it all. 

Despite the sweetness of the Cassotis that brings you a sense of false hope every time you sip from it, despite the successfully sacrificed goat to appease Hestia and Chios and the self-proclaimed Radiant One, despite the drawn lots securing the order of men and women you’ll be seeing today, despite the signs that everything will go well and you will be successful, you’re on your own. 

Success isn’t something you’ve cared much for. Not when no one is here for you to share it with. 

Your mind drifts to Kal-El even with the threat hanging over your head of your first visitor entering the temple’s adyton. 

Who is celebrating his successes with him, now? Who is there to praise him for being Delphi’s protector? Who is listening to his tales of his adventures with awe? Who is walking through the city with him as people throw themselves at his feet to express gratitude for him and for his Father for bearing him?

Who is he inviting into his bed? Who is he warming with his soft, flawless, golden skin? Who is he sheltering from the sunlight and taking in the moonlight? Who has he proposed to, and who has he had the children he wanted with?

The thoughts make your mouth run dry. Make your head ache and your heart hammer within your chest. That should be you doing all of those things with him, and yet, here you are. Perched on an uncomfortable tripod that dozens before you have perched upon. Performing a ritual that dozens before you have performed. Seeing a handful of desperate people who mirror the desperate people that dozens before you have seen. 

The difference? They wanted to do it. Considered it an honor instead of a curse. 

You sigh to yourself. Take a quick glance to the left and the right. No one is in here, so you slowly bring the dish of Cassotis spring water in your left hand up to your mouth and take a sip from it to quench your thirst. The sweetness lingering in the water coats your tongue. Reminds you that maybe you’re not entirely alone—so you silently thank Her and lower the bowl back down. 

Perfect timing. The first guest is announced and descends into your playing grounds. An unknowing extra in your play. 

He crosses the floor—your stage—and you recognize him immediately. The tired eyes, the weary soul. The damaged and war-torn body of someone who can’t handle another battle. A general from a city-state you know nothing about, other than the fact that they’re losing the war they’ve waged against Athens. Why anyone would fight against Lady Athena’s patron city is beyond you. 

Being an oracle with no god to lead you has taught you two important things. The first, to increase your storytelling abilities. The second, to stay updated with all of the news within Greece. So when that general asks, “Have the tides shifted? Will we win this war?” in that gruff, exhausted voice you remember from the last three rituals, you already know what you’ll say. 

But you clutch the laurel wreath in your right hand a little harder, and you gaze into the Cassotis spring waters anyway.

“The tides remain unflinchingly still. Leave war strategy to Athens’s protector. Turn your back on Athens and your hubris if you wish to preserve your people and their memory.”

He leaves in a fury from your direct “prophecy.” Not the first time that’s happened. Each negative interaction with these people merely bounces off of your skin now. 

The next person is a woman. Rare, but it happens. She’s got tears rimming her reddened eyes and a slightly quivering bottom lip. She keeps wringing her hands in front of her swollen belly and picking at her already torn apart nails. There’s a darkness in her eyes that you recognize all too well. You’ll see that darkness if you look too closely at the spring water in your left hand. 

She takes a shaky breath. You didn’t need to hear that in order to tell this one will be heartbreaking. That you’ll go easy on her. When you gnaw at the inside of your cheek, you hope she doesn’t see it. 

“Will my baby survive this time?”

This time. What a horrible addition to that already terrible question.

Every once in a while, you’re reminded that you still have a heart. That, maybe, he didn’t take it away from you completely when he left you. 

Another tightening of your grip on the laurel wreath. Another glance into the spring waters. When you finally swallow the lump forming in your throat, you work up the courage to look her in the eyes and give her a response.

“The baby will remain with you forever.”

That non-answer gets her to stop crying, at the very least. Gets her to give you a weak smile and reverent head bow. Breaks your heart even more when she walks out of this prison thinking that the gods have shined on her pregnancy. 

At least if it goes poorly, she’ll blame them.

The rest of the ritual goes off without a hitch. A person comes, you give them a cryptic message, and they leave. Some laugh. Some cry. None of them thank you. By the end of everything, after you were forced to come up with a countless number of predictions, your spine is screaming for relief from this uncomfortable tripod and your arms ache. The weight of the laurel wreath is exhausting your right. The constant lifting and gazing into the Cassotis spring waters is exhausting your left. 

It all feels particularly useless. All of these prophecies are your own. Random guesses that will be left to the Fates. A set of stupid lines within a stupid play that you somehow got the leading role for. 

“Was that the last of them?” you ask while the final person was on their way out of the adyton. The priest who led them in seems particularly shocked that you spoke to him. He whips around, his robes sloshing around his feet and threatening to make you laugh. They caught at his heel and made him stumble a bit. It might be mean, but you’d wished he would have fallen. 

“Yes, my lady. There are no more visitors in the temple.” 

“Thank you,” you mutter. “Close the entrance, then. You may go.” 

He scuttles away in a flurry of quick, embarrassed footsteps. Again, you’re left alone in this prison; the thoughts from earlier, though, don’t return. You’re too exhausted to think. Almost too exhausted to move. The only thing moving your legs and helping you slip off of the tripod you’ve become more than acquainted with is your desire to sleep in your own bed. 

As you’re in the process of regaining feeling in your tired limbs, in putting the Cassotis spring water down  on the tripod and setting the laurel wreath down on the floor, you hear shuffling outside of the adyton. A little bit of a scuffle. Probably a last minute person trying to get access to the temple. To you. Or, really, to Apollo. 

They don’t care about you. 

“You must come back another day, sir! She has seen her last visitor, and the ritual has concluded!” 

You laugh to yourself, then sigh. Of course this would happen to you. That pathetic priest will never stop someone so aggressive that he has to yell at them. Seems like you’ll be getting another guest. Another patron. Someone desperately trying to talk to a god and only getting a woman. Someone who’s about to be sorely disappointed. 

So you pick up the laurel wreath again. You pick up the Cassotis spring waters again. You sit on this damned tripod again and hope, for once, that you’re wrong. That the priest will manage to scare off that person, and that you’ll be able to retire to bed. 

But you never get what you want. Not since you’ve come here. 

“My lady,” that same pathetic, now shaken-up priest says when he pops back into the adyton. “We do have one final guest. He said he wishes to see you.” 

You pause. That was an odd way to put it. No one ever comes here for you aside from your family, of whom the priests are familiar with. 

“Me?” you quietly ask. Hesitantly. After a tiny scoff and a set of confused blinking, you murmur, “He wishes…to see me? Do you not mean he wishes to receive guidance from the Radiant One?”

“No, ma’am. He wishes to see you.” 

What a bold thing it is to come to Apollo’s temple and ignore him in place of his head priestess. He would be quite angry about that if he was ever here and listening to its happenings. Your hands weaken around the laurel wreath and the Cassotis spring waters. You set the dish down in your lap and let the wreath hang off of your wrist. 

Your brain knows it’s not who you think it is. Your heart wants it to be, though. The abandonment can be forgiven if he apologizes for it. If he tells you he still loves you. If he tells you he was swept away on an adventure for five years, and all he could do was think of returning to you in his absence. 

You clear your throat and nod. 

“I…very well, then. Send him in if he is so persistent.” 

The priest bows his head then walks away to fetch the new final person you’ll have to see before your night’s over. While you wait, your heart hammers against your ribcage. You had no idea it even had the capability to beat this way anymore. Kal-El had taken it with him when he left you all those years ago, or at least that was what you believed. 

Perhaps he’s always had it and is returning it now. 

Footsteps ring out to your left and you hesitate to turn your head. How you’ll ever meet his eyes again is beyond you. You feel too much anger. Too much embarrassment. Too much grief and longing. Being in the same room with him again may kill you. 

The person slowly closes in on you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the frame of someone you know. A frame that you’ve seen hundreds of times before, one that you’d lean on when you needed support and one that you’d come to hate over the last five years. 

Relief is seemingly not in your cards.

“What are you doing here?” you mumble. Disappointedly so. Your shoulders slump and your heart continues to erratically beat in your chest, but it’s not from anticipation. 

“Is a father not allowed to see his daughter?” is the gruff question you get in return. 

“Not after the ritual has concluded. Get out,” is the angry answer you shoot back at him. Your father doesn’t visit as much as your mother. You could count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen him since you’ve taken this position. 

“I simply wanted to speak with you. This was the only time I could do so.” 

You roll your eyes and shove the Cassotis spring water dish in his hands. While you’re in the process of dropping the laurel wreath and sliding off of the tripod to storm away from him, you furiously ask, “You can visit me on any day of the week, and you choose now? For what reason?”

“Because I have news for you. I know you hate me, but listen to me. Please.” 

Your father never put forward any sort of gratitude for you. Begging for you to speak to him, or to listen to him, is odd. It’s intriguing enough to stop you from leaving him alone in the adyton. Not intriguing enough to get you to turn around and look at him, though. 

“Quickly, then,” is what you punch out. Why tell him you don’t hate him? Why lie? 

“Your Kal-El has returned to Delphi. He is looking for you.”

“He was never mine to begin with. You made sure of that.” 

That’s the only response you gave your father before you abandoned him in the adyton. He didn’t even fight to keep you there with him. He simply watched you storm out without so much as saying one word of rebuttal.

As you pace around your room in the dead of night, all you can think about is what he told you. Kal-El’s come home. Your Kal-El. 

“My Kal-El,” you whisper to yourself, “is looking for me.” 

The ache in your body from today’s ritual is long gone, now replaced with a fire in your soul you’ve not felt for years. It’s as though you’ve been struck by lightning. Like you’ve been hit directly in the chest with it. Like it’s jolted your heart back to life.

The ringing in your ears is the only thing louder than your restless footsteps, but it’s not louder than your thoughts. 

How long has he been gone? Was it for the last five years? Is that why he hasn’t shown his face to you? Although…why didn’t he send a letter, or someone else to talk to you? Has he been that angry with you? Is he still angry with you and looking to tell you off?

You shake your head and bury your face in your hands. No time to spiral, now. Your body will never recover from the ritual if you don’t sleep, but with the fire running through your veins, you’re not sure you’ll ever rest. You may never sleep again. 

But you slowly pad toward the small altar for Apollo at the foot of your bed, anyway. You kneel in front of it and bow your head, anyway. You recite your prayers to the open air, to no one, anyway. Perhaps He’s actually listening this time, and He’ll grant you your wish of His son actually returning to see you. 

As you push yourself up from the altar and take a deep breath, you feel a little lighter. The rituals will not return for three months, and your Kal-El is looking for you. Looking to speak with you. Looking to take you away from here, if you’re lucky. 

A shiver runs down your spine due to a sudden breeze in your room. One of your aides must have left a window open. 

You can’t help but wonder about how your mother is doing.

Your breath remains in your chest while you spin on a heel to check on that breeze. It leaves you almost immediately, though. Gets stolen straight out of you from fright and surprise when you realize someone else is in this room with you, now, standing just in front of the doorway and waiting for you to turn around. Your gaze falls on another pair of eyes. A pair that you could recognize in any crowd. 

A pair that you would remember even after you haven’t seen them for five years. 

taglist: @clarkscolumn @unificsation @luvekent @tooloudarts @clarknsun @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @thceseus @sparklingsin @anon-188 @avgdestitute @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @maiamore @scorpioriesling @aviesnapkindoodles @loverreid @tehesoapytehe @icybarness @finco99

[transtarks]

reblog this and put in the tags at least two (2) songs you are listening to on repeat right now

[buckets-and-trees]

For Keeps This Time [Exiled Nomad Series]

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count: 11.7k Summary: May 21, 2018. Just the end of another workday for you - at least until someone you're not expecting shows up.

Content/Warnings: "fluffy" angst; repeated hook ups; Nomad Steve is still soft!dark and broken and a warning all his own; flirting and pining; explicit smut (breast play, oral: female receiving, vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, unprotected sex/ejaculation); likely beard burn; light dirty talk (there's talking, but it's not nasty dirty talk)

Author Note: I don't know what to tell you. At one point this was only 3.5k, and then suddenstly it was almost 12k, but I refused to even think about cutting a moment, and @vonalyn supported me in that madness.

Previous Part | Series

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Your Monday was over. 

The long days of summer were back, and so was he, leaning against your car like he had every right to be there.

Your heart stuttered and you froze mid-step, keys dangling from suddenly numb fingers. He was wearing his standard incognito outfit—dark jeans, plain t-shirt beneath an open jacket, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. But there’s no mistaking that jawline, that beard, those broad shoulders that have pinned you down countless times.

There's a moment when seeing a ghost might be less shocking than finding Steve Rogers leaning against your car in the office parking garage. 

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you freeze mid-step, keys dangling from suddenly numb fingers. He's wearing his standard incognito outfit—dark jeans, plain t-shirt beneath an open jacket, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. But there's no mistaking that jawline, that beard, those broad shoulders that have pinned you down countless times. 

It's been weeks since you've seen him. Not since that surreal April weekend when he'd nursed you through your illness with a tenderness that felt more intimate than any of your sexual encounters. He'd stayed for three days, making you soup, helping you shower, holding you while you slept off the fever. And then, like always, he was gone when you woke one morning, leaving nothing but rumpled sheets and a note that said ‘stay well’ in very precise handwriting.

"Steve," you breathed, your heart immediately hammering against your ribs. 

He pushed off from your car and stepped into the weak fluorescent lighting. His beard was fuller than when you'd last seen him a couple of weeks before, his hair longer and swept back from his forehead. He looked tired but there was something else in his expression too—an intensity that sent a familiar thrill down your spine. The kind that usually preceded being pressed against a wall.

"Hey," he said, voice low and rough.

You clutched your bag tighter, suddenly aware of your surroundings. The parking garage was nearly empty at this hour, just a few scattered cars belonging to others working late. Still, anyone could walk by.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, taking a cautious step forward. "Is everything okay?" 

Steve's lips quirked in a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just wanted to see you." 

The simplicity of his statement knocked the air from your lungs. He wanted to see you. Not because he needed a place to hide, not because he was in town on a mission. Just because. 

"I..." you trailed off, unsure how to respond. 

Steve frowned, his eyes scanning your face, drinking you in. "Is this a bad night? I was in the area." A pause. "Thought I'd see if you wanted to grab dinner."

You blinked, momentarily thrown by the normalcy of his suggestion. Dinner. Like you were just two people who dated occasionally. Like he wasn't a fugitive superhero who appeared and disappeared from your life with alarming irregularity.

"Dinner?" you repeated, the word feeling strangely foreign on your tongue. This wasn't how things typically went between you two. "Like at a restaurant?"

Steve nodded, something almost hesitant in his posture. "If you want to. Or we could pick something up, take it back to your place." 

You studied him, trying to read what was happening behind those blue eyes. There was the usual intensity, yes, but something else as well.

He shifted his weight, and for the first time, you noticed a hint of uncertainty in his posture. "Unless you've got other plans?"

The question hung between you, loaded with implications. Did you have other plans? With someone else? You thought of the dating app you'd deleted from your phone in February, tired of swiping through faces that couldn't compare to his.

"Dinner sounds nice," you finally said, your voice soft. "But is it safe for you to be out like that?"

His lips quirked in a half-smile. "I've gotten pretty good at blending in. But somewhere quiet would be a safer bet."

The weight of his words settled between you. You unlocked your car with a beep that echoed in the concrete structure. "I know a place. On the edge of town. Family-run barbecue spot that's usually pretty empty on weeknights.”

"Perfect," Steve said, stepping closer. "Want me to drive?"

"You drove here?" You couldn't hide your surprise. Somehow you'd always imagined him appearing and disappearing like a phantom, not dealing with mundane things like traffic and parking.

His lips quirked up. "Had to get around somehow."

"We can take my car," you offered. "Unless you're worried about being seen with me."

Steve's expression darkened slightly. "I'm not worried about being seen with you. I'm worried about putting you at risk."

The honesty in his voice made your breath catch. You nodded, understanding the weight of what he was saying. "My car, then. I'll drive."

Steve walked the few steps beside you to your door, opening it for you. His fingers brushed yours as you slid past him into the seat, sending electricity up your arm despite the innocent contact. 

You took a deep breath to calm your racing heart as he walked around to the passenger side before opening the door and folding his large frame into your car. The interior suddenly felt much smaller with him occupying the space beside you. His scent—that familiar mix of clean soap and something distinctly him—filled your senses, bringing back a flood of memories.

The drive was quiet at first, a strange tension hanging in the air between you. Not the usual electric anticipation of clothes being torn off, but something more tentative, almost fragile.

This wasn’t the first time you’d been together without sex. But usually that was the first order of business, with conversation after - if the mood or time allowed. 

Except for last month. 

And the first day he’d met you. There’d been so much easy conversation those first few hours. 

You could do this. 

You stole glances at him at red lights, trying to decipher what was different this time. He seemed more pensive than usual, his gaze alternating between the passing scenery and your profile.

"It's not much further," you said, breaking the silence as you took a left turn.

Steve nodded, his large hand resting on his thigh, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm. You'd never seen him fidget before.

"How have you been?" he asked as you navigated through evening traffic, his voice soft in the enclosed space.

The question was so mundane, so normal that it almost made you laugh. How had you been? Missing him. Wondering if you'd see him again. Trying not to think about how tenderly he'd cared for you when you were sick.

But all of that flashed through your mind in an lurching instant, and you managed a normal answer of, "Good," while keeping your eyes on the road. "Busy with work. The Anderson project finally wrapped up last week."

"The one with the impossible deadline?" Steve remembered, glancing over at you.

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. He'd remembered. During those three days at the end of April, you'd rambled about work while feverish, complaining about deadlines and difficult clients, worried about your time out of the office at such a crucial point. You hadn't expected him to retain any of it.

"That's the one," you confirmed. "The client was actually happy with the results, despite all their last-minute changes."

Steve nodded, a hint of pride in his expression. "I knew you'd pull it off.”

“How’ve you been?" you asked.

Steve shrugged and made a noncommittal sound. "Same as always."

You wanted to ask what that meant—if "same as always" meant dangerous missions, narrow escapes, or something else entirely. But you knew better than to press for details about his other life, the one that kept him constantly moving, constantly hidden.

"Here we are," you said instead, pulling into the gravel parking lot of a weathered wooden building. A neon sign reading "Smokey's BBQ" buzzed in the window, casting a red glow over the handful of pickup trucks parked outside.

Steve surveyed the place with an appraising eye. "Looks perfect."

