⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who swears he's gonna be the cool, chill dad. let her stay up late, eat whatever she wants, let her go to parties, and experience the teen life he never got to. but when he finally gets to hold her? that idea is out the window. because this is his baby girl. he's the one who's going to protect her all her life.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who insisted on being the one to do late night feedings. even when he was a walking zombie on his feet. he knows that while he was away on a hunt, his partner was the one taking care of her. so he'd gladly be the one to take over and let them sleep.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who also just loves spending time with his daughter at night. holding her skin to skin, looking down at her like she'd placed each star in the sky. in his mind she had. the little bundle of joy he looked down at was his saving grace.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who hums classic rock whenever she's fussy. rocking her in his arms and all.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who completely loses his gruff exterior. he can face monsters and what goes bump in the night- but if his little girl even looks like she's about to pout or shed a tear? he's jumping over the couch to soothe her. even asking if she wants desert early even though he shouldn't.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who gets weighed down by guilt whenever he leaves for a hunt. it eats at him. he feels like he's missing so much of her first year, and life, when he leaves. but it's a double edged sword. because he's leaving to gank as many monsters as he possibly can. it's his job to make the world something safe for her to grow up in. he just wishes he didn't have to be away from her to do it.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who goes into his daughter's room every night, no matter what time it is. he dodges stuffed animals and haphazardly tossed toys to squat next to her bed. he whispers goodnight and places a kiss against her forehead, taking a moment to look down at the little bundle of light he made.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who reads to his daughter every night. he sits up in bed with her, having her tucked beneath his arm, and reading stories from his childhood. or princess books he found at yard sales and book stores while away. he uses different accents to demonstrate the characters. dean doesn't admit it but he's more into it than his daughter is.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who sometimes falls asleep in his daughter's bed because they were up late reading.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who started a collection of kids books. each hunt, he goes to the library to scour the 50 cent books. he'll walk out spending twenty bucks if he's unsupervised. he goes to book shops and yard sales. there are books from when he was little, the magic tree house, Percy Jackson (for when she gets older), and Pete the cat in his collection. they all live on a bookshelf inside her room.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who turns into a five-star nurse whenever she gets hurt. if she'd got a cut, scrape, or even a bruise, he's jumping into action.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who does sometimes ask her if she needs a "whambulance" when she cries. but he says it when she's crying over something very silly. he'll wrap her up in his arms after, though.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who lets her dress him up. he's sitting still for his makeup and nails to be done. he'll swear it's because it works with the ladies, but really, he just loves spending time with his daughter. and he starts to enjoy having different colored nails every few weeks.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who does monster checks at night. he grew up being told to be a 'man' and look in the closet by himself. it never sat right with him to do it to his daughter. so, he's getting on hands and knees yelling at the monsters beneath her bed that he doesn't "play around." his daughter usually stands in the doorway giggling at him. blissfully unaware that there actually could have been something beneath her bed.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who gets sage from rowena and sages his daughter's room.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who plays games like a pro. he's undefeated at hide and seek. although, his daughter hid in the dryer machine and he seriously thought she was lost for a minute. he almost pulled his hair out before finding her. but when he did, he crashed to the floor in a laughing fit. that is the first place he checks now, though.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who is a goof with her. they're tossing french fries at each other across a diner booth, trying to see how many they can get in the other's mouth. they have races to the car. they place bets on what 'grass clippings' uncle sammy's gonna get for lunch. usually she wins.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who tries to make shaped pancakes. his mickey mouse needs some serious work. though, his daughter never complains. she likes guessing what it's supposed to be and giggling when dean says, "What!? No, that's totally a heart. You can see.... okay, maybe not. Just eat your breakfast, kid."
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who cannot say no to her.
⋆˚꩜｡ girl dad!dean who always tells her that he's proud of her. he never got that growing up- and he wanted to make sure that she does. because he's so proud of her in every little thing she does.
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this pic has me horny af so here’s thigh riding with pope
minors dni
your hands were braced on pope’s broad shoulders as you dragged your panty-soaked cunt back and forth over the rough fabric of his jeans. your head was tipped back, little whines escaping your lips as your hips moved in desperate circles, chasing your pleasure. pope was watching you with that intensity that most people found unsettling but was only serving to make you more slick, your panties sticking to your wet flesh like a second skin. you don’t even know how long you had been at this. but he’d just looked so good sitting there, his thick thighs spread out comfortably, minding his own business as he watched one of his nature documentaries. it really didn’t take much for him to make your pussy throb.
your mewls only grew more needy, frustrated at the deliberate lack of friction that his cock would have you feeling within seconds.
“popey…” you whine, grinding down harder directly on his bulge that had been growing the minute you crawled into his lap.
pope hisses slightly, his hands coming to your hips to steady himself more than you.
“what is it, sweetheart?”
“can’t… wanna cum.” you pout, looking at him all doe-eyed and pleading. he bites back a groan. god, he was so fucking hard, his tip weeping with pre-cum.
“you can do it, baby.” he murmurs, his hands now rubbing your sides soothingly. “just a little more, honey, i know you can do it, hm?”
your cunt clenches around nothing at his deep, raspy voice, so reassuring and gentle even now as he unravelled every shred of your dignity.
you whine into his neck, your hips never stopping their relentless movements even as your poor clit throbbed and ached for some real attention, achy and puffy from rubbing against his denim.
“you want my help, baby?” he asks, pressing a sweet kiss to your neck. if you weren’t so out of it, you’d pick up on the light condescension dripping from his voice.
your nod is immediate and pope smiles, two fingers tugging your drenched panties aside to circle your swollen little button. your mouth falls open, a raw moan leaving your lips as you slump against his frame. you grind slowly against his palm, your body vibrating with need as your thighs tense around his middle.
“there… that better?”
he has you coming shortly after, your juices seeping out from your ruined panties and onto his jeans and when you accidentally shift against his clothed cock, you’re not even the least bit surprised to find him soft <3
𑣲STEVE X READER X BUCKY MASTERLIST
click for navigation , main masterlist
this is an 18+ space that contains steve x reader x bucky content. some of these stories can be extremely wholesome, and some of these stories can be extremely dark. please take note of the warnings before proceeding. I am not responsible for your media consumption.
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
nav. ➞ 𐙚 fluff ﾒ૦ spicy ‹/𝟹 angst ⏾ dark
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 ! ʚɞ
runnin' down the road, loosen my load 𐙚 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 18k 」
⠀ farmer!stucky x reader
⤷ Bucky and Steve live in a town filled with an endless stretch of green, animals, and their only company is other strong men and elderly women. When an attractive, young woman visits town for a research project, the touch-deprived boys can't help but want to play with the new piece of candy.
american pie. 𐙚 ﾒ૦ ‹/𝟹 「 wc: tbd 」
⠀ dbf!stucky x reader
⤷ Your dad always kept his inner circle of friends small and close. Steve Rogers was one of them. He was respectful, kind, and someone you looked up to and trusted. What you didn't understand, though, was how your dad could also be best friends with a broody, grumpy man like Bucky Barnes. But when your dad leaves for a work trip over the Fourth of July, Bucky decides to remind you exactly why he’s so close with your father—except Steve keeps getting in his way to stop him.
smooth as tennessee whiskey ‹/𝟹 ﾒ૦ ⏾ 「 wc: 20k 」
⠀ dbf!cowboy!stucky x reader
⤷ Eager to travel the world after college, your father decides to step in and choose the countryside as your reluctant first destination. He's concerned for your safety, so he arranges two very close friends to watch over you as you set out on your new journey.
the brooklyn special. 𐙚 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 10.1k 」
⠀ 40s!stucky x reader
⤷ After Steve is injected with the super soldier serum, Bucky decides to show his best friend what it truly means to be a man—and what better way to do that than through you, their lifelong childhood friend?
sleeping with sirens. ⏾ ﾒ૦ (coming soon...)
⠀ siren!stucky x pirate!reader
⤷ Your crew spent years scouring Bucky and Steve’s waters and stealing their most precious treasures. Now, the boys are finally getting their revenge.
Pairing: Spy!Steve x Spy!Reader
WC: 10.5k
Warnings: enemies to lovers, loosely inspired by mr. and mrs. smith, the avengers are not super mainstream in this, sexual tension, shower scene, makeout, jealousy, mean!steve at times, brat!reader, eventual smut (dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v, edging, creampie, steve eating you out within an inch of your life (munch steve come homeeeeeeee), doggy style, tonguefucking), mentions of voyeurism, surveillance, size kink, miscommunication, angst-ish with comfort.
Summary: You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other.