The restaurant was as quiet as you'd promised—just a few locals scattered at tables around the small dining room. A jukebox in the corner played old country music at a merciful volume. The middle-aged waitress who greeted you barely glanced at Steve, waving you toward a booth in the back corner.

"Best seat in the house," she drawled, dropping two laminated menus on the table. 

You slid into the booth across from Steve, watching as he positioned himself with his back to the wall, eyes automatically scanning the room. Always the soldier, always alert. The dim lighting cast shadows across his face, softening the hard edges you were so familiar with. He removed his cap, setting it on the seat beside him, and ran a hand through his hair. 

The waitress returned with water glasses. "Y'all know what you want to drink?" 

"Beer, whatever's on tap," Steve said. 

"Sweet tea for me," you added.

When she left, silence settled between you again. Steve studied the menu with more concentration than barbeque options warranted. You found yourself watching his hands—those large, powerful hands that had touched every inch of your body, that had so gently washed your hair when you were sick. 

"What looks good?" you asked, if only to break the strange tension. 

Steve's eyes flicked up from the menu, catching yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Everything," he said, and you weren't entirely sure he was talking about the food.

You swallowed hard and forced your attention back to the menu. "The brisket's really good here. And the ribs. Actually, everything is pretty amazing." 

The waitress returned with your drinks, setting them down with practiced efficiency. "Ready to order?" 

Steve gestured for you to go first. 

"I'll have the pulled pork plate with mac and cheese and green beans," you said.

"And for you, hon?" she asked, turning to Steve. 

"Brisket and ribs combo," he said. "With all your sides." 

The waitress nodded, jotting down your orders. "Hungry man," she commented with a wink before walking away. "I’ll be back with some cornbread."

You smiled, remembering the super soldier metabolism that had him eating three times what a normal person would. 

Alone again, you found yourself studying Steve's face in the low light. There were new lines around his eyes, a faint scar - almost imperceptible- above his left eyebrow that hadn't been there before. You wondered what had happened, what battles he'd fought since you'd last seen him.

"You're staring," Steve said softly, his lips quirking into a half-smile. 

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "Sorry. It's just... it's good to see you." 

His expression softened. "It's good to see you too." 

The waitress returned with a basket of cornbread, setting it between you with a flourish. "Fresh out of the oven, darlin’s. Enjoy."

The warm, sweet aroma filled the space between you. Steve reached for a piece, breaking it open as steam curled upward. The simple, domestic gesture made your heart clench. 

"So," he said, spreading butter on his cornbread, "tell me more about this Anderson project." 

And so you did. You let him ask countless questions and you told him every anecdote and detail, mundane or interesting, because it was safe territory to talk about. 

But also because it felt good to talk to him. 

Steve listened attentively, asking questions that showed he was genuinely interested, not just being polite.

And you supposed there was grounding truth to that interest and curiosity - yours was a normal life, uncomplicated, with stability, no need to be on the run. 

You didn’t ignore the gold in front of you though either, savoring your own piece of cornbread as it melted in your mouth, buttery and sweet. You watched as Steve devoured his third piece, a small smile playing at your lips. There was something oddly comforting about watching him eat, about seeing this human side of the man who seemed larger than life in so many ways.

"What?" he asked, catching your smile. 

"Nothing," you said, shaking your head slightly. "Just... this is nice." 

Steve's expression softened, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "Yeah," he agreed quietly. "It is." 

When the food arrived—enormous plates piled high with smoky meat and hearty sides—he dug in with enthusiasm.

"This is incredible," he said after swallowing a bite of brisket. "You weren't kidding."

There was something deeply satisfying about sharing one of your favorite places with him, about seeing him enjoy something so simple and normal. It tugged at parts of you that had been growing harder to ignore since his last visit. 

"How's your pulled pork?" he asked, gesturing with his fork.

"Perfect, as always." You offered him a bite, holding out your fork. Steve leaned forward, accepting the morsel, his eyes never leaving yours as his lips closed around the fork. 

His gaze held yours as he chewed thoughtfully, then nodded in approval.

"That is good," he agreed, then speared a piece of his brisket with his fork. "Try mine?"

You leaned forward, accepting the offering. The meat practically melted on your tongue, rich and smoky. You hummed in appreciation, and something shifted in Steve's expression—a warmth that made your chest tighten.

This wasn't just about satisfying physical needs anymore—this was dinner at one of your favorite places, sharing food, talking about your day. It felt dangerously close to dating.

"Good?" he asked, his voice slightly rougher than before. 

"Incredible," you confirmed, licking a drip of sauce from your lips . Steve tracked the movement, his eyes lingering on your mouth.

"So," you ventured, desperate to maintain the easy conversation, "how long are you in town this time?"

Steve's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully, considering his answer. "Not sure yet. Could be a few days."

Your heart leapt at the possibility of more than just tonight, but you kept your expression neutral. You'd learned not to expect anything, not to plan around his unpredictable appearances in your life.

A few days. Always just a few days.

"That's nice," you said, aiming for casual. "Any particular reason you're in the area?"

Steve met your eyes, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. "Like I said, I wanted to see you."

The simple honesty in his voice made your chest tighten.

That word echoed in your mind. Wanted. Not needed to hide, not needed to use your body for release. He'd come to town to see you, specifically. You took a sip of sweet tea to hide the sudden rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. 

"What about you?" Steve's question pulled you from your thoughts. "Any travel plans coming up?" 

"Nothing major," you replied, trying to match his casual tone. "My sister's coming to visit next month. We'll probably do some local sightseeing, make the rounds of the museums." 

"Your sister," Steve nodded thoughtfully. "The newlywed, right? How's married life treating her?" 

A warmth bloomed in your chest. He remembered your sister, remembered that she'd gotten married. 

But you squashed away all the feelings, hopes, suppositions. 

No blooming, no spiraling up or down. 

Just be here. Let this be this, you thought desperately. 

"She's doing well. Blissfully happy." You smiled, remembering your last video call with her. "They're still in that honeymoon phase where everything is perfect." 

Steve nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "That's good to hear." 

“They just bought a house,” you continued, “it's a fixer-upper, but they're enjoying the process. She sends me pictures of paint swatches and asks my opinion like I have any clue about interior design."

Steve chuckled, the sound warming something deep inside you. "And do you? Have a clue about interior design?"

"Absolutely not," you laughed. "But I'm very supportive. 'Yes, that shade of beige looks completely different from the other shade of beige.'"

His smile reached his eyes this time, crinkling the corners in a way that made your heart skip. You'd seen that smile so rarely.

"What?" you asked, catching the way his gaze lingered on your face.

"Just... it's nice to hear you laugh," he said. 

The simple honesty in his voice caught you off guard. You looked down at your plate, suddenly finding it difficult to meet his eyes. The air between you shifted, charged with something more complicated than desire. 

"I laugh," you said, aiming for a light tone but missing the mark. "You've heard me laugh before." 

"Not enough," Steve replied, his voice low. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours where they rested beside your glass. The touch was feather-light but sent electricity up your arm. "I like your laugh." 

You swallowed hard, unsure how to navigate this new terrain. This wasn't the Steve who showed up at your door with hunger in his eyes, who took what he needed and left before dawn. This was someone else—someone who remembered details about your life, who wanted to hear you laugh. 

"Well," you managed, "you can be pretty funny when you want to be."

His thumb traced slow circles on the back of your hand, sending shivers up your arm. "Is that so?" 

"Mmm-hmm," you nodded, trying to ignore how such a simple touch was affecting you. "Like that time you were complaining about modern refrigerators having too many settings. Or when you tried to explain to me why vinyl records are superior to digital music."

His lips quirked into a half-smile. "I stand by both those opinions."

You laughed again, and Steve's expression softened even more.

The conversation flowed more easily after that, moving through safe topics—local news, a book you'd recently read, a movie Steve had managed to catch in some small theater in a town you'd never heard of. The whole time, you couldn't help but notice how normal it felt, how right, despite the extraordinary circumstances that had brought you together. 

When the waitress came to clear your plates, Steve's was impressively clean despite the massive portion. 

"Room for dessert?" she asked, eyeing Steve with newfound respect. "Our peach cobbler's fresh today." 

Steve glanced at you, a question in his eyes. 

"We should definitely share some," you said, unable to resist the hopeful look in his eyes. "The cobbler here is incredible."

"One peach cobbler, two forks," Steve told the waitress, who nodded approvingly.

"Coming right up."

When she walked away, a comfortable silence settled between you. Steve's fingers found yours again on the table, this touch more deliberate than before. His thumb traced the lines of your palm, studying your hand as if memorizing it.

"This is different," you said softly, unable to contain the observation any longer.

Steve's eyes met yours, serious and intense. "Different good or different bad?"

"Just... different." You hesitated, searching for the right words. "Usually by now we'd be..."

"Tearing each other's clothes off?" he finished, his voice dropping to a low rumble that sent heat pooling in your core.

"Yes," you breathed, a flush creeping up your neck at the memories his words evoked. "Not that I'm complaining about that, but..."

"But this is nice too," Steve completed your thought, his eyes never leaving yours.

You nodded, suddenly feeling vulnerable under his intense gaze. "It is."

"But we can indulge in the other, too," Steve added, his voice dropping lower as his thumb traced a deliberate path across your wrist. "Later."

The promise in his words sent a familiar heat coursing through you. You swallowed hard, acutely aware of how public your current setting was. 

"I'd like that," you admitted softly. 

The waitress returned with a generous portion of peach cobbler topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream that was already starting to melt. She set it between you with two forks. 

"Enjoy!" she said with a wink before bustling away.

You dug your fork into the warm cobbler, scooping up a bite with ice cream and bringing it to your mouth. The combination of buttery crust, sweet peaches, and cold vanilla melted together perfectly on your tongue. You closed your eyes briefly, savoring the flavors. 

When you opened them, you found Steve watching you with an intensity that made your skin tingle. 

"Good?" he asked, his voice husky. 

"Try it," you encouraged, watching as he took a much larger bite than yours. 

His eyes widened slightly in appreciation as he chewed. "That is good," he agreed, already loading his fork with another substantial portion. 

You smiled, content to take smaller, slower bites as Steve worked his way through the dessert with enthusiasm. His appetite had always amazed you—another reminder of the super soldier beneath the casual clothes. You managed to claim three more bites before Steve claimed the last of it, scraping the dish clean with a boyish grin that made you grin.

Steve set his fork down on the empty plate. "Sorry. Didn't leave you much."

"It's okay. I didn't need much." You were already pleasantly full from your meal, content with the few bites of sweetness you'd managed to claim.

The waitress appeared with the check, placing it on the table between you. Before you could reach for it, Steve had already pulled out a worn leather wallet. 

"This is me," he said, counting out cash and laying it on the table. You noticed he left a generous tip.

"Thank you," you said, both for the meal and the gesture itself. There was something so ordinary about being treated to dinner, yet, again, it felt significant between you. 

Steve nodded, sliding his cap back on as he stood. "Ready?" 

As you walked outside, a thought suddenly occurred to you. 

"What about your car?" you asked, glancing up at Steve. "Do we need to go back and get it from my office?" 

Steve's lips quirked into a small smile. "Already taken care of. I put my bag in your trunk earlier." 

"You did?" You blinked in surprise, then narrowed your eyes playfully. "Breaking into my car now, Rogers?" 

He shrugged, not looking remotely apologetic. "I can just ride with you to work in the morning, get my things then." 

The casual way he said it—assuming he'd spend the night, assuming you'd want him to—sent a flutter through your stomach. There was something both presumptuous and endearing about it. 

"Pretty confident I'd say yes to dinner, weren't you?" you teased. 

He laughed. 

You both knew it was silly to debate since he’d spent many nights at your place uninvited and unannounced and all wanted and thoroughly enjoyed. 

"I was optimistic," Steve admitted, his voice low and warm. His hand found the small of your back as you approached your car, a gentle pressure that sent shivers up your spine. "Though I did have a backup plan if you turned me down." 

"Oh?" You fumbled with your keys, suddenly nervous in a way you hadn't been with him in months. "And what was that?" 

Steve leaned closer, his breath tickling your ear. "Show up at your door later tonight anyway." 

A laugh bubbled out of you as you unlocked the car. "At least you're honest." 

The drive back to your apartment was charged with a new kind of tension—not the desperate need that usually accompanied his visits, but something slower, more deliberate. Steve's hand rested on your thigh, his thumb tracing idle patterns that made it difficult to concentrate on the road. 

"You're distracting me," you murmured, but made no move to remove his hand.

His thumb continued its lazy circles on your thigh. "Am I?" His voice was deceptively innocent, but when you glanced over at a red light, the heat in his eyes told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

The rest of the drive passed in charged silence, Steve's hand never leaving your leg, his touch becoming bolder as you neared your apartment. The familiar streets of your neighborhood came into view, and you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation as you turned onto your block. 

The parking space in front of your building was miraculously empty. You pulled in and cut the engine, sitting for a moment in the sudden silence. Steve's hand stilled but remained on your thigh, a warm weight that anchored you to the present. 

"We're here," you said unnecessarily, turning to face him. 

In the dim glow of the streetlight, Steve's face was half in shadow, his eyes dark with promise. He leaned across the console, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, drawing you toward him. 

"Thank you," he murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip. 

"For what?" you whispered, your heart racing at his proximity. 

"For dinner. For being you." 

His lips met yours in a kiss that was achingly gentle, a stark contrast to the desperate, hungry kisses you were accustomed to sharing with him. This was slow, deliberate, his mouth moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. You sighed into the kiss, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your palm. 

When he finally pulled away, you were both breathing harder, though the kiss had remained chaste by your usual standards.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, then reached for your door handle. The night air felt cool against your heated skin as you stepped out, keys jingling softly in your hand. Steve followed, retrieving a small duffel bag from your trunk before falling into step beside you.

The walk to your apartment door felt different tonight—not the frantic stumbling of bodies already half-undressed, but something more measured, more intentional. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unlocked the door, hyperaware of Steve's solid presence behind you, the heat of his body close enough to feel but not quite touching. The lock clicked, and you pushed the door open, stepping into the darkened space without a word. Steve followed, his footsteps nearly silent despite his size.

The door closed with a soft thud, and you heard the metallic slide of the deadbolt as Steve secured it behind you. Neither of you reached for the light switch. The glow from the streetlamps outside filtered through your curtains, casting long shadows across the floor and illuminating Steve's face in strips of pale gold as he moved closer.

His hand found yours in the semi-darkness, fingers intertwining with a gentleness that made your chest tighten. You led him further into your apartment, both of you navigating the familiar path without needing to more light to see. 

The soft sound of paws padding across hardwood broke the silence. A plaintive "mrrrow" echoed through the darkened apartment, and Steve's entire body tensed. His hand slipped from yours as he pivoted, adopting a defensive stance, reaching instinctively for a shield that wasn't there.

"Mrrrow?" The small gray tabby padded into view, tail held high like a question mark.

"Jesus," Steve breathed, his shoulders dropping as he recognized the source of the sound. "What the—"

"Oh!" You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you at his reaction. "I'm sorry. That's Juniper. I guess I didn't mention I got a cat."

The tabby approached cautiously, her green eyes fixed on Steve with feline suspicion. She stopped a few feet away, sitting primly on her haunches to assess the stranger in her domain.

"No," Steve said, relaxing slightly, “you did not.”

"About ten days ago," you explained, crouching down to stroke Juniper's head. "I adopted her from a shelter.”

She moved forward, arching her back into your hand for more pets. 

"She's still getting settled in," you added, watching as Juniper stretches and then approaches Steve with cautious curiosity. "She's been pretty shy, but she’s starting to feel like this could be her home."

When you glanced up at Steve, you almost regretted saying those last words. But they were already out. 

Steve crouched down slowly, extending his hand toward the cat. His movements were deliberate, patient—the same careful control he showed in everything he does. Juniper sniffed his fingertips, whiskers twitching as she considered him. 

"Hey there," he murmured, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

To your surprise, Juniper bumped her head against Steve's hand, a low purr rumbling from her small body. Steve's face transformed with a genuine smile as he gently scratched behind her ears. 

"Well, look at that," you said, unable to hide your amazement. "She must sense you're not a threat." 

Steve's eyes flicked back to meet yours, something unreadable in their depths. "Animals have good instincts."

"Better than mine sometimes," you replied softly, watching his large hand gently stroke the cat's back. Juniper arched into his touch, her purr growing louder. 

"I don't know," Steve said, his voice low. "Your instincts seem pretty good to me." 

The weight of his words hung between you. You weren’tsure if he meant your instincts about him or about life in general. Either way, a warmth spread through your chest. 

You straightened up, turning to switch on a small lamp that cast a soft glow across your living room. Steve rose, too, Juniper weaving between his legs as if they were old friends. 

"She likes you," you observed, smiling despite yourself. 

"I like her too," Steve replies, watching as Juniper padded away toward the kitchen, likely in search of her food bowl. Steve's eyes followed her for a moment before returning to you.

"She's a good addition," he said softly. "You've always seemed like you could use some company." 

You weren't sure how to take that comment—whether it was an observation or something closer to guilt. Before you could decide, Steve closed the distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your face. His thumb traced your cheekbone, his touch achingly gentle. 

"I'm sorry I didn't call first," he murmured, eyes searching yours. "Before showing up." 

You leaned into his touch, heart hammering. "You never do." 

"Maybe I should start." 

The words hung between you, loaded with implications. You swallowed, afraid to read too much into them. 

"Do you even have my number?” you teased, picking the easy path instead of the more complicated conversation. 

Steve's lips quirked in a half-smile. "I have ways of reaching you if I needed to." 

Of course he did. You shouldn't be surprised. The man had somehow gotten into your locked car today without leaving a trace. 

"Right," you whispered, still cradled in his palm. "Super spy stuff." 

His thumb traced your bottom lip. "Not exactly spy stuff. Just..." he hesitated, "I've always made sure I could find you if I needed to." 

The admission sent a shiver down your spine. How many times had he checked on you without you knowing? Had he watched over you from a distance? The thought should have been unsettling, but instead, it filled you with an unexpected warmth. 

"And tonight you needed to," you said softly. 

Steve's eyes darkened. "Tonight I wanted to." 

The distinction wasn't lost on you. Need versus want. 

Your heart stuttered at his words. Need versus want. It echoed what he'd said earlier – that he'd come to town specifically to see you. Not because he needed shelter or release, but because he wanted your company. The distinction felt monumental. 

"And what exactly do you want tonight, Steve?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes searched yours, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "This," he said simply, before leaning in to capture your lips with his. 

The kiss was different from the countless others you'd shared. There was hunger there, yes – there was always hunger with Steve – but it was tempered with something more deliberate. His hand cradled your face as if you were precious, his lips moving against yours with exquisite patience.

You melted into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. Steve deepened the kiss gradually, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you parted them with a soft sigh. He tasted like peaches and warmth, familiar yet somehow new in this slower, gentler approach.

Your hands slid up to tangle in his hair, dislodging his cap. It fell to the floor unnoticed as Steve's arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you closer. The solid wall of his chest pressed against yours, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your palms. 

When you finally broke apart for air, Steve rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you. 

"I've missed you," he confessed, the words so quiet you almost didn't catch them. 

He’d just missed you. 

The admission sent a flutter through your chest. "I missed you, too," you admit. 

Steve's hands traced slow patterns up and down your back, as if relearning the shape of you. There was no urgency in his touch, nothing like the desperate need that usually drove his hands across your skin. He was taking his time, savoring the moment, and you found yourself doing the same.

"You look beautiful tonight," he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "I didn't say that earlier." 

The compliment warmed you from within. "Thank you. You look pretty good yourself." You managed a smile, despite the way your heart was hammering against your ribs. 

Steve chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Even with this?" He gestured to his beard, which had grown fuller since you'd last seen him. 

"Especially with that," you admitted, reaching up to run your fingers through it. The coarse hair tickled your palm as you traced the line of his jaw. "I've always liked it." 

His eyes darkened at your touch, his pupils dilating with desire. "I remember," he murmured, his voice dropping lower. "You seemed to enjoy it between your thighs."

Heat bloomed across your skin at the memory—his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive flesh as he devoured you. You bit your lip, unable to deny it.

"I did," you admitted. "I do."

Steve's hands tightened slightly at your waist, his thumbs tracing circles against your hips.

"Bedroom?" he suggested, his voice rough with desire. 

You nodded, suddenly unable to find your voice. Steve laced his fingers with yours, following as you led him down the familiar hallway. The soft glow from the living room lamp barely reached here, casting long shadows across the walls. 

Your bedroom was exactly as you'd left it that morning—bed hastily made, a book on your nightstand, a discarded sweater draped over the chair in the corner. The ordinary domesticity of it struck you anew, seeing it through Steve's eyes. 

He closed the door behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. 

"I've been thinking about you," he admitted quietly. "More than I should."

Your breath caught. "Yeah?"

He nodded, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. "Yeah.”

There was no denying something was different about him tonight—a softness around his edges that made your chest ache.

"What specifically were you thinking about?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper in the dim room. 

Steve's eyes held yours, his expression open in a way you'd rarely seen before. "Everything. The way you laugh. The sound of your voice when you're sleepy. How you looked curled up reading that book the last time I was here." 

Your heart hammered against your ribs as he stepped closer. 

His thumb traced your bottom lip, sending shivers down your spine. "I thought about this mouth." His gaze dropped to your lips. "And how it tastes." 

Without another word, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened. His hands cradled your face as his tongue slipped past your lips, tasting you thoroughly. You melted against him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to his solid presence.

"Steve," you breathed when you finally broke apart, his name a reverent whisper in the darkened room. 

He studied your face in the dim light, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones with such tenderness it made your chest feel raw inside. This wasn't the Steve who pinned you against walls or bent you over furniture. This was someone else entirely—someone vulnerable, almost hesitant. 

"I want to take my time with you tonight," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Is that okay?" 

The question itself was new. Steve rarely asked—he took, and you gave willingly. But this deliberate request for permission made something squirm in your stomach.

"Yes," you whispered, throat suddenly tight. 

His hands moved to your waist, fingers splaying across your hips as he guided you backward until your legs met the edge of the bed. With gentle pressure, he urged you to sit. Steve lowered himself to his knees before you, his broad shoulders between your thighs as he gazed up at you with an intensity that stole your breath. 

Slowly, reverently, he reached for the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one. The brush of his fingers against your skin sent shivers racing through you. There was something almost worshipful in his methodical movements, so different from the frantic disrobing you were accustomed to with him. 

"You're so beautiful," he murmured as he parted the fabric, exposing your bra. His hands slid beneath the blouse, easing it off your shoulders until it slipped down your arms and onto the bed behind you. His eyes roved over your exposed skin, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.

His fingers traced the lace edge of your bra, barely touching your skin. The featherlight contact made you shiver, goosebumps rising on your flesh. Steve leaned forward, pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, then trailing kisses along your collarbone. 

"I've never taken the time to properly appreciate you," he murmured against your skin. "All these months, and I've been too hungry, too desperate." 

You swallowed hard, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. "I didn't mind," you whispered. 

Steve looked up, his blue eyes serious in the dim light. "I know. But you deserve more." 

The weight of his words hung between you as his hands moved to the clasp of your bra. With practiced ease, he released it, letting the straps slide down your arms. The garment fell away, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze.

"Perfect," he breathed, cupping them gently in his large hands. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing them into tight peaks. The touch was light, exploratory, as if he was discovering your body for the first time. 

You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. Steve leaned forward, replacing one hand with his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue circling your nipple sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you. His beard scratched deliciously against your sensitive skin as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other. 

"Steve," you gasped, your fingers threading through his hair. 

He hummed against your skin, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through your body. His hands slid down to your waist, fingers tracing the waistband of your pants.

"Lift your hips," he murmured against your skin, and you complied without hesitation. 

Steve worked your pants down your legs with the same deliberate patience he'd shown with your blouse. His fingers trailed fire in their wake, caressing the newly exposed skin of your thick thighs. When the fabric pooled at your ankles, you kicked it away, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

His eyes darkened as they raked over you, taking in every inch of exposed flesh. Any other partners you’d been with before, there’d always been hesitancy lingering beneath the surface over being exposed and naked and knowing your body wasn’t the standard of conventional beauty, but it had never been a question with him, despite his god-like physique. His eyes had always hungered for you exactly as you were. 

His hands returned to your thighs, thumbs tracing idle patterns that made your breath hitch. Slowly, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knee, then another slightly higher. The path of his lips moved steadily upward, each kiss lingering longer than the last.

When he reached the crease of your thigh, Steve paused, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. You shivered in anticipation, your fingers still tangled in his hair. His beard tickled your inner thigh as he nuzzled against you, inhaling deeply. 

"I've missed your scent," he murmured, placing an open-mouthed kiss on the fabric of your underwear. The heat of his breath penetrated the thin material, making you squirm beneath him. "The way you smell when you want me." 

Your thighs trembled as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. With agonizing slowness, he drew them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. The garment joined the rest of your clothes on the floor, leaving you completely bare before him. 

Steve sat back on his heels, simply looking at you. The hunger in his gaze was tempered with something else—a reverence that made your heart race. You fought the urge to cover yourself, to hide from the intensity of his stare.

"I want to taste you," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your core. "I want to make you fall apart with my mouth." 

Your breath caught at his words. "Yes," you whispered, unable to deny him anything. 

Steve's large hands spread your thighs wider, exposing you completely to his hungry gaze. His thumbs traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, moving ever closer to where you needed him most but never quite reaching. The teasing touches had you squirming, desperate for more contact. 

"Patience," he murmured, a small smile playing at his lips as he watched your reactions. 

"Easy for you to say," you breathed, earning a low laugh.

His eyes held yours for a moment, dark with desire but also something deeper, more tender. Then he lowered his head, and the first brush of his tongue against your core made you gasp. The contact was feather-light, teasing, as he explored you with deliberate patience. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he savored you. 

"God, you taste even better than I remembered," he murmured against your flesh, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through you. 

Unlike the desperate hunger of previous encounters, Steve took his time, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and delicate flicks against your sensitive bundle of nerves. The scrape of his beard against your inner thighs created a delicious friction that heightened every sensation. Your head fell back, a breathy moan escaping your lips as he found a particularly sensitive spot. 

His fingers joined his mouth, one sliding inside you with careful precision while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. The dual sensations had you arching off the bed, one hand gripping the sheets while the other remained tangled in his hair.

"Steve," you gasped, your hips rolling against his face as pleasure built within you. "Oh god, Steve!"

He hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. His finger curled inside you, finding that perfect spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A second finger joined the first, stretching you deliciously as his tongue worked magic against your swollen clit. 

Unlike his usual approach—fast and intense, designed to make you come quickly and repeatedly—tonight Steve seemed determined to draw out your pleasure. Each time you approached the edge, he would ease back, slowing his movements until the desperate need receded slightly before building you up again. It was exquisite torture, leaving you trembling and pleading.

"Please," you finally begged, your voice breaking. "Steve, please..." 

He looked up at you then, his mouth glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark with desire. "Tell me what you need," he commanded softly. 

"I need to come," you whispered. "Please let me come." 

Something shifted in his expression—a softening, a surrender. He nodded once, then lowered his head again. This time, his assault was relentless, his fingers pumping steadily inside you while his tongue circled your clit with precise, firm strokes. The pleasure built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter until you were teetering on the precipice. 

When his lips closed around your sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked gently, the dam broke. 

Your body arched off the bed as the orgasm crashed over you in powerful waves. Steve's fingers continued their movements inside you, drawing out your pleasure as you cried out his name. The intensity of it stole your breath, left you trembling and gasping as aftershocks rippled through your body. 

Only when the last tremors subsided did Steve slowly withdraw his fingers. He pressed a gentle kiss to your inner thigh, then another slightly higher, working his way back up your body with reverent attention. Each touch of his lips against your skin felt like a benediction, worshipful and tender in a way that made your chest ache. 

When he reached your face, he captured your lips in a kiss that tasted of you. His tongue slipped into your mouth, sharing your essence as his body covered yours. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his jeans, evidence of his own desire. 

"You're still dressed," you murmured against his lips, your fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. 

Steve smiled, the expression transforming his face in the dim light. "I was focused on more important things." 

Your hands slid beneath his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his abdomen. You felt his muscles contract at your touch, a small shiver running through him. "My turn," you whispered. 

Steve sat back, allowing you to push his shirt up. He helped you remove it, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. The sight of his bare torso never failed to take your breath away—the perfect sculpture of muscle, the scars that told stories you'd never fully know. 

Your fingers traced a new mark on his ribs, a thin line that hadn't been there the last time. "What happened here?" 

Steve captured your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Just a scratch," he said dismissively. "Nothing for you to worry about."

You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face. "But I do worry about you, Steve," you said softly. "I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it. Every time you leave, I wonder if you're safe, if you're hurt somewhere..." 

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. His thumb traced circles on your palm as he considered your words. 

"You worry about me?" he asked, his voice low and rough. 

You nodded, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "Of course I do. How could I not?" 

Steve leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm careful," he promised. "I have good people watching my back." 

"I know," you whispered. "But that doesn't stop me from worrying." 

He kissed you again, deeper this time, as if trying to pour all his unspoken reassurances into the connection between you. Your hands slid down his chest to the waistband of his jeans, fingers working at the button and zipper. Steve helped, lifting his hips as you pushed the denim down his powerful thighs. 

When he was finally as naked as you, Steve moved to cover your body with his. The delicious weight of him pressed you into the mattress, his skin hot against yours. He bracketed your face with his forearms, looking down at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. 

His hardness pressed against your entrance, hot and insistent. You reached between your bodies to guide him, both of you gasping as he slowly pushed inside. The stretch and fullness of him was familiar yet somehow new, as if your bodies were rediscovering each other. 

"God, you always feel amazing," Steve murmured, his voice strained as he buried himself to the hilt. He remained still for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

When he began to move, it was with deliberate, measured strokes, so unlike the frantic pace he usually set. Each thrust was deep and purposeful, his eyes never leaving yours. The intimacy of it was almost unbearable—this wasn't just sex, this was something else entirely. 

Your hands roamed his back, feeling the powerful muscles flex and release with each movement. His skin was hot beneath your palms, slick with sweat as he continued his languid pace. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper with each thrust.

"Steve," you whispered, overwhelmed by the intensity between you. This felt different—raw and exposed in a way that transcended physical nakedness. 

His rhythm faltered slightly at the sound of his name on your lips. His eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that had seen too much, locked on yours with such vulnerability it made your chest ache. 

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm right here." 

The tenderness in his words broke something open inside you. You arched against him, meeting each thrust with a desperate need to be closer, to consume and be consumed by him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him to you as if he might disappear at any moment. 

"Don't stop," you pleaded. 

Steve's thrusts deepened, his powerful body trembling above yours. The intensity in his gaze was almost too much to bear—raw, unguarded, nothing like the controlled man you'd come to know. His rhythm faltered, becoming more erratic as his breathing grew ragged. 

"I can't—" he choked out, his voice breaking on the words. 

A wave of emotion crashed over you both, something profound and terrifying sweeping through the room. Steve buried his face in the crook of your neck, his movements growing desperate, almost frantic. His arms tightened around you, holding you as if you were his only anchor in a storm. 

The tension built in your core, pleasure spiraling tighter with each thrust. You were climbing toward that peak together, bodies moving in perfect synchronization.

The dampness you felt against your skin surprised you—not sweat, but something else. His shoulders shook slightly as he continued to move inside you, his arms tightening around you with desperate need.

You realized with a jolt that they were tears—Steve Rogers was crying as he made love to you.

The realization hit you like a physical blow. This man who carried the weight of the world, who had survived impossible things, was breaking apart in your arms. The vulnerability of it was overwhelming, terrifying in its intensity.

"Steve," you whispered, your voice catching as the realization fully hit you. His tears were warm against your skin, his body still moving within yours, but something had fundamentally shifted. The intensity between you had transformed into something raw and vulnerable that neither of you had prepared for. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, cradling his head as he continued to tremble against you. The pleasure was still building, your bodies still chasing release, but the emotional undercurrent had become a tidal wave threatening to drown you both. 

"I need to stop," you said softly, your hands moving to his shoulders. "Steve, wait—please." 

He stilled immediately, his body tense above yours. "Did I hurt you?" Concern flooded his features, momentarily overshadowing his own emotion. 

"No," you assured him, thumbs brushing away his tears. 

The raw vulnerability in his eyes shattered something inside you. "But this is... this feels like more than—"

He rolled off you, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you cold despite the summer heat. You pulled the sheet up over your body, an instinctive shield against the intensity of the moment. 

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His broad shoulders rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths. You watched him, uncertain what to do or say. This was uncharted territory between you.

"Steve," you whispered, reaching out to touch his back. The muscles beneath your fingers were taut, trembling slightly. "Talk to me. Please." 

He shook his head, still not looking at you. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "I didn't mean for that to happen." 

You moved closer, letting the sheet fall away as you pressed yourself against his back, arms encircling his waist. You rested your cheek between his shoulder blades, feeling his heartbeat through his skin. 

"Don't apologize," you murmured. "Not for feeling something." 

Steve's hand came up to cover yours where it rested on his stomach. 

"This was a mistake," he said finally.

The words hit you like a physical blow. "What do you mean?" You tried to pull away, but he held your arm firmly against him. 

"Not you," he clarified quickly, turning his face to face you. His expression was both earnest and serious. “Being so physically intimate when I was only giving you half of the emotional reality of what I’ve realized I feel for you.” 

"What do you mean?" you asked, your heart pounding in your chest. 

Steve turned fully towards you, his blue eyes filled with an intensity that stole your breath. He reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek with such tenderness it made your throat tight. 

"I mean that I've been lying to myself," he said, his voice low and rough. "About what this is between us. What you are to me." 

You swallowed hard, afraid to hope, afraid to interpret his words the way your heart desperately wanted to. "And what am I to you, Steve?" 

He looked down for a moment, gathering himself, then met your gaze again with newfound resolve. "Everything," he whispered. "You've become everything." 

The word hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Your breath caught in your throat as Steve continued, the words seeming to pour from him now that he’d started. 

"I kept pretending this was just physical. That I could compartmentalize you into this separate part of my life that didn't affect everything else."

He paused, swallowing hard, his eyes never leaving yours. "But the truth is, you've become... essential to me. Not just your body, but you. The way you laugh. The way you care about things. Your kindness when I was at my lowest."

Your heart hammered against your ribs as Steve continued, each word carefully chosen.

"I think about you," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "When I'm out there. I think about coming back to you constantly." 

The admission hit you like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You reached up to touch his face, fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, the softness of his beard beneath your fingertips.

"I think about you too," you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. "All the time." 

Steve's eyes closed briefly at your words, as if they caused him physical pain. When he opened them again, they were filled with a mixture of longing and regret. 

"I have no right to ask anything of you," he said, his hand covering yours where it rested against his face. "My life is dangerous, unstable. I can't offer you anything close to normal." 

"I've never asked for normal," you reminded him gently. "I've never expected promises from you, Steve." 

"But you deserve them," he insisted, his brow furrowing. "You deserve someone who can be there every day, not just whenever I can slip away." 

You shifted closer, the sheet falling away completely as you shifted to sit next to him. "You don't get to decide what I want or what's enough for me."

Steve's expression grew serious. "But I should have been honest—with myself and with you—about what was happening between us."

You held his gaze, gathering your courage. "And what exactly is happening between us, Steve?" 

He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. "I'm falling in love with you," he said, the words quiet but clear. "I think I have been for a long time." 

The admission hung in the air between you, transforming the space around you. Your heart stuttered, then raced ahead as if trying to catch up to the moment. 

"Steve," you breathed, suddenly at a loss for words.

He shook his head. "You don't have to say anything. I know this complicates everything." 

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "What if I want complications?" 

His brow furrowed, eyes searching yours. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean," you said, squeezing his hand, "that I'm falling in love with you too." The words escaped your lips easily, as if they'd been waiting there all along. "Maybe I've been falling since that first weekend, or maybe it happened gradually over all these stolen moments. But it's true."

Steve's expression shifted, hope and disbelief warring across his features. His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand as he processed your words.

"You can't mean that," he said finally, his voice rough. "You don't know what you're signing up for."

You moved closer, bringing your free hand up to cup his face. "I know exactly what I'm signing up for. Uncertainty. Worry. Long absences and unexpected appearances. I've been living it for almost a year now."

"And that's enough for you?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. "Stolen moments and no guarantees?"

"Too late," you replied with a small smile. "It's already happened." 

Steve stood abruptly, pacing the small space beside your bed, his naked form magnificent even in his agitation. His hands raked through his hair as he moved, tension radiating from every line of his body. 

"I can't ask that of you," he said, his voice strained. "It's not fair." 

You watched him pace, the moonlight casting his powerful body in silver and shadow. Despite the heaviness of the moment, you couldn't help admiring him—the fluid grace with which he moved, the controlled strength in every gesture. 

"Life isn't fair, Steve," you said softly. "If it were, we would have met at a coffee shop. You'd be an architect or a history teacher. We'd date normally, move in together after a year, get a dog." You shrugged. "But that's not our story." 

He stopped pacing, turning to face you fully. The vulnerability in his expression made your heart ache. 

"Our story is complicated and messy," you continued. "But it's ours. And I wouldn't trade it." 

Steve sat beside you again, the mattress dipping with his weight. “So we figure out the next chapter together?” 

"Together," you confirmed, the word carrying a weight it never had before. You reached for his hand again, twining your fingers with his. "Whatever that looks like."

Steve's thumb traced slow circles on your palm, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. "It won't be easy," he warned, though his voice had lost its edge of desperation. "There will be long stretches when I can't contact you, when you won't know where I am or if I'm safe." 

"I already live with that," you reminded him gently. "The only difference now is that we're being honest about what this is." 

His eyes met yours, searching. "And what is this, exactly?" 

You smiled, squeezing his hand. "Love. Complicated, inconvenient, impossible love." 

The word hung between you, no longer frightening but like a beacon illuminating the path forward. Steve's eyes searched yours, as if looking for any hint of doubt or reservation. Finding none, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture was tender, almost reverent.

“A cat for now, a dog later.”

He laughed softly, the sound rich with contentment. Steve drew you closer, his strong arms encircling you as if you might disappear. You settled against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. His lips pressed against your hair, his breath warm against your scalp.

"You know, when I first saw you at that fair last summer, I never imagined we'd end up here," he murmured.

You smiled against his skin. "What did you imagine?"

"Honestly?" His chest rumbled with a soft chuckle. "Just one night. Something to help me forget everything else for a while."

"And now?" you prompted, tilting your head to look up at him.

His expression softened, those blue eyes warming as they met yours. "Now I can't imagine not coming back to you."

The weight of his words settled warmly inside you, infusing your veins with a golden hope you'd never dared to feel. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with gentle fingers, still marveling that this was real.

"So we do this," you said softly. "We figure it out as we go." 

Steve nodded, turning to press a kiss to your palm. "Day by day." 

"Night by night," you added with a small smile. 

He laughed, the sound lighter than you'd ever heard from him before. "Hour by hour, sometimes." 

You shifted, moving to straddle his lap, your naked bodies pressing together once more. Steve's hands settled on your hips, steadying you as you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

"Speaking of hours," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "how many do we have right now?" 

His eyes darkened, desire flaring once more as his grip on you waist tightened. “At least until morning, but it seemed like possibly a day or two.”

You smiled, pressing another kiss to his lips, this one lingering. "I’ll take it."

Steve's hands slid up your back, pulling you closer as he captured your lips in a deeper kiss. There was still hunger there, but it was tempered with something more profound now that the truth lay exposed between you. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you thoroughly as his hands roamed your skin. 

You rolled your hips against him, feeling him hard and ready beneath you. The friction drew a groan from Steve's throat, his fingers digging into your flesh.

"We didn't finish what we started," you murmured against his lips. 

"No," he agreed, his voice rough with renewed desire. "We didn't." 

“But I’m ready for all of it now.”

“We both are,” he affirmed. With effortless strength, Steve lifted you, turning to lay you back against the pillows. He moved over you, his powerful body caging yours as you spread your legs for him. 

His eyes held yours as he entered you again, the connection between you transformed by your shared confessions. This wasn't just physical anymore—this was communion, an acknowledgment of everything unspoken that had been building between you for nearly a year. 

"I love you," he whispered against your lips as he began to move inside you. The words, so new between you, sent shivers across your skin. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. "I love you, too," you breathed, the truth of it expanding in your chest like a sunrise.

Steve's movements were deliberate, each thrust slow and purposeful as if he was memorizing the feel of you. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with reverent tenderness. The intensity in his gaze was almost unbearable—all his walls down, his soul bare before you. 

The pleasure built slowly between you, each movement deliberate and purposeful. When your release finally came, it washed over you in gentle waves rather than the crashing tsunami of your usual encounters. Steve's forehead pressed against yours as you breathed each other's names, bodies trembling in unison.

Afterward, he gathered you against him, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced idle patterns on your bare shoulder. The comfortable silence stretched between you, filled with unspoken promises amidst the newfound understanding.

"I should have told you sooner," Steve murmured, his voice rumbling beneath your ear.

You smiled against his skin. "We weren't ready before."

He considered this, his fingers still tracing patterns on your skin. "Maybe you're right," he finally said. "Maybe we needed the time to understand what this was becoming."

You propped yourself up on an elbow to look at him, taking in the relaxed lines of his face, so different from the guarded expressions you were used to seeing. "We both needed to convince ourselves that the other was worth letting our walls down. But we did. No regrets for how long it took," you said softly.

"No regrets," he echoed, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

The gentle sound of paws padding across the floor drew your attention. Juniper leapt gracefully onto the bed, circling and surveying the scene before picking a spot at the head of the bed near Steve’s shoulder. She kneaded the blanket a few times, then curled into a contented ball, her purr filling the quiet room. 

“Hey, Junie,” you cooed, reaching out to scratch her neck.

Steve chuckled. "I think I've been approved."

"She's a good judge of character," you murmured. 

"She's still settling in," you said, watching as Juniper's eyes drifted closed, her purr growing louder. "It took her a few days to even come out from under the bed for more than a few minutes at a time when I first brought her home." 

Steve reached over to stroke her fur, his large hand gentle against her small form. "Sometimes it takes a while to trust that you're really safe somewhere. That it's okay to make yourself at home." 

The parallel wasn't lost on you. You smiled, settling back against his chest. "Some strays need more time than others." 

His arm tightened around you, and you felt his lips press against the top of your head. "I'm not sure I deserve either of you." 

"Too bad," you murmured sleepily. "You've got us both now." 

This moment—Steve in your bed, casually petting your cat, his body relaxed in a way you'd never seen before—felt precious, even fragile in its normalcy.

"Are you hungry?" you asked. "We could raid the kitchen."

Steve's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "I could eat."

Of course he could. The super soldier metabolism was no joke. You'd seen him put away enough food for three people without breaking a sweat.

You started to shift, but Steve’s arm banded more tightly around your back, refusing to let you go. 

You arched a brow at him.

“But I want a few more minutes of just this.”

"Just this is nice," you agreed, settling back against him.

The weight of his arm around you felt wonderful. Just pure belonging and contentment. 

"When did you know?" you asked after a comfortable silence. 

Steve's chest rose and fell with a deep breath. "That I loved you?" 

You nodded against him. “Because it wasn’t just tonight.”

"No, it wasn’t just tonight,” he said without hesitation. "April. When you were sick. I was halfway across the world when I heard through my contacts that you hadn't been to work for three days."

You pulled back slightly to look at him. "You were monitoring my work attendance?" 

His expression turned sheepish. "Not specifically. I just have someone who keeps tabs on you occasionally. Makes sure you're safe.”

"So you found out I was sick and...?" you prompted, curious about what had driven him to appear in your apartment that day. 

Steve's fingers traced patterns on your shoulder. "I was worried. I made some calls, found out you'd filled a prescription for antibiotics but weren't improving. I was in Eastern Europe at the time, but I had to come here."

Your heart swelled at the thought of him crossing continents just because you had a bad cold. "That's quite the house call, Rogers." 

His lips quirked into a half-smile. "When I got here and saw you—feverish, barely able to stand—something fundamentally shifted. I realized I couldn't pretend anymore that what I felt was just physical."

"So it was me at my absolute worst that made you fall in love?" you teased, pressing a kiss to his chest. 

"It was seeing you vulnerable," Steve corrected softly. "Seeing there was a need I could tend to that had nothing to do with sex or pleasure. And realizing how desperately I wanted to be there for you, not just when it was convenient or satisfying." 

His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine as he continued, "When I held you in the shower, when I helped you into clean clothes, I felt more connected to you than I had during any of our previous encounters."

You nestled closer against him, absorbing his warmth. "For me it was when you left after that weekend," you admitted. "I had told myself it was just amazing sex with Captain America last summer—who wouldn't be hung up on that? But then you came back in September, and again after that..." You traced patterns on his chest. "Each time you left, the imprint was deeper."

"Imprints," Steve echoed, his voice a low rumble beneath your ear. "That's a good way to put it."

You smiled against his skin, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

"I think we should eat now," you said softly, reluctantly pulling away from his embrace. "If we don't, you'll be raiding my fridge at 3am again."

Steve laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "That was one time." 

"One very memorable time," you countered, sitting up and reaching for his discarded t-shirt on the floor. You pulled it over your head, the fabric still warm from his body and smelling distinctly of him. "I thought someone had broken in." 

"Technically, someone had," he admitted with a playful smirk. 

You rolled your eyes, sliding off the bed. "Come on, super soldier. Let's find you some food." 

Steve watched you for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of you wearing his shirt, before he stood and pulled on his boxer briefs. You pulled him down for one more kiss, reveling in the new normal - with no idea of what that would be, but the surety of it being something was the feeling you’d heard about, read in books, watched a thousand times on big and small screens, and finally was yours. 

Complicated, uncharted, but real and yours.

Nearly every part of their story is my favorite, but this might be my favorite favorite.

Now, again, for those keeping track of the chronological timeline, we're nearing the end of May 2018. I'm going off this theoretical idea that Avengers Infinity War happened "sometime between April 19th and June 3rd, 2018."

...

so.

yeah.

next part: SHOULD'VE KNOWN IT WAS A MATTER OF TIME read more Exiled Nomad Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[buckets-and-trees]

What would happen if It Fit Too Right!Steve showed up for a filthy booty call only to find you a pathetic sick mess burrowed in bed and near delirious with a fever? 🥺

Wifey, you dropped this in my box last June, and I have known EXACTLY what would happen since then, and I've been just waiting to share (since I decided to post the pieces somewhat corresponding to the time of year they would happen).

I Felt More When We Played Pretend

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count: 3k Summary: April 30, 2018. See above.

Content/Warnings: illness, breaking and entering

Author Note: It was a year ago this week that I wrote the very first drabble for this duo! And then they evolved into a full series. Can you believe it? I feel like they're such a deep part of my writer heart and a constant fixation of my muse.

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↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You jerked awake with a start, feet tangled in the throw blanket you'd cocooned yourself in earlier. Your feet are burning up, sweaty and uncomfortable. With a groan, you kicked the blanket off, shivering slightly as the cool air hit your overheated skin. You groaned as the motion triggered a coughing fit that scraped at your already raw throat.

The television was still playing in the background, Paul Hollywood critiquing someone's focaccia with that stern look of his. Bread week. It had definitely been cake week cake week when you were last awake and somewhat coherent. But you could tell it was at least still afternoon light coming in through your windows. 

You reached for the half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table. It was stone cold, but you drank it anyway, grimacing slightly. This cold had knocked you flat for nearly a week, leaving you in a perpetual state of exhaustion and congestion, still nowhere near feeling human. 

You ran a hand through your greasy hair, wincing at how disgusting it felt. But not feeling human, a shower hadn’t been something you’d pursued in days, wandering from your bed to the couch and then the bed again as you simply rotated where you took your exhausted shifts of sleeping, only downing cold medicine and a myriad of typically-useful home remedies. 

You reached for the tissue box on the coffee table, pulling out the last one and blowing your nose with a sound that would make anyone cringe. The pile of used tissues beside you was embarrassingly large. You should really clean up, but the thought of moving hovered on the edge of possible but also too exhausting. You sighed and willed yourself to actually look at the pile to assess how much longer you could let it pile up. 

Only it was gone. 

One lone tissue only there - the one you’d just dropped. 

Your frowned. 

You tilted your head. 

Your brain was fuzzy and slow. 

Where did your disgusting pile go?

A clatter from somewhere else in your apartment made you tense. You were absolutely certain you'd been alone all day, all week even. Your muddled brain tried to make sense of this. Who else would be here? You have no roommates. Had you called someone? Had your mom learned you were sick, made a roadtrip to take care of you, and somehow gotten a key to your place? 

You heard more noises from the kitchen, and your heart started hammering in your chest because another foolish thought crossed your cold-addled thoughts…

And then that thought appeared before your eyes.

“Hey invalid,” he greeted, and Steve came into the living room, holding a tray. 

You burst into tears. 

The suddenness of your emotional reaction seemed to catch you both off guard. The sob that escapes you is so sudden it triggers another coughing fit. You cover your mouth with your elbow, shoulders shaking as you try to catch your breath through the tears and coughing.

"Whoa, hey," Steve soothed, quickly setting the tray down on the coffee table. The ceramic mugs clinking against the wood as he sunk onto the couch beside you, one large hand coming to rest on your back. "Easy, breathe."

You couldn’t answer, your tears mixing with your already congested sinuses until you were a snotty, hiccuping mess. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized. 

You shook your head, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand. "It's not that," you managed.

It was mortifying. You were sick, disgusting, and now a blubbering mess in front of this man who kept appearing in your life like some beautiful ghost. You haven't seen him in weeks, and he shows up now? When you're at your absolute worst? It wasn't fair.

"I'm sorry," you said, sniffling. "I'm just—I'm disgusting right now." 

Steve's hand continued to rub soothing circles on your back. His touch was gentle, so at odds with how he usually handled you. 

"You're sick," he corrected, his voice soft. "Not disgusting." 

You looked up at him through watery eyes. He was as perfect as ever—that irresistible beard, hair neatly combed, wearing a simple gray henley that stretched across his broad chest. Meanwhile, you were in the same ratty t-shirt and sweatpants you'd been wearing for at least three days, hair unwashed, face puffy from crying and congestion.

"I made you some soup," Steve said, nodding toward the tray. Soup and tea. 

You hiccuped, trying to gather yourself. "I just... I didn't expect to see you. And I'm a mess and I feel horrible and..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at yourself. 

Steve's expression softened. "You think I care about that?"

You couldn't meet his eyes. "This isn’t what you came here for.” You reached for another tissue, because even though you had stopped sobbing you were still crying, so exhausted from being ill, so overwhelmed by him being here. “I can’t bear you seeing me like this. I haven’t showered in days. I can hardly… I’m so tired, and I just–”

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” he firmly interrupted you, voice soft but firm. He cupped your cheek in his hand, turning your face up to look at him. “I came here to spend time with you, and that’s what I’m doing."

Your breath hitched at his words. This wasn't the Steve who fucked you against walls and made you scream his name. This was something else entirely. You searched his face for any sign he was just being polite, but found none. Only genuine concern reflected in those impossibly blue eyes.

"You're really not here for..." you gestured vaguely, unable to even say the word 'sex' in your current state.

Steve shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Not everything has to be about that."

He reached for the mug of tea on the tray, passing it to you. The warmth seeped into your palms, the steam carrying the scent of honey and lemon to your clogged nostrils. You took a tentative sip, the hot liquid soothing your raw throat.

"This is good," you murmured, taking another sip. The honey coated your throat, bringing blessed relief. 

Steve watched you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I wasn't sure if you had food in the house. I brought groceries." 

You blinked, processing his words slowly through your congested haze. "You... brought groceries?" 

He nodded, reaching for the bowl of soup. "Chicken noodle. Nothing fancy, but it should help." 

Your fingers trembled slightly as you accepted the bowl, warmth seeping through the ceramic and into your palms. The steam rising from the broth carried the comforting aroma of chicken, herbs, and vegetables. Your stomach rumbled in response—when was the last time you'd eaten a proper meal? 

"Thank you," you whispered. The domesticity of it all was so jarring compared to your usual encounters, you truly didn’t know what to think.

Steve settled beside you on the couch, close enough that you could feel his warmth but not touching. The British baking show continued playing in the background as you cautiously spooned the soup into your mouth. The flavors burst on your tongue, a well-seasoned chicken broth, tender vegetables, soft noodles. It was exactly what your body needed.

"This is really good," you said between spoonfuls. "Did you make this?" 

Steve nodded. "It's my mom's recipe. Well, as close as I can remember it." 

The mention of his mother surprised you. Steve rarely spoke about his past, especially not the distant past before the war and the ice. You glanced at him, curious. 

"She used to make it whenever I got sick," he continued, his eyes distant with memory. "Which was pretty often, before the serum." 

You were struck by the moment, but continued eating the soup. 

"How long have you been sick?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

You took another spoonful of soup, not realizing how much you needed it after days of barely eating. "Almost a week," you admitted. "It hit me hard Wednesday night."

Steve frowned, his eyes scanning your face. "Have you seen a doctor?"

You shook your head. "It's just a cold. A really bad one."

"Hmm," he hummed, not sounding convinced. His hand came up to rest against your forehead, checking your temperature. The gesture was so tender, so caring, it made your chest ache with something that had nothing to do with your congestion.

"You're still warm," he noted. "After you’ve eaten, you should take a shower.”

“Cause I smell?”

He chuckled. “You do,” he admitted, “but I think it will help you feel a little better, too.”

The thought of a shower was both appealing and exhausting. You wanted nothing more than to feel clean again, but the mere idea of standing upright for that long seemed impossible. 

"I don't know if I can stand that long," you admitted, setting the now-empty soup bowl back on the tray. "I get dizzy." 

Steve's eyes softened. "I'll help you."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, so matter-of-fact. In all your encounters with Steve, this level of care, of tenderness, was uncharted territory. You'd seen glimpses of it, fleeting moments after sex when he would clean you up or hold you close, but nothing like this.

You set your now-"Steve, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted gently. His eyes held yours, and there was something in them you hadn't seen before—a vulnerability, a tenderness that made your breath catch. "Let me take care of you." 

Those five words hung in the air between you. This was so far outside the parameters of whatever it was you had with Steve that you didn't know how to respond. Sex was one thing—intense, but the thought of him seeing you so vulnerable, so weak, had you feeling hesitant.

But this was Steve. The man who had seen every inch of your body, who had made you come undone in ways you never thought possible. Why was this so different? 

"Okay," you finally agreed, your voice small. 

Steve helped you up from the couch, his strong arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The room spun slightly as you stood, and you leaned into him gratefully. 

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice close to your ear.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, your legs shaky beneath you. Steve matched his pace to yours, patient and solid beside you. When you reached the bathroom, he turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature with one hand while keeping the other on your waist.

Steam began to fill the small space as hot water cascaded from the showerhead. Then Steve turned to you, his hands coming to rest at the hem of your t-shirt.

"May I?" he asked quietly. 

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve gently lifted the shirt over your head, his movements clinical and careful. There was nothing sexual in his touch, only care. You felt oddly shy as he helped you undress completely, his eyes never lingering inappropriately. It was so different from every other time he'd removed your clothes.

"Almost ready," Steve said softly. He helped you remove your underwear with the same gentle efficiency, then guided you toward the shower. "Can you stand?"

You nodded, though you weren't entirely sure. "I think so."

"I'll be right here," he promised, helping you step under the warm spray.

The water felt heavenly against your skin, washing away days of fever sweat and lethargy. You closed your eyes, letting it cascade over your face and hair, breathing in the steam that helped clear your congested sinuses. 

For a moment, you felt almost human again. You reached for your shampoo bottle, but your arms felt like lead weights, and you swayed slightly.

"Easy there," Steve said, quickly stepping into the shower behind you, having discarded his own clothes. His strong hands steadied you, holding you upright as the water cascaded over both of you. The sudden feeling of his bare skin against yours was startlingly intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

"I've got you," he murmured, reaching for your shampoo bottle. He poured a generous amount into his palm and began to work it through your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with gentle pressure. You closed your eyes, leaning back against his solid chest as he washed your hair with careful, methodical movements. 

The feeling of his hands in your hair was hypnotic, soothing in a way you hadn't expected. This wasn't the Steve who pulled your hair during passionate encounters—this was someone else entirely, someone tender and nurturing. 

"Turn around," he said, gently turning you in his arms so you faced him. 

The warm water flowed down your back as Steve carefully tipped your head back, rinsing the shampoo from your hair. His hands were gentle as they worked through the strands, making sure every bit of soap was washed away. You kept your eyes closed, dizzy from the heat and the proximity of him, though not in the way you usually were around Steve. 

Once your hair was rinsed, he reached for your body wash, squeezing some onto a washcloth. With methodical care, he began washing your body, starting with your shoulders and working his way down your arms. His touch was clinical, respectful in a way that made your heart ache. 

"This okay?" he asked softly. 

You nodded, unable to find your voice. There was something so personal about this moment, something that transformed all the physical encounters you'd had into something more meaningful, more real. Steve continued washing you, his movements gentle but thorough. When he finished, he helped you rinse off, supporting your weight as the warm water cascaded over both of you.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low. 

"Much," you whispered. The combination of the hot water, the steam, and Steve's gentle care had eased some of your misery. Your head still felt stuffed with cotton, but the heavy weight of illness seemed slightly lighter. 

"I think I need to get out now," you murmured, your legs starting to feel like jelly beneath you.

"Okay," Steve agreed, turning off the water. He stepped out first, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist before reaching for your fluffy bath towel. He enveloped you in it as you stepped out, using another smaller towel to gently blot the water from your hair.

The bathroom was warm and steamy, but you still shivered slightly. Steve noticed immediately.

"Let's get you dressed," he said, his voice gentle but firm. He kept one arm around you for support as he guided you into your bedroom. The familiar space was welcoming, though you noticed immediately that the tangled sheets and scattered tissues that had been in here too were gone. The bed was neatly made with fresh sheets, a glass of water and your medication waiting on the nightstand.

"You cleaned my room," you murmured, touched by the gesture. 

Steve shrugged, the movement casual but his eyes watchful as he steadied you. "Thought it might help you feel better." 

He helped you to the edge of the bed, then moved to your dresser. "What do you want to wear?" 

"T-shirt, second drawer. Underwear in the top left," you instructed.

Steve returned with a soft t-shirt and a pair of comfortable cotton underwear.

"Arms up," he instructed softly, helping you into a clean t-shirt. His hands were gentle as he guided the soft fabric over your damp hair and down your body. Next came the underwear, Steve kneeling before you to help you step into them. The role reversal was striking—you were usually the one on your knees before him.

Once you were dressed, Steve guided under the covers. The fresh sheets felt heavenly against your skin as you sank into the mattress. Steve tucked the blankets around you with careful hands, then sat on the edge of the bed.

"Better?" he asked, his voice soft. 

You nodded, your eyelids already growing heavy. The shower had helped clear your head somewhat, but it had also drained what little energy you had. 

Steve reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. "You should take your medicine."

You obediently took the pills he offered, washing them down with water. As you handed the glass back, your fingers brushed his. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick.

Steve brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead, his touch lingering against your skin. "You should rest."

"Will you..." you hesitated, suddenly unsure. This was uncharted territory for both of you. "Will you stay?"

Something flickered in Steve's eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "Of course, I'll stay," he promised softly, “for as long as you need me to.” 

You felt a wave of relief wash over you.

"Thank you," you murmured, your eyelids growing heavier by the second. The combination of warm soup, a hot shower, and clean sheets was quickly pulling you toward sleep. 

You expected Steve to leave the room, perhaps go watch television or sit in the chair in the corner. Instead, he stood and shed the towel from his waist, quickly pulling on his boxer briefs that you now noticed were sitting on the dresser. The bed dipped as he slid in beside you, his body radiating warmth as he settled against the pillows. 

Without thinking, you shifted closer to him, seeking his warmth. Steve's arm came around you, drawing you against his chest. You rested your head in the crook of his shoulder, your body fitting against his as naturally as breathing. 

"Sleep," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple so naturally. 

As you surrendered to unconsciousness, your last thought was that while you would recover from this awful spring cold, you didn’t think you would ever recover from this. 

next part: FOR KEEPS THIS TIME read more Exiled Nomad Series

For those keeping track of the chronological timeline, this is the end of April 2018. I'm going off this theoretical idea that Avengers Infinity War happened "sometime between April 19th and June 3rd, 2018."

...

just

you know

for reference...

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I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[buckets-and-trees]

Puzzle Pieces in the Dead of Night

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count: 1.5k Summary: March 21, 2018. Still on the run, still in exile, you still never know when he will show up, but tonight Steve visits you again.

Content/Warnings: explicit smut: semi-rough sex, hints of somnophilia, manhandling, finger sucking, choking/breathplay, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex/creampie

Author Notes: Well, y'all did vote for more rough Nomad Steve. This is connected to the previous encounter/situationship from It Fit Too Right, with this happening just over a week later, but this has next to no plot, just smut, so you DO NOT need to have read the previous part. HAHA, THAT CHANGED, AND NOW IT'S PART OF THE FULL ON EXILED NOMAD SERIES. Title inspo from Taylor Swift again.

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It’s the jostling of your lower half that woke you up. You groaned sleepily and tried to reach for the covers that had gone missing, only your hand met the warm skin of a thickly corded bicep. You inhaled sharply, suddenly more awake, and smell him. Musky, leather, a hint of something spicy you still haven’t been able to identify, and some natural sweat. His scent has been embedded into your mind at this point.

“Steve,” you murmured.

The jostling had been him removing your underwear. You’d been sleeping on your side, and he kept you that way, only bending your knees a little more as he knelt behind you and lined up his cock with your cunt. Steve’s hand moved smoothly down your thigh to the crook of your knee, where he gave a soft squeeze. Then he leaned forward, and clamped his big hand down on your forearm, pinning it to the bed and bracing himself above you. You weren’t wet or ready for him yet, but he made do with only the precum leaking from his tip and pushed his length into your tight channel in one thrust that forced the breath out of you in a huff, burying himself inside you.

Your hand went down to paw helplessly at his hip. He gave you only a moment to take in the overwhelming fullness, and then he took up a blistering pace of shallow thrusts. Your shoulders shrank forward, hunkering in on yourself, and on the spot where his hand anchored your arm to the bed. You brought your other hand up to curl over his.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned.

And it did feel good, being too full of him. Your body agreed, welcomed him, slickening up to accommodate him.

He brought his free hand up to grip the back of your neck, angling your head where he wanted it. He nipped at your ear, licked the shell of it, and just kept you close, his heated breath over your skin yet another point of closeness and the feeling of being overtaken by him.

Steve shifted the grip on your arm to instead grasp both of your wrists and push them further up the bed. You wouldn’t fight him, but now he owned the restriction. You were trapped – and willingly so – beneath him. The rhythm of skin slapping against skin underscored your short little moans.  

He slid the other hand he had on you from the back of your neck around beneath your head to cradle the side of your face, cupped your jaw, and then his thumb pushed insistently into your mouth. You closed your lips around it and sucked gently, still moaning. The pressure on your tongue had you surrendering even more to him. He was here with a single objective: pleasure. And if he was going to use your body as that vessel, you would yield in order to extract every moment of bliss you could in return.

Steve kept the same pace far longer than usual did. The sensation was good but unsatisfying. It felt like he needed to fuck you to fuck, to feel. He was not yet building toward his orgasm or yours. You let him keep taking what he needed, losing track of the passing of time in the dead of night, only dim illumination bleeding in from the bedroom window.

When your hands finally started to feel numb in his grip, you twisted them gently beneath his hands. He grunted and released them. “Sorry,” he muttered against your shoulder. Gruff, but aware.

He then moved you to lay flat on your stomach. He slipped his thick thighs between your legs, spreading you open, and inserted himself into your pussy again. At this angle, his cock dragged against that spongy spot on the front of your walls with each thrust, and he kept the steady pace he had before, but went for deeper thrusts now.

You didn’t put on a show with the sounds you made, never had with any previous partners, but Steve knew how to manipulate your body too well, and gasps, moans, groans, cries, and sometimes screams, flowed freely from you. You couldn’t keep them in. You wanted him to know how you felt, and you also had no fear of judgment from him. He only ever encouraged you to let loose of all inhibitions with him. The gratified moan that melted out of you when he fucked you at this angle couldn’t be helped.

Steve pressed his palm down between your shoulder blades, forcing some of his weight down on you. His mere physicality was intoxicating, and he always used his body as much as he used yours when he came to you for sex.

And now the pleasure mounted beneath him as he fucked you into the mattress.

You gripped the sheets, tugging as the tension built, your muscles went taught, and  toes curled. You hung for just a few moments at the edge, and then a violent shiver went down your spine as your orgasm finally cascaded over you.

Steve groaned as your pussy clenched around him, and he squeezed your ass, groping the flesh.

You took in a lungful of air on your way back down and keened softly as he continued fucking you. “Good girl.”

He pulled out of you, and you whined.

“Not done with you yet,” he chuckled darkly.

In another swift movement that belied his preternatural speed and strength, he had you on your back, and pressed your thighs up against your chest. He drug the head of his cock against up and down over your swollen clit, making you whimper for him.

You recognized that look.

He needed to be in you even deeper, needed to dominate you, and look into your eyes while he did it.

When he fixed you with that look, your belly burned, and you needed it, too.

“Steve,” you begged.

No more warning, all the endless build up was only the preparation for this.

He pounded into you. His thrusts were brutal, drawing his length in and out in long strokes now. You felt it in overwhelming force. You didn’t want anything else. You wanted him to lose himself in you.

His hand moved to your neck, and you were already breathless, but he applied pressure there, restricting your air. It was a testament to his senses and skills that he could so carefully watch for your safety while continuing his deep and relentless thrusts. You let him steal your breath, one hand gripping the forearm pressed between your breasts to hold your throat. When you tapped at him, he was already letting up, and the flood of oxygen back into your lungs surged to spike your second orgasm while he ground his pelvis down against your clit. A silent scream was all you could manage.

Steve claimed your lips in a messy kiss as he came, hips stuttering, and then continuing in purposeful thrusts as he pumped you with his cum.

Finally, he let your legs relax and drop back to the bed. He let his full weight drop down onto you, and you let your fingers trail lightly up and down his spine as he caught his breath in the crook of your neck.

But Steve didn’t linger as long as you hoped for, biting your lip and turning your head away from him when you realized you had hoped he would stay there.

He left the room and entered your modest en suite bathroom. You listened to the sound of him cleaning up, then getting a washcloth from your cupboard, dampening it, and bring it back to wash you up – as he always did.

But it didn’t always mean he would stay.

Broken beast of a man as he was, it was laced through with glimpses of a more tender side of him – the side that you saw enough of not to be afraid of him.

The side that was becoming too much of its own danger to you. The side that made you yearn for him – not wanting the mind-blowing sex, but him.

When he returned to the bed, you tried to steady your breath and didn’t look at him.

When he slid down behind you and wrapped an arm around your front, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Of course, he felt and heard it.

“You okay?”

“I thought you would leave.”

The last time he’d come to your bed - a week and a half ago - it had only been for a quick fuck, and then he’d disappeared within the hour. You had been left wondering if you'd be reduced to only quick fucks.

“Not yet,” he said. He pressed a kiss just behind your earlobe. The gesture was too intimate for what the two of you were not. “I have the weekend,” he promised.

And you could not deny him.

You laced your fingers with his and sunk back against his chest.

You knew you could not have him, but you were as selfish as he was.

I honestly don't know what to say here. I watched something that implanted this scene into my brain, and that is all the explanation I have.

read more of the Exiled Nomad Series

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[buckets-and-trees]

Quick drabble/riff prompt! First thing that pops into your mind for: soft!dark Steve + “I’ve been waiting all night for you to get home.”

It Fit Too Right

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark Nomad!Steve x Female!Reader Word Count: 690 Summary: March 10, 2018. In his nomad era, Steve finds a warm place to stopover when he has certain needs. You are that place, whether you intend to be or not.

Content/Warnings: Steve broke into your house (and has a habit of this), smut: oral (male receiving)

Author Notes: It's already April 28th in some parts of the world, so consider this my first offering to the alter of @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420's Cum Together: Community Revival Extravaganza! (It's already April 28 in Australia) Prompt? Pouncing on your partner as soon as they arrive home from a trip away. Some influence from "My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys" by Taylor Swift.

EDITORIAL NOTE: Technically this was the first piece written in the Exiled Nomad series, but it is now officially the seventh story in their series of encounters.

Previous Encounter | Exiled Nomad Series

You sighed with relief as you toed off your shoes at the door and locked the deadbolt. You dropped your keys in the bowl and then unhooked the two tote bags of groceries from the crook of your arm to the counter. You pulled your phone from your pocket and then plugged in the charging cord you left handy in the kitchen.

You turned back to the counter and began pulling the groceries out of the bags, when suddenly a large, warm, strong body was pressed up against your back. You gasped as familiar arms of corded muscle pressed to the counter on either side of your torso and caged you in.

“Steve,” you whimpered as he crowded you in and nipped at your neck.

“I’ve been waiting all night for you to get home,” he murmured into your ear. He pressed his hard cock against the curve of your ass, knocking your hips up against the counter. Your body surged with trepidation and lust.

You hadn’t seen him in more than a month, but this was not the first time the man who had been Captain America had shown up in your apartment with needs to be met. Needing a place to lie low. Needing a shower and clean clothes. Needing a good meal. Needing someone to talk to. Needing someone to listen. Needing to feel something. Needing to slake his lust.

You might have gotten more of the preamble if you’d come straight home from work instead of running errands, but clearly he’d been waiting in your place long enough to have taken care of everything but what he needed you for.

“You’re late,” he said tersely.

“I didn’t know,” you confessed honestly. How could you have known? He communicated almost nothing with you whenever he left. After almost a year of this, you still didn’t know if it would make it better or worse to have ties to him between his appearances in your life.

“Turn around,” he said, and you did.

He kissed you, licking into your mouth with so much hunger it scared and thrilled you.

These trysts with him were all that - all consuming, more pleasure and more pain and more demanding than anything else or anyone else you had ever experienced, and you didn’t know if it would be hours or days that he would demand from you.  

His lips demanded more from yours, extracting wordless supplication, pulling the yearning from the bottom of your belly, extracting the air from your lungs, until you were burning and desperate for him. Though in truth it would never take much for you to collapse into what he wanted and needed. It never had.

He never asked for permission or forgiveness, but you aren’t certain he ever needed to. He was both too wonderful and too terrifying to resist. Powerful but soft. Sweet but rough. He took but gave back in ample measure.

The first day you’d met, the way he’d flirted with you with such ease and sweetness at the city fair had in no way prepared you for what his true intentions were. Within hours, he’d had you ruined and naked on your bed and kept you there for three days.

As he pushed you down to your knees now, you knew that’s where you would be again very soon.

You were not made for the needs of a super soldier, but as he slid his cock past your lips, his eyes already blown with his ravenous desire, there was only the hint of the promise that he would try not to break his favorite toy.

But as one hand came to caress your cheek softly even while the other held the base of your skull to push his thick length down your throat, you knew he would break you, put you back together, and break you many times over until he had to leave again. Your body was already tingling, your channel growing slick and eager for him.

“I missed you. I missed this sweet mouth.”

You felt filthy but also treasured.

It’s why you always complied to him.

“Did you miss me, too?”

NEXT ↠ March 21, 2018: Puzzle Pieces in the Dead of Night read more Exiled Nomad Series

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[buckets-and-trees]

idk about you but i just KNOW that nomad steve talks you through it. in the most panty soaking gut wrenching way. he’s always tried to hold back a little, be respectful, not be too much, but once he becomes nomad he just stops giving a damn. and he’s so cocky with it too, knowing he can keep going, keep making you feel good. he gets you going and then it’s all “that’s it baby let go” “that’s riiiiight” “that feel good? yeah? ohh look at you” mocking your desperation when you start moaning and gasping GOD i need him.

Just Say When

Characters/Pairings: Nomad!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 3.2k Summary: Saturday, February 10, 2018. A surprise in your apartment the weekend before Valentines.

Content/Warnings: "fluffy" angst; repeated hook ups; Nomad Steve is still soft!dark and a warning all his own; explicit smut (oral: male receiving, vaginal fingering, nipple play, vaginal intercourse, unprotected sex/ejaculation); light dirty talk (there's talking, but it's not nasty dirty talk)

Author Notes: Eighth treat for the Valentine Storygrams.

Previous Part | Exiled Nomad Series

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You sighed as you closed the door behind you, dropping your keys on the small table in the entryway. The trip to UPS had taken longer than expected due to a line of people also shipping back their own Amazon returns. You were looking forward to a quiet evening at home, heating up something easy for dinner, and maybe catching up on that book you'd been meaning to finish.

As you shrugged off your coat, a sound made you freeze. The unmistakable hiss of running water hitting tile came from your bathroom. Your heart leapt into your throat, adrenaline surging through your veins. You lived alone. No one else had a key. There shouldn't be anyone in your apartment, let alone using your shower.

For a moment, you stood rooted to the spot, mind racing. Should you call the police? Grab a weapon? Run? But curiosity and a strange sense of anticipation overrode your fear. Cautiously, you made your way down the hallway.

The sound of water shut off the same moment you entered your room, and you hear very faint shuffling from the en suite bathroom. The door was slightly ajar and steam was billowing out. You hesitated for a moment before gently pushing it open.

The sight that greeted you made your breath catch in your throat. A very familiar, very masculine figure. His broad shoulders and muscular back were on full display as he stood wrapping one of your towels low around his hips.

For a moment, you simply stared, unable to believe your eyes. It had been a little over a month since you'd seen him unexpectedly in that nightclub in Aspen. How was he here, in your shower, as if he belonged?

Certainly sensing your presence, Steve turned, his eyes locking with yours. Without a word, he stepped closer.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, his voice low and husky. "I let myself in."

You stood frozen in the doorway, your mind reeling, pussy pulsing already.

You swallowed hard, your eyes roaming over Steve's damp, chiseled torso. Droplets of water clung to his skin, trailing tantalizing paths down his chest and abs. The towel hung dangerously low on his hips, leaving little to the imagination.

"How did you get in?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steve's lips quirked into a small, almost sheepish smile. "I may have picked the lock. I needed to see you."

Your heart raced at his words. He needed to see you. Despite the shock of finding him in your apartment, a thrill of excitement coursed through you.

"Steve," you breathed, taking a hesitant step towards him. "What are you doing here?"

He closed the distance between you in two long strides, his large hands coming to rest on your waist. The heat from his body radiated through your clothes, making you acutely aware of how close he was.

“This,” he answered your question by lowering his mouth to yours.

Steve's lips crashed against yours, hungry and demanding. You melted into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck as he pulled you flush against his damp body. The towel was the only barrier between you, and you could feel the hard planes of his muscles through your clothes.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you deeply as his hands roamed your body. One large palm cupped your ass, squeezing possessively as he ground his hips against yours. You could feel his arousal growing, pressing insistently against your stomach.

"I shouldn't keep coming here," Steve murmured against your lips between kisses. "But I need to have you."

You knew you should question this, but all rational thought fled your mind as Steve's lips trailed down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.

Your head fell back, giving Steve better access to your neck as he continued his sensual assault. His beard scraped deliciously against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, holding him close as he lavished attention on your pulse point.

He walked you backwards out of the bathroom and further into your room.

Then Steve stepped back, his eyes roaming over your body with undisguised hunger. The intensity of his gaze made you shiver, desire pooling low in your belly.

"Undress for me," he commanded, his voice low and husky. "Slowly."

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of your shirt to lift it over your head. Steve's eyes followed every movement, darkening with lust as you revealed more skin. Once your torso was fully exposed, you glanced back at Steve and let the shirt fall to the floor.

Steve's hand moved to the towel at his waist. He pulled it away, letting it drop. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him fully naked, his impressive arousal on full display.

Steve's hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly as he watched you continue to undress. The sight of him touching himself sent fire through your veins.

“Keep going,” he insisted.

Next, you unzipped your jeans, shimmying them down your hips. Steve's breath audibly caught as you stepped out of it, leaving you in just your mis-matched bra and panties. At least they were good ones.

With deliberate slowness, you reached behind your back to unhook your bra. You held the cups in place for a moment before letting it fall away. Steve's eyes darkened as your breasts were revealed, his hand moving faster on his cock.

"Don’t stop," he breathed.

Your thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs. You stepped out of them, now fully naked before Steve's hungry gaze.

Steve studied your body for another moment, drinking in every curve and plane. "Come here," he growled.

You moved towards him, drawn like a magnet.

“Kneel,” he said.

You sank to your knees before Steve, your eyes level with his impressive erection. His hand was still wrapped around the base, and you watched a bead of precum form at the tip.

"Open your mouth," Steve commanded, his voice husky with desire.

You complied, parting your lips as Steve guided the head of his cock between them. The taste of him exploded on your tongue as he pushed deeper into your mouth. Your hands came to rest on his powerful thighs, steadying yourself as you took more of him.

"You're always so eager for me," he gloated.

You didn't care. It was true.

Then Steve's fingers tangled in your hair, guiding your movements as you began to bob your head. "That's it," he groaned. "Take all of me."

You relaxed your throat, allowing him to slide deeper. Your tongue swirled around his shaft as you sucked, drawing a low moan from Steve. His hips began to rock, fucking your mouth with shallow thrusts as you worked him with your lips and tongue.

"Fuck," Steve groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Your mouth feels so good."

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder as Steve's thrusts became more urgent. His cock hit the back of your throat with each movement, making your eyes water. But the sounds of pleasure falling from his lips spurred you on, eager to bring him to the edge.

Just as you felt Steve's muscles tensing, signaling his impending release, he suddenly pulled away. You looked up at him, confused and breathless.

"Not yet," Steve panted, his chest heaving. "I want to be inside you.”

Steve's eyes were dark as he reached down to help you to your feet. Without warning, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. He dropped you down onto the mattress, his body covering yours quickly as he settled between your thighs.

His lips found yours in a searing kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth as his hands roamed the curves of your body. You arched into his touch, desperate for more contact. Steve's beard scratched deliciously against your skin as he trailed kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at your pulse point.

"Steve," you whined as he lavished attention on your breasts, his tongue swirling around a nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your slick folds. You moaned as he stroked you, his fingers teasing your labia, circling your clit before dipping lower to tease your entrance. You mewled and arched into his touch, desperate for more friction.

"So wet for me already," Steve murmured against your skin, his voice low and husky. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you breathed, your hips rocking against his hand. "Only for you, Steve."

He groaned at your words, capturing your lips in another searing kiss as he slipped two thick fingers inside you.

And it was true. You had never been this way with any one else - not so quick to get physically involved, not uninhibited, willing to let him use your body, so ruin you with pleasure. You let him give and take without question.

You moaned into his mouth as he began to pump his fingers in and out, curling them to hit that perfect spot inside you. His thumb found your clit, circling it in tight, precise movements that had you trembling beneath him.

You knew you should stop. You knew this was dangerous, that you were setting yourself up for heartbreak. But as Steve continued working your body, you could only continue to succumb to your desperation for him, the thing that flickered in and out of your life.

"Steve, please," you whimpered, teetering on the edge of release. "I need you inside me."

Steve growled low in his throat, withdrawing his fingers. He positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The raw emotion you saw there – lust, possessiveness, and something deeper you couldn't quite name – took your breath away.

Steve pushed forward slowly, stretching you as he sank into your heat inch by glorious inch. You both groaned at the exquisite feeling of him filling you completely. When he was fully seated, he paused, giving you a moment to adjust to his size.

"You feel so good," Steve murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "So tight and perfect for me."

You whimpered in response, overwhelmed by the fullness and the intensity of having Steve so close, here with you.

Steve began to move, starting with slow, deep thrusts that had you gasping with each roll of his hips. His eyes never left yours as he gradually increased his pace, the intensity of his gaze making you feel utterly exposed and vulnerable.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, snapping his hips forcefully. "To be filled by my cock, stretched around me?"

"Yes," you moaned, your nails raking down his back. "God, yes, Steve."

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, punctuated by your breathless moans and Steve's low grunts. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, changing the angle to hit even deeper inside you.

"Fuck," you cried out as he struck that perfect spot.

"You like that?" he panted, driving into you relentlessly. "You like how I fuck you?"

"Yes," you whimpered, your nails raking down his back. "God, yes!"

His rhythm became more frantic, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. The intensity of his thrusts had you clinging to him, pleasure building within you with each powerful stroke.

“Then fucking take what I give you,” he said.

Your mind lost everything except the feeling of Steve moving inside you, the sound of skin on skin, and the increasingly desperate noises falling from both your lips. Steve's rhythm became more frantic, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. The intensity of his thrusts had you clinging to him, nails digging into his back as pleasure built within you.

"Open your eyes," Steve demanded, his voice strained.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze, not realizing you’d let them slip closed. The raw emotion you saw there – desire, possessiveness, and something deeper you couldn't quite name – took your breath away.

"I want to see you fall apart," he growled, never breaking eye contact as he continued to drive into you relentlessly. "I want to watch what only I can do to you."

One of his hands snaked between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with practiced precision. The dual sensations of his cock pounding into you and his fingers on your sensitive bud quickly pushed you towards the edge.

"Come for me," Steve commanded, his voice strained. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

His words and the relentless pressure on your clit sent you spiraling into ecstasy. You cried out Steve's name as your orgasm crashed over you, your inner walls clenching tightly around him. The intensity of your climax triggered Steve's own release. “Look so pretty when you fall apart,” he groaned, burying himself deep inside you as he came. “So pretty with my cock inside your cunt.”

For a moment, you both lay there, panting and trembling in the aftermath. Steve's weight pressed you into the mattress, but you relished the feeling of being surrounded by him.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you, his blue eyes were soft, almost vulnerable. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "More than okay."

Steve rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were curled against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as your breathing slowly returned to normal. For a few moments, you simply lay there in comfortable silence, basking in the afterglow.

But as the haze of pleasure began to fade, reality started to creep back in. Questions swirled in your mind - why was he here? How long would he stay this time? When would you see him again, if ever?

As if sensing your thoughts, Steve's arms tightened around you. "I should go," he murmured.

“You say should go, that you shouldn’t have come here, that you shouldn’t have sought me out at the night club, I’m so tired of should’s, Steve.”

“What are you saying?”

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. "I'm saying... I don't know what I'm saying. Parts of this are confusing, Steve. You show up out of nowhere, rock my world, and then disappear again. I never know when or if I'll see you next. It's exhilarating and amazing when you're here, and maybe that’s all this needs to be."

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. The conflict in Steve's eyes was clear. "You can’t mean that.”

“I’m an adult woman, Steve. I’ve built a life for myself. Let me know what I mean. If I make good or bad choices, they’re mine.”

Steve's jaw clenched as he considered your words. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You deserve better than this. Better than stolen moments and uncertainty."

"Maybe," you conceded. "But right now, this is what I want."

Steve searched your face, his eyes intense. "You don't know what you're asking for. The danger I'm in, the life I lead now, it's no life for anyone else."

You sat up, pulling the sheet around you. "I'm not asking to join you on missions or be part of your team, Steve. I'm just asking for this to be fine and not a ‘shouldn’t’ anymore."

He sat up as well and ran a hand down your back. You looked over at him.

“That’s all I could give you.”

Your heart swelled painfully in your chest, but you ached for more. He set your bones on fire and made you feel so good. The logical part of your brain knew this was a dangerous path. But in this moment, with Steve's warmth beside you and the lingering afterglow of pleasure, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"Then give me that," you said softly, meeting his gaze.

And how was this any worse than the fuckboys, the bad relationships that had crashed or stuttered out, or the periods of solitude and celibacy?

"Give me whatever you can," your voice was resolute.

Steve's eyes searched yours, a mix of longing and conflict swirling in their blue depths. For a moment, you thought he might refuse, might pull away and disappear into the night as suddenly as he had appeared. But then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

"Okay," he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Relief flooded through you at Steve's agreement. You leaned in, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. Steve responded immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck as he deepened the kiss.

When you broke apart, Steve rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily.

“I’m thirsty,” you said. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, I’m plenty thirsty,” he replied. “I’ll have some water, but I’ll also have something else when you come back,” he emphasized by slipping his hand between your legs to cup your pussy, curling one of his fingers into your folds, and you moaned.

You quickly but reluctantly pulled yourself away from Steve's touch, shivering as his finger slipped out of you. As you stood, you could feel the evidence of your escapades trickling down your thighs. You padded across the room, snagging Steve's discarded t-shirt from the floor and slipping it on. The soft cotton draped over your curves, the hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs.

The hardwood floor was cool beneath your bare feet as you padded down the hallway towards the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of traffic from the street below.

You pulled two cups out of your cupboard, then opened the refrigerator to pull out your water pitcher. As you pulled the door open, the interior light illuminated the contents, and you did a double take.

There, on the middle shelf, sat a familiar white takeout container that definitely hadn't been there earlier. Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the logo emblazoned on top - it was from Bella Notte, your favorite Italian restaurant in the city.

With trembling fingers, you reached for the container, already knowing what you'd find inside. As you lifted the lid, the rich aroma of coffee and cocoa wafted up, confirming your suspicions. It was their famous tiramisu, the very same dessert you and Steve had shared that night in September when he'd shown up unexpectedly at your door.

The sight of it brought a flood of memories rushing back.

You’d been fine when he left in September.

You’d been fine when he left the first time.

You would be fine when he left this time.

You would be.

This was fine.

next part: March 10, 2018

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

So this is it! This is the last encounter that brings us now to the original pieces of Nomad Steve March 10 and then March 21 (back when this was one random drable and one follow up).

And what now, you ask? There are four more parts I have planned out for them formally.

read more in the Exiled Nomad Series

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[clarkkentluvr]

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍.

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗑 𝖾𝗑! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 3𝗄

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌/𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍/𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗒, 𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒

You never saw it coming.

In fact, it was the last thing you’d ever even imagined happening.

The last three years dating Clark had been nothing short of wonderful.

You hardly felt like that anymore. 

You’d built a life. A small, precious life. Mugs that were definitively “yours” and “his” in the cupboard. A shared Netflix profile. A drawer for his flannels at your apartment. You’d started to believe in the future, a concept that had always felt like a taunting, abstract lie. With Clark, the future had color. It had shape.

Then, on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday, he broke it.

He’d taken you to the park, your park, the one with the view of the Metropolis skyline where he’d first told you he loved you. The sun was setting, painting the world in golden hues. And he started to talk.

It was thorough. It was reasoned. It was the most heartbreakingly Clark way to end a relationship.

He was giving you up for your own good. It was the oldest, cruelest cliché in the book, and Clark was delivering it with such raw, sincere torment that you knew he believed it. He was sacrificing his own happiness to protect you. It was noble. It was selfless.

It shattered you.

You didn’t cry. You just sat there as he continued to tear your heart out your chest.

“Do you understand?” he’d asked once he’d finish explaining, his hand hovering over yours, not quite touching.

You didn’t understand. 

But you swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded anyway. Clark seemed sad, but relieved that you knew where he was coming from. He placed a soft, final heartbreaking kiss on your cheek, then offered to take you back home.

Home, where he would no longer be.

The silence in the apartment after he left was awful. It wasn't the comfortable quiet you’d grown used to, the kind filled with the soft rustle of him turning a page or the gentle hum of his breathing as he slept. This was just a vacuum, a hollowed-out shell where sound went to die. 

For three days after, you were a ghost. 

You moved from the bed to the couch and back again, the world outside your windows a blur of meaningless color and motion. 

Your phone buzzed—concerned texts from your friends, a worried call from your mother. You let them go to voicemail. You couldn't form the words to tell them the truth. That Clark broke things off and now you felt like you had no meaning to life.

The overwhelming sadness consumed your entire being.

The first thing it stole was taste. The food in your fridge, once a source of joy and shared meals, became textureless paste in your mouth. 

The second thing it stole was sleep. You’d lie in the bed that still faintly smelled of Clark’s shampoo and body wash, replaying every moment, every word, every touch trying to understand where it all went wrong. 

The silence was so loud it was deafening.

And in that deafening silence, a new, ugly but familiar impulse began to whisper. 

It was a voice you recognized, one you hadn't heard since the bleak years before Clark. It was the part of you that craved sensation, any sensation, to prove you were still alive inside the numbness. 

The part that believed if you could just feel something—even if it was the brief, sharp pain of a stranger's hands—the hollow ache in your chest might be momentarily filled. Nothing wrong with a rebound, right?

It was a few months later that you decided to take action. You scrolled through your phone, until your thumb landed on a dating app you’d deleted a lifetime ago. You downloaded it again. The process was mechanical. A few old photos, a blank bio. The first match was a man named Mark. His messages were direct, uncomplicated. 

You're gorgeous. Wanna get a drink?

You met him at a bar that was all dark wood and dim lights. You wore a black dress you’d bought for a date with Clark, one he’d said made your eyes look like starlight. Mark didn’t mention your eyes. 

He talked about his job in finance, his hand resting on your lower back, a gesture that felt alien and wrong. You drank two gin and tonics too fast, the alcohol not bringing warmth, just a blurry edge to the sharp corners of your pain.

Back at his sterile, modern apartment, you let it happen. 

His kisses were aggressive, his hands rough and demanding. It was nothing like the way Clark kissed you, with a reverence that used to make you feel like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. 

As you moved beneath him, you stared at a crack in his ceiling, your mind a thousand miles away, in your own bed, with a man who had given you up for your own good. When it was over, Mark fell asleep almost instantly, his arm thrown heavily across your waist. You extracted yourself, dressed in the dark, and slipped out into the cold night air. 

You felt no better. If anything, you felt worse. You felt used and empty, and the shame was a new, more potent layer of the numbness.

But the next night, the silence was back, and the whispering voice was louder. 

The second one was a bartender named Leo. He had kind eyes and calloused hands. He was softer, more attentive. He made you a drink he’d invented himself and asked you questions about yourself. You lied. You gave him the name of your favorite childhood pet and the dream job you’d given up on. 

Leo took you to his bed, which was unmade and smelled faintly of weed and clean laundry. He was gentler, less demanding than Mark. For a moment, when he looked into your eyes, you felt a flicker of something. You flinched away from it. 

Connection was the enemy. Connection led to a park bench on a random Tuesday where your heart gets ripped out of your chest. So you closed your eyes and urged him on, chasing the numbness that came after the physical sensation faded. When you left his apartment, he texted you. 

Had a really nice time. I would love to see you again.

You ignored it.

Somehow, this became your new routine. 

The ghost in the apartment by day, the woman in a stranger's bed by night. You became an expert in unfamiliar bedrooms. The guy with the anime posters who called you “babygirl” in a way that made your skin crawl. The married professor who met you at a hotel, his wedding band left pointedly on the nightstand.

Each time, you felt a piece of your soul slip away, but you couldn’t be bothered to even care. The worst part was there was seemingly no end in sight. You didn’t feel any better or any bit moved on, but you dug yourself into a hole that you no longer seemed to be able to pull yourself out of.

You stopped cleaning the apartment. Clark’s old mug still sat in the sink. You stopped opening the curtains. The gray light of the Metropolis winter suited the internal landscape just fine. You existed on coffee and the occasional piece of toast, your body growing thinner, a mere scaffold for the heavy, rotting thing your heart had become.

It was six months later on a rainy Thursday, when you saw him.

You were coming out of a corner store, a cheap bottle of wine in your hand, a planned anesthetic for another night alone. He was across the street, standing under an awning, talking to Lois. 

He had that look on his face—the gentle, concerned furrow of his brow that used to be directed at you. He was holding an umbrella over her, his large frame angled to protect her from the slanting rain. He laughed at something she said, and the sound, even from a distance, was a physical blow. It was the same laugh that had echoed in your kitchen, that had warmed your bed.

You froze, the paper bag dampening in your grip. He must have felt your stare, because his head turned. His eyes met yours across the four lanes of slick, black asphalt.

You turned and walked away quickly, your legs trembling. You didn't dare look back. The image of him, safe and dry under an umbrella with Lois, while you stood in the rain with a bottle of cheap wine and the scent of a man whose name you’d already forgotten on your skin, was branded onto your soul. 

The hypocrisy of it was an acid in your veins. You immediately felt sick. He had left to protect you? From what? From this? 

The rage was new. It was a hot, sharp spike in the relentless cold. It felt better than the numbness. You leaned into it.

That night, you went out with a vengeance. You wore a tight red dress and too much makeup. You found a man in a suit at a pricey hotel bar. His name was David. He was older, polished, his eyes sharp with a predatory interest. There was no pretense of conversation. His penthouse suite had a breathtaking view of the city, including the Daily Planet globe, which glowed like a mockery in the distance.

This time, you didn't disassociate. You were present, but you were hard, a blade of ice. You were the one in control. You directed him, your voice flat, your eyes daring him to see the broken thing behind them. He seemed thrilled by it, by your cold efficiency. It was the most degrading encounter yet, because you were an active, willing participant in your own destruction.

After he fell asleep, you stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, naked, looking out at the city Clark was sworn to protect. You traced the path you knew he’d fly, from the Planet to your apartment. You wondered if he was up there right now, if he could see you. 

You hoped, with a vicious, despairing hope, that he could. That Clark could see what his protection had wrought. That the woman he’d loved so much he had to set her free was now just a collection of used parts in a stranger’s penthouse.

But no red and blue blur descended from the sky to save you from yourself. 

So, you dressed in the harsh dawn light. David was still asleep, a satisfied smirk on his face even in slumber. You didn't look back. The walk home was the longest of your life. Each step felt weighted with lead. 

The cheap wine from the previous night remained unopened on your counter. You looked at it, then at your reflection in the dark screen of the television. The person staring back was a stranger, her eyes hollowed out, her makeup smeared into a grotesque mask. The rage had burned out, leaving only the cold, dead ash of shame.

For days, you didn't leave. The cycle of sleeping with strangers halted, not out of any newfound strength, but from a deep exhaustion. You had run out of fuel for your own destruction. You simply sat in the accumulating dust of your apartment. 

The memory of Clark laughing with Lois under that umbrella played on a loop behind your eyes. It was all a lie, you deduced. He had simply traded you in for a newer, shinier model, one who wouldn't break.

You decided that the only thing you needed now was closure. Maybe then you could finally get on with your life. It was about looking him in the eye one last time and forcing him to see what he did to you. You needed to prove to yourself that he was real, that it all had been real, and that his happiness with Lois was now a fact you had to learn to live with.

You didn't call. You just went. It was a Tuesday, of course. 

The irony was not lost on you as you stood outside his apartment building, the same one you’d once had a key to. Your heart was a frantic bird beating against the cage of your ribs. You took the elevator up, the familiar scent of lemon-scented cleaner and old carpet making your stomach twist.

You stood before his door, your hand trembling as you raised it to knock. 

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, the soft sound of footsteps. The door opened.

And there he was. Clark. In a soft, grey henley and a pair of jeans, his glasses slightly askew as if he’d been reading. He looked… good. Rested. His eyes, the ones that used to look at you with such adoration, widened in sheer, unadulterated shock.

“Hey,” he breathed, your name a ghost on his lips.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. Your carefully rehearsed words vanished. All you could see was the familiar space over his shoulder, the warm lamplight, the stack of books on his coffee table. It was all still there.

And then, movement. A figure emerged from the hallway that led to his bedroom.

Lois Lane.

She was wearing one of his flannels. It was too big for her, the sleeves rolled up, the fabric swamping her frame. Her hair was slightly messy, and she had a comfortable, at-home ease about her that felt like a physical blow.

“Clark, who is it?” she asked, her voice warm and curious. Then she saw you. Her expression shifted, not to malice, but to a gentle, pitying understanding that was infinitely worse. “Oh. Hi.”

The world tilted on its axis. The flannel. The domesticity. It was all there, laid out before you like a cruel exhibit in a museum of your own foolishness.

You looked back at Clark. His face was full of guilt for some reason, as if you weren’t the one here unannounced.

“I see,” was all you said, your voice a hollow rasp, utterly devoid of the emotion that was tearing you apart inside. 

“It’s not…” Clark began, his voice low, meant only for you, but Lois was right there, a silent, pitying witness. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Lois, to her credit, had the decency to look uncomfortable. She took a subtle step backward, melting slightly into the shadows of the apartment, granting a semblance of privacy.

He looked truly tormented then, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. I never wanted this for you. I never wanted to hurt you. I just… I want you to be happy. A normal, safe life.”

“I was happy with you,” you whispered softly, but he heard it.

Clark’s heart wrenched. He didn’t know what to say. So you kept speaking.

“A normal, safe life,” you repeated, the words tasting like the bile you’d been choking back for months. “You gave me this instead.” You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t need to. You saw his eyes, those impossibly perceptive eyes, flicker over you, taking in the hollows of your cheeks, the tremor in your hands, the profound emptiness that had settled into your very posture. He saw it. Good.

“I am sorry, and I wish you well. Take care of yourself, okay?”

And there it was. The final, gentle push over the cliff. I want you to be well. He was wishing wellness upon a terminal patient. 

You don't think you'll ever be well again. Not without him.

You nodded slowly, the last of your fight extinguishing. There was nothing more to say.

“Goodbye, Clark,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

He looked like he wanted to say more, his hand twitching at his side as if to reach for you, but he stopped himself. “Goodbye.”

You turned and walked away. You didn't wait for the elevator. You took the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. You made it down all the flights before the pressure in your chest became unbearable. You burst out of the fire exit into the cool evening air of the alley beside his building, the dumpsters smelling of rot and decay.

And then it hit you. 

A wave of pure, unadulterated despair so violent it physically rejected itself from your body. You stumbled against the rough brick wall, your stomach convulsing, and you vomited. There was nothing in you but bile and cheap wine and the bitter drugs of a love that had annihilated you. 

You retched until your throat was raw and your eyes streamed with tears, the spasms wracking your thin frame. It was your body's final, desperate attempt to purge him, to expel the poison of his memory. But you knew, even as you slumped against the wall, trembling and spent, that it was futile. He was in the empty space where your soul used to be.

You never did recover. Not really.

You moved through the world disassociated after that. 

You picked yourself up off the ground, and went home with the closure you needed. 

You got a new job, a smaller apartment. You threw away the mugs. 

You never really dated again. Some dates and hookups here and there, but nothing serious. The thought of another person's hands on you, the performance of intimacy, was unbearable. You had been ruined for anyone else, and you had been ruined for yourself.

You learned to live with the ghost of Clark Kent. You saw him everywhere. On the front page of the Daily Planet, his article next to Lois Lane's. On television, standing tall and hopeful as Superman, as the hero that saved the day. 

You watched Superman lift a fallen bridge, and you remembered the way Clark would carefully lift a spider from your sink and carry it outside.

You saw the way he looked at Lois in press conferences, a look of fierce pride and love, and you remembered that same look directed at you, once upon a time, on a park bench as the sun set.

━━━━━━━

author's note: this lowk ass and was just sitting in the drafts so i posted it. promise to get to yalls requests!

[inactivewhore]

he will die

[marwrite]

sweet, gentle, yours.

summary: clark kent doesn’t do well with jealousy- never has, probably never will. mentioning the gross regular at the upscale bar where you work seemed harmless. but when clark shows up with a sheepish smile and tense jaw, you realise it probably meant more to him than you thought.

clark kent x girlfriend ! reader

themes: jealousy, jealousy, jealousy! domestic fluff, established relationship, very subtle nods to smut, with some scott miller thrown in!

You shouldn’t have told him.

Well, okay- that’s slightly dramatic. Of course you should have. You did the right thing; if it was the other way around, and a girl at the Daily Planet made it her personal vendetta to be on your sweet, bumbling boyfriend’s radar for three weeks in a row, you’d want him to tell you.

It was the right thing to do.

The only thing to do.

Right?

“Right.” Clark echoes mindlessly, his eyes drifting far away from you in a way that makes your heart ache and your eyes narrow.

He’s always too sweet, your Clark. Always too polite, too hesitant to tell you how he really feels.

On this occasion, you let him off. Figure it’s better to let him sit in it, cool off, before continuing the inevitable conversation of So, what are we going to do about it? a lot later.

There’s nothing you can do, unfortunately. It makes you feel helpless and stuck and very, very angry at the world- but at the end of the day, Scott is a customer. A paying customer. One that smacks his gum a little too loud and looks you up and down every chance he gets, but a customer all the same.

You wonder what business he has plaguing your hotel bar three (nearing four) weeks in a row now. You’ve never seen him before. Nobody comes to the Regis for a casual drink unless they’re there on business; a key to one of the overtly expensive rooms tucked in the back pocket of a slack trouser.

Scott isn’t a guest. Nor is he a bar regular. He is just a very annoying man, with a very smug grin, and a very disgusting entitlement to your sweet, uncomfortable attention.

Your shift tonight starts at 8pm.

Usually, Clark gets home just after six, and he brings you a bagel and a smoothie and doesn’t let you have them until you reach up on your tiptoes and press glossed lips against his. He doesn’t usually let you plate it up yourself, either; he perches you carefully on a bar stool and does it for you. Everything bagel (extra cream cheese, light on the salmon) on your favourite plate, the paper straw in your drink swiftly replaced by a glass one with a heart.

“You’re one bagel away from turning into one.” is a teasing joke he likes to say often, eliciting a sweet little eye roll from you and a light laugh.

You’re treasure, Clark says. He makes it known to you too, through kisses and cuddles and pecks on the cheek that you have to fight against to eat your bagel. And when you’ve finally finished your food and slurped up the drink, that’s when he can have your full attention, every bit of it, before you have to get ready and he happily drives you to work.

You don’t typically work this late. It’s a one-off, some big business event on the top floor that’s lasted a week longer than expected, meaning a whole week more of missed dinners and missed plans and overall, missing your boyfriend.

So when Clark texts you at 5:30pm, a sweet rambling of apologies that end in a very flustered So sorry, baby. I’ll make it up to you when I pick you up at 1. Love you. You can’t find it in your heart to be upset with him. You just hail a cab and slot inside, fingers drumming mindlessly on your exposed lap.

The uniform could be a lot worse, especially for a bartender. The Regis is a five-star utopia of crystal chandeliers, polished silverware and bellboys that are addressed only by their surnames- you’re almost glad to have only the responsibility of popping open a four-hundred dollar bottle of wine every now and then.

Even so, you keep a firm grip on the bottom of your pencil skirt, sleek black pumps clacking against the linoleum floor.

It’s busy. Much busier than a usual Thursday evening, but you convince yourself you don’t mind. More room to be busy. More things to do in the time you have to kill. Bartending isn’t your dream job by any means, but at the moment it pays for all the good things in life- you could have it a lot worse.

You think of Clark. Sweet, handsome, beautiful Clark, who is probably working so hard at his desk right now that it makes your chest ache. Brows furrowed, pen gnawed at and forgotten between his beautiful plush lips. You imagine the way he types; thick fingers soft and precise, the backspace bare because he always seems to know exactly what to say. He doesn’t make mistakes- you’ve seen him write in person. He just makes whatever’s lacking… better.

Naturally, your stomach flutters at the thought.

Sam greets you with bright eyes and an even more radiant smile, blonde hair falling in waves past her sharp shoulders as you walk towards her and reach for a glass to polish.

She’s beautiful, Samara; with her big blue eyes and pointed chin and great knack for conversation. She’s also the only one you can call a true friend here, so you like to keep her very close.

“You’re late,” she jokes, sharp elbow digging softly into your own. “How big was that bagel?”

Faux offense floods your features, “I’m right on time!”

“Late for you,” she nudges you playfully, head nodding towards a part of the bar you can’t quite see from where you are. “Your man beat you here.”

“Ha-ha,” you deadpan immediately, eyes beginning a roll, “Very funny. You’re on Scott duty tonight.”

“Wha- no!” the realisation is quick to dawn, “No. Absolutely not. I was on Scott duty last night.”

“Mhm. That’s the price you pay for making that joke,” you’re dramatic about it, a heavy sigh you don’t mean falling from your lips.

“What joke?”

“The he’s my man joke,” you fold your arms, half-polished pint glass forgotten on the counter. “It’s dumb and not funny.”

A smirk falls on her lips then, eyes falling away from, “Wasn’t a joke, dummy. Your man is here. Your real one.”

You’re about to bombard her with even more confusion- lest you actually check yourself and come eye-to-eye with the irritatingly vainglorious Scott Miller- but she’s called away by the ding of a kitchen bell quicker than you can stop her.

With an amused shake of your head, your eyes scan the otherwise empty tables; the polishing cloth almost falling from your grasp when your eyes finally settle on the delicious sight a mere ten steps away from you.

Clark.

He isn’t back at the Planet at all, surrounded by his too-small desk and countless pictures of you in neat little gold frames, sipping sludgy coffee from a chipped work mug.

Clark is here; right in the middle of your workplace, his blazer slung carefully over the back of his chair, the rich wood ever so slightly creaking under his ginormous frame. He practically dwarfs his laptop; all 6’4, 240 pounds of superhuman beef.

His briefcase sits gingerly on the floor next to his feet, polished leather a lovely chocolate brown that matches his sensible loafers. Your body relaxes at the mere vision of him; this Kryptonian God that practically kisses the ground you walk on and would tilt the world on it’s axis just to fit your needs- here, on a work night, undoubtedly for you.

It’s almost an innate reaction, the two steps forward you take. And it’s also very Clark to sense you on a whole other plane, because his head tilts up like a puppy ready to play, blue eyes roaming the bar.

They find you almost immediately as a breath catches in your throat. Together three years, one month before your fourth and still, the way he looks at you makes every moment feel like the first.

He lifts his arm up to wave, no doubt refraining from being a full distraction. He knows his mere presence is enough to knock you off balance completely.

You’re about to do the same, the warmth in your chest threatening to burst, when-

“Usual, sweetheart. Make it neat, no ice, yeah?”

The invisible capsule encompassing you both collapses. There’s a voice; a deep, daunting, degrading voice that has the power to contort your expressions into one of pure disgust in milliseconds.

You smell him before you see him, all seventy-four spritzes of his overpriced Hugo Boss cologne. The scent of that minty clump of rubber he seems to always chew on follows soon after, as he winks at you and adjusts the cap on his head.

StormPAR, it reads. You shudder. It’s scarily fitting for a man capable of turning the sunniest of days into a cyclone.

You freeze, goosebumps rising along your shoulders. Clark is out of sight, but you can picture him perfectly in your mind.

Alert. Tense. Maybe even frowning slightly. Your heartbeat falters- not from fear, but irritation at the man in front of you. Clark doesn’t know that. He’s probably listening anyway, waiting for that moment when your pulse skips a beat just a little too long, so he can rush to your side with a concerned smile and a cold shoulder pointed towards Scott.

Still sweet. Still gentle. Still very much Clark.

Except what happens next is something you never could have predicted.

You give a small nod, lips pursed in a tight line because exactly three weeks ago, you shot him a kind smile that he immediately took as an invitation to try and get more out of you.

It’s dirty. It’s disgusting. It’s StormPAR’s poster boy for disaster- and yet, here he is, your only customer at the bar. Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice.

You reach for the whiskey, trying to keep it together for the ten seconds spent pouring and mixing. It’s not the usual Johnnie Walker or Jack Daniels favoured by suited businessmen; this is something expensive, Japanese, its name foreign and sharp. The glass is special, polished long in advance, kept apart from the rest of the dishwasher-bound crockery.

You slide it over to Scott without your eyes ever meeting his. He grins and it’s toothy and wide, and in another lifetime you might visually find him not vile- but in this life, he may as well be a fire-breathing dragon with a venomous bite and even worse gaze.

The knocks the whiskey back in one. The glass staggers alongside the table towards you, so quick that you just about manage to block it with a startled elbow.

“Another, princess.” he winks.

Clark tenses. You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s probably standing stiff, brows furrowed, pupils pointed over his glasses.

“Make it two, actually. Got nowhere to be now that you’re here.”

A grimace fills the lower half of your face. You’re about to turn away to pour the next glass, but the sound of a different voice altogether stops you.

“You always talk to people that way?”

It’s warm. Familiar. It’s a megaphoned version of the one that whispers in your ear late at night, gentle and patient and slow and always accompanied by a baby or a hon; a voice notorious for both talking you through it and providing you gentle comfort right after. In this instance, it’s still a blanket of comfort, but in a very different way; something soft and safe thrown over a very icy situation.

Clark slides onto the stool beside Scott like he has every right to be there. Your mouth practically falls open.

His shoulders are relaxed, hands loose against the bar. Whatever article had his full attention not even five minutes ago is completely forgotten now, lost in the shut laptop behind him. Ink lines the grooves of his palm, fresh from attempting to amend print far too soon.

There’s no tension in him at first glance. He doesn’t look angry, though you know better than that.

Scott’s eyebrow raises as he turns toward him.

“What’s it to you?”

Clark can take him. Easily. Beneath that bashful gaze and blinking blue eyes is a man who is so used to protecting you that it comes second nature to him. If it comes to that, you know he wouldn’t hesitate.

Clark hums softly, like he’s considering Scott’s words. Then he glances at you, a silent check-in without uttering a single word, and something in his expression changes. It’s not soft nor does it harden- it doesn’t even twist inside out.

You realise then and there that the outcome of this situation is entirely dependent on you. It relies on what you want him to do, what exactly you want to happen- unfortunately, you’re too tense right now to give him any sort of clear signal.

“It’s not complicated,” he says, turning back, voice still mild. “Just need to watch your tone.”

There’s no bite in his words, but it’s louder than his initial statement. The times you and Clark have argued are very few and far between, but not once has he raised his voice at you or spoken with his tongue dipped in venom.

Hearing it for the very first time is slightly exhilarating.

Scott leans back, sizing him up, “Didn’t realise she had a guard dog.”

Clark smiles at that, lips curving upwards in the kind of smile that should belong on a farm under open skies and humming cicadas, not here under dim bar lights and repetitive jazz music.

“She doesn’t,” he says easily. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then-“

“She’s a lady. You don’t speak to a lady like that.”

It throws Scott, just for a second. Enough for the bravado to falter, for the narrowed eyes under the cap to soften around the edges. You find yourself watching them both, this intense silence growing and filling the air with a thick tension.

Clark doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t even square up; someone built like your boyfriend doesn’t need to.

He just sits there, as calm as the saxophones acting as background noise between you, one hand resting against the bar like he could stay all night if he had to.

“Look, man-“

“You’re gonna stop,” Clark interjects gently, somehow still polite- only now there’s something unshakeable threaded through it. “You’ll ask her right, or you won’t ask at all.”

The air tightens. And Scott scoffs- but it’s weaker this time, eyes flicking between the two of you before he grabs the edge of the bar and pushes himself up. “Whatever, man.”

He doesn’t ask for another drink.

He doesn’t even look back at you as he stalks off- head slightly hung, eyes darting this way and that in quiet anticipation of witnesses.

You both watch him go for a moment. It’s only until Scott turns the corner, gives one last fleeting glance your way and ducks his head out of the double doors that finally, a soft exhale leaves the man beside you.

When Clark turns back to you, it’s like the tension was never there. It’s just him again.

Gentle Clark. Sweet Clark. Yours.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice so low and careful it reaches deep in the pit of your stomach and twists in the best way. A big, warm hand reaches over the counter and rests on top of your own.

You can’t help it; you smile.

“Thank you.”

His eyebrow raises. “You never need to thank me for taking care of you.”

Maybe tomorrow, you'll kiss him a little longer before taking a bite of your bagel.

i owe you all a massive apology - i have had the most insane couple of months, and i cannot wait to share it all with you very soon :')

for now, thank you so much for still being here and for reading💋🖤

[honeyy-darling]

home

pairing: clark kent x reader

summary: what was supposed to be a gentle evening exposes Clark’s deepest fear: that someone else could give you the life he can’t

warnings: 18+ smut, graphic depictions of sex, f oral receiving, p in v, porn with plot, needy! clark, clark is sad and just wants to make you feel good :(, insecurities, anxiety?

It wasn’t often that Clark made it home before you.

Most nights, you beat him there by hours, the space already warm. Your shoes by the door, the soft light from the kitchen, the sound of you moving around in clothes far more comfortable than those you’d worn to work.

He knew the routine by heart. You’d change the second you got in, slipping out of your work things and into something soft—fluffy socks, an old robe if it was cold, or, his personal weakness, one of his shirts that you found in the back of your wardrobe.

If he was being honest with himself, he’d started leaving them behind on purpose, just for the chance of coming home and finding you wrapped up in something that still smelled faintly like him.

Worth it, he could always buy more shirts.

Worth it every single time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get home sooner. God, he did. Most days he was already thinking about you before he’d even finished his first coffee at the Planet. Wondering if you were thinking the same thing. Wondering what you were doing, if you’d eaten, if you’d remembered to take your coat when it got cold.

But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.

He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.

But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.

The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.

You said you liked to cook for him.

He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.

You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.

Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.

He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.

Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently. 

It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.

Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink. 

All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.

And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete. 

If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.

He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.

If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.

Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before. 

He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.

He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.

Absolutely not.

You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave. 

He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.

That would work. That would work just fine.

You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.

He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.

Perfect. Simple.

Something warm for you to come home to.

And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.

It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.

He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.

He liked to think she’d say he picked right.

That he’d found someone good.

Someone she’d love too.

He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.

Plenty of time.

He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.

You always did the same for him.

Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.

“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”

Right on time.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared. 

He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.

Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.

He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.

“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough. 

You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control. 

You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.

“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.

He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.

“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”

You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.

“…Did you cook?”

He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.

“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”

It’s the least he could do. 

You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.

“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”

You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.

He needed to cook more often. 

He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.

You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him. 

It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.

Gosh, he missed you today. 

He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.

Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.

You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.

“You’re in a good mood.”

How couldn’t he be?

He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.

“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”

You gazed at him, smiling at his words.

“So you made dinner for me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.

He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.

“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”

“You’re trying to spoil me.” 

He snorted softly under his breath.

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

His favourite job.

You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.

“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”

You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.

Good.

“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”

Clark’s hand paused for just a second.

“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”

You nodded.

“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”

Daniel.

The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.

“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.

You tilted your head, thinking.

“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”

Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.

“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”

The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.

Last few days.

Did you mention that before? 

“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.

“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”

He glanced back at you.

“…Similar how?”

You smiled, completely genuine.

“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”

Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.

“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.

You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.

“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”

The other night.

The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.

“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.

You nodded, still oblivious.

“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”

Easy to talk to.

Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.

Of course he was.

Normal hours. Normal life.

No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.

“Sounds like you two are getting along.” 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”

He glanced back at you again.

“What happened?”

You frowned slightly.

“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”

His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it. 

“Poor guy,” he murmured.

“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”

Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing. 

You made people feel better just by being there.

Made him feel better just by being there.

He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.

“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”

Without him. 

The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.

You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.

“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”

He nodded slowly.

Same routine. Same life.

Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.

You kept talking.

“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. 

Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late. 

He was grateful, but there was something else there too. 

His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…

“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.

Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused.  He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.

He knew it was stupid.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.

He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.

He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.

His thoughts drifted for a moment.

Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.

There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.

He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. That.

That he knew how to do. 

He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.

Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.

He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.

Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.

Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.

It’s not much, but it would work for now. 

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,

“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation. 

“Clark, we don’t have to—”

He was already moving before you finished the sentence.

He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen.  He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet. 

His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.

You looked tired.

He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.

That he could fix. 

His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.

You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.

There you were.

He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.

You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.

He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.

Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.

Gotcha.

His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”

His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.

“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”

Please.

He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting. 

Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.

“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.

Finally. 

His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.

Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer. 

The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.

The way he liked you best. 

He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.

Gosh, how did he get so lucky? 

He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.

You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.

“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.

You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more. 

Oh, sweetheart.

Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?

His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.

You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy. 

Not that he thought he deserved it. 

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities. 

Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.

He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.

He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.

“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated. 

It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already. 

He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him. 

It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.

His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently. 

“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”

Let him make you feel good. 

Let him make it up to you. 

You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed. 

He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you. 

He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild. 

A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried. 

He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.

As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He truly wasn’t.

He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder. 

He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars. 

He owed you that. 

Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.

He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out. 

“Ah, Clark—“

He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful. 

He swore his name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, angel, almost there.”

Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Let go for him. 

When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him. 

Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.

When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath. 

He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too. 

Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again. 

“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.” 

He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him. 

Always so eager. 

“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate. 

He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze. 

He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you. 

“You’re so handsome, Clark.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. 

Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face. 

The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance. 

Focus. 

He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night. 

If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.

Gladly.

Every single night.

“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”

You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye. 

“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”

You’ll be the death of him. 

“Sweetheart…” he groans softly.  “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more. 

He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw. 

The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.

“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”

“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”

You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time. 

He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.

No—tonight was about you.

Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds. 

So wet, so ready for him. 

He pauses there, eyes locked on yours. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”

Just say, and he’ll stop. 

“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”

Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.

He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance. 

“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders. 

“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”

He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then. 

“So good for me, angel, so good—“

His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him. 

It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier. 

Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t. 

Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this. 

Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely. 

How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two? 

Far too long. 

His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back. 

“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”

He had to be. 

He had to make this good for you. 

He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

He really hopes so. 

Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part. 

But this? This was the part that really mattered. 

It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good. 

“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“

You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own. 

Yes, just like that. 

He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus. 

He couldn’t be done with you yet. 

He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch. 

It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love. 

“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”

He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat. 

His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.

“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.

There is no hesitation in your reply. 

“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”

A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on. 

He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none. 

“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”

He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words. 

The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.

His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force. 

He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”

“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.

He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll. 

“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth. 

Say his name again. 

Tell him it’s only him.

“Clark… oh god, Clark—”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. 

Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you. 

His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.

You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.

He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier. 

Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”

You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.

“Clark, you know you did.”

His smile didn’t quite settle.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I promise.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.

“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.

You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He paused immediately, turning back to you. 

His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.

You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw. 

“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

Darn it. He should have hidden it better. 

“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”

He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.

“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”

Different.

He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?” 

He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted. 

Do it better this time.

If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.

“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”

He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.

He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.

Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.

Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.

“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.

“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”

“You’re leaving?”

Your voice is quiet.

Oh, sweetheart, no.

It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.

“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”

He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it. 

You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.

“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”

The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.

“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”

He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right. 

“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”

You blink at him.

“Oh.”

He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.

“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything. 

You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient. 

You always make him talk more than he planned to. 

He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.

“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“It’s alright, we can—”

“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”

You don’t say anything.

For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around. 

You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

There’s no getting out of this. 

“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.

Your face softens even more.

“Clark—”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”

He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.

“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

He stills, not meeting your eyes.

“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”

You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.

“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”

He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder. 

He never should have started. 

This is exactly what he didn’t want. 

“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”

Deserve more than him. 

He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission. 

“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.

He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.

“You think I don’t know who I’m with?” 

He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head. 

“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”

“Yeah, but that’s not—“

“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window. 

He shakes his head faintly. 

Surely that’s not true. 

“I’m not always here to do that.”

“Yes, you are.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.

“Yeah, right.”

You tug his face again until he looks back at you.

“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”

He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at. 

“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”

“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.

He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.

You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.

“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.

You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.

“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Always know how to keep him steady. 

You grin.

“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.” 

He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.

“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”

You shake your head immediately.

“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”

That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hey, that only happened twice.” 

“Three,” you correct.

“…Okay, three.”

He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—

Your stomach growls.

He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“Oh my god.”

Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.

“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.

You laugh into his chest.

“I’m fine.”

“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”

Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.

You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.

“Hey!”

“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”

“I’m not a patient!”

“You are when you don’t eat.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.

Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.

“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

He stops instantly.

“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“All night, huh?”

He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.

You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.

“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”

“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling. 

He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.

You point at him.

“Out.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot. 

You really love him.

I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.

He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.

Still good.

He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.

From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.

He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.

Tonight was good. Better than good.

And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.

Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard. 

He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.

He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl. 

He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.

Yeah.

He thinks he can do that.

a/n: first clark fic wooo!

but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty

there will most certainly be more where this came from if people want so lmk ! <3

[keraxxx]

having sex with clark for the first time

“hah… baby, wait a minute now-“ he whines as your hand brushes against his throbbing cock in his boxers. his hand grips the sheets tight, knuckles turning white.

“clark, you gotta relax.” you murmur, your other hand cupping his cheek while you look into his eyes. his eyes are softer than usual and definitely full of hesitation.

“i don’t wanna hurt you.” his deep voice is just barely above a whisper. heat floods between your legs.

“you’re not gonna hurt me.”

you chuckle at his nervousness before moving to straddle his hips, hands running through his hair. they soften as you press kisses along his jaw, trailing down to his neck. you smile as he sighs, hands trailing up to rest on your ass.

anddd that’s how you ended up getting fucked into the bed. tears streaming down your face, smearing the perfect mascara you had on a few hours before he came over. his cock was slamming into you, hands gripping your hips as his head rests against yours.

“ah! you’re so big! cant take it, fuck clarkkk.” you babble. you you could feel him in your stomach. he was knocking all the air from yours lungs. he was that deep.

“ah, i’m so sorry.” he hisses as he kisses your lips. he pull away, his eyes trailing to your dripping hole swallowing him. he slowly pulls his cock all the way out, only to slam it back in your wetness. you choke on a moan, hand flying to grip his shoulders. “oh jeez. you feel so good.” he groans as he pushes his hand down on you lower stomach, amplifying the pleasure coursing through your body.

he looks back up at you with a smile. his eyes scan over your flushed, puffy face as you sob his name.

“see? you’re taking me so well. i cant be that big.”

you groan in frustration at his words. clark can be so silly sometimes.

masterlist

[honey-on-your-tongue]

just a while longer

── .✦ Clark Kent x fem!reader

synopsis: because he's kryptonian, clark takes a long time to come. so he'll fuck you for hours. literally.

cw: overstimulation, reader has had too many orgasms, clark and his super stamina, slight dacryphilia, creampie!

wc: 1.2k

It can take hours for Clark to come. It's just the way his body works, regardless of how hard and eager he is for you. His orgasm takes a long while to build up, so of course that means hours of sex for you.

You're lying on the bed, well past your fourth orgasm. Or was it your fifth? Sixth? You don't know. You also don't know how long you've been on your back for. Your slick has been dribbling from you all night, smearing all over your inner thighs and making the sheets sticky with it.

But Clark is still full of energy. He's painfully hard, each ridge and vein on his cock already familiar to your cunt, but you never get used to his size. Despite the fact that he's been fucking you for hours, your gummy walls are still stretched by his girth, and you feel completely full of him.

“I know, baby,” Clark mumbles into your ear, kissing your cheek tenderly. “I know it's so much to take, but you're doing so well.”

Your hands are weak as they hold onto his strong arms, his skin already covered in red lines that mark where your nails have bitten into his arms and shoulders and back.

Clark rocks his hips slowly, every inch dragging out of you only to slide back in. You can feel the thick head of his cock brushing your cervix, forcing the breath to leave your lungs.

You squeeze around him as he kisses across your neck, the hot ache of desire already pooling low in your womb again.

“You doing okay, honey?” he asks, sucking a mark into the side of your neck.

You can barely open your eyes, your body torn between exhaustion and lust, as you just nod and mumble incoherently.

“What was that?”

“I can take it,” you say again, throat a little sore from all the moans and squeals he's pulled out of you.

A little smile forms on Clark's lips. You're always so willing to make him feel good, even when he pushes your body past its limits.

“If you want me to stop, you tell me,” he says gently, brushing his nose over your jaw. “You hear me, baby? You say the word, and I stop.”

You nod mindlessly, knowing he worries about you. But honestly? You're awfully content. You get a minimum of five orgasms every time your boyfriend fucks you — not exactly something you'd complain about.

“Just a while longer, baby,” he promises, pushing one of your legs up to your chest, then the other.

You mewl, helpless, as he folds you in half. His cock slides deeper into you at this angle, pressing right against your g-spot and making you feel even fuller.

He grunts softly when you squeeze around him, and he knows he's not gonna last much longer. He picks up the pace a little, gentle thrusts that empty and then fill you with each roll of his hips.

You whine, your oversensitive pussy squelching and dribbling as he fucks into you. Pleasure spills to the rest of your body, running hot and thick through your veins like warm honey. You feel almost dizzy with it, like it's too much and not enough at the same time.

Clark watches your beautiful face caught up in pleasure. Your pretty eyes are shut tight, your soft mouth open as broken moans spill from your lips. His cock twitches at the sight and he feels proud of himself for making you feel this good. It's the least he can do after making you withstand his cock for hours.

“You're so perfect, baby,” Clark says, moving a little faster, wet sounds echoing through the room every time his hips meet yours. “Fuck. You're so good to me.”

He leans down, kissing your collarbone and up to your neck, hearing your heart racing in your chest.

You moan, cunt sucking him in like you can't get enough. His cock presses against your cervix lightly, just enough to make you feel stuffed without it being painful.

“That's it, baby. Good girl,” he praises, nibbling at the skin of your neck. “Just let me make you feel good.”

He fucks you fast and hard and deep now, your body bouncing with each thrust, little gasps and whimpers leaving you.

The pleasure is so intense, it almost burns as it fills your womb. Your body squirms under Clark's as he fucks and fucks and fucks you. Tears of ecstasy fill your eyes, the fat drops falling down your cheeks and landing on the pillow underneath.

“Fuck, baby, I know,” Clark grunts, kissing your forehead. “I know, honey. It's so much. I promise I'm almost done.”

He's not lying. There's heat gathering low in his abdomen, making his hips stutter and his cock twitch. He's getting close.

One of his huge hands moves down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing over it in tight, messy circles.

Your cunt squeezes him tight and your hips jerk, the touch of his fingers making you see stars. “Clark,” you moan breathlessly. “Clark.”

“Yeah, I know. I know. I'm right there with you,” he groans, leaning his forehead against yours. His hot breath fans over your face, his eyes shut tight as he feels the familiar ache of his orgasm building.

He angles his hips up, his cock adding more pressure to your g-spot and your womb, making you squeal.

You're right at the edge, the pleasure low in your belly coiled tight and hot, ready to burst at the smallest push.

And then Clark presses his fingers down on your clit and your mind goes blank as you fall right over the edge.

You moan his name as you come, your nails digging into his shoulders, gummy walls squeezing around him tight enough that he can't move anymore.

Your orgasm triggers his. He moans as he comes right after you, his hips thrusting into you hard until his cock twitches and his thick, sticky cum spills into you. He presses himself into you as deep as he can go, rope after rope of hot cum fills your pussy, his hips stuttering weakly as your cunt clamps down on him.

He stays buried deep in you as he comes down, his sweaty forehead pressed against yours.

“Fuck, baby,” he says lowly, kissing all over your face. “Are you okay? Was I too rough?”

You shake your head weakly, your chest heaving as you try to regain your breath. “’m okay,” you mumble, your voice a little hoarse.

Clark nods, relieved. He'd never forgive himself if he got too rough with you.

Gently, he pulls out of you and rolls onto his side, hugging you to him. He kisses your temple and says, “I love you, baby. So much.”

You mumble in response, already drifting off to sleep. Clark just watches you for a moment, thinking how lucky he is to be yours.

Sometimes, he feels a little guilty about how spent he leaves you, about the long hours of sex your body withstands just for him to come. But whenever he sees your blissed out expression, that content and satisfied look on your pretty face, he figures it's not that bad.

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

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𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @jazlinda @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol 

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Clark Kent masterlist

[crybabycabin]

phantom limb | s.r.

**read touch and go here** ✮ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can’t fight.)

✮ pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader

✮ warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content

✮ word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)

✮ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)

series masterlist bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2

The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

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