+fran: this is the opening showing of the Captain Americana Film Festival and my humble contribution to Steve's birthday!!! I cannot tell you how much it filled me with joy that I sat down to write this on the 4th and actually spat out 10k words. WE ARE SO BACK!!! Happy 108th to the man who will always have my heart, has been the gold standard against which I measure every man, (this is blond man propaganda) and also my astrological twin <3 no one gets me like he does fr.
⤷ you should go listen to the incredible playlist named "mr and mrs smith [john and jane]" by marybatz on spotify
"Absolutely not!"
Fury had the timing of a tax audit to a billionaire CEO. Of course, of course, you'd be stuck playing this mission with fucking Steve.
One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.
"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel.
Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"
Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"
You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."
"That's what I thought."
The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”
Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.
Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"
You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?
"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.
A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."
He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission.
The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day.
It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.
Instead, the air was thick.
Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.
Well, you and Steve.
At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.
It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.
Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve.
Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.
Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.
It infuriated the hell out of you.
He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased.
It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other.
By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off.
Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.
Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.
Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.
Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.
"Come to daddy."
The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red.
In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart.
But also… you fucking hated his guts.
Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down.
His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.
"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.
You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed.
You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain.
"Who's your daddy now?"
Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"
Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice.
He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."
The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.
Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning.
The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.
The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own.
You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash.
Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."
You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.
He sighed. "If we crash—"
"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.
What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care.
He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were.
Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath.
"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."
The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already."
"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather.
“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.
He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.
“After you, sweetheart.”
You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.
ding-dong. ding-dong.
You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.
You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.
Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.
Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.
Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors.
He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—
“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler.
He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”
“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
She lit up.
“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”
You faked confusion. "Ben…?"
He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."
You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”
“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.
You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”
Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”
Of course they did.
You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.
“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again.
His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.
"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.
“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”
You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.
“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”
“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”
Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”
“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.
Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”
Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait.
It started with waves.
Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up.
Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.
Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”
It was unsettling.
Steve got pulled in first.
Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.
“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”
Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”
Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”
That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.
Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.
From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.
But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.
You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.
Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.
You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.
You played the part. Perfectly.
But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".
About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.
Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways.
“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”
“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”
And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.
Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.
Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.
“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.”
Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”
The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.
Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing.
Well, who does? He thought.
He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.
Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.
Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused.
By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else.
Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.
“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.
Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”
Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”
For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”
Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.
Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.
“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”
Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”
Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”
Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.
The back nine loosened things.
Or at least, that’s what it looked like.
Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.
Way less about business.
Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.
“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”
One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.
Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.
“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”
Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”
“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”
“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”
“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."
Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.
A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.
The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.
He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.
He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on.
Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—
Of course.
A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side.
The motherfucker had surveillance on your house.
In your house.
The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.
You were humming, soft and absentminded.
Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.
He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.
He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.
Five.
Hell, two.
But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.
Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared.
Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.
He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.
Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you.
With you.
All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—
"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.
We're being listened to.
"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"
Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there.
His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water.
“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”
Your breath hitched.
Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"
"Everywhere." He confirmed.
Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.
“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”
Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.
“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.
Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”
You were pretty good at… faking it.
Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.
The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.
As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway.
Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.
The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure.
You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.
Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.
You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.
You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed.
Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him.
You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be.
Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still.
Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.
He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."
He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin.
As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out.
You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.
The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.
His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.
Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.
You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.
“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”
From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.
You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.
His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it.
“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name.
His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.
Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.
His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.
“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”
Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”
You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.
It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside.
Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience.
His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—
He should really take this shirt off.
And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much.
"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?
"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."
Oh.
He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—
The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy.
"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.
That earned you a scolding look.
"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."
Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”
He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.
You scoffed. “You do not.”
“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you.
"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear.
It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there.
“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.
“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.
“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.
Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge.
You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over.
“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”
“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”
“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”
The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."
Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper.
You nudged him again with your heel.
"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."
What in the fuckity fuck?
Steve?
He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well.
Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock.
"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."
That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.
And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes.
His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed.
You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.
Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying.
You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.
Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling.
"Are we—"
“…go to sleep,” you muttered.
Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood.
Right at the belly of the beast.
The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine.
String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance.
The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.
It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.
Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing.
You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.
And there she was.
Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.
Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.
“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”
“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.
Julie laughed. “Exactly.”
Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.
Of course he hadn’t.
He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”
You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."
“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”
Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”
Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible.
His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.
“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.
“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”
She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.
“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.
“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.
“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”
“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”
Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”
“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”
Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.
“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”
Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.
His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”
For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident.
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt.
Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.
They cost you everything.
You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.
You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks.
You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen.
Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more.
You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.
He clocked the men immediately.
And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.
“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.
“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.
“They’re looking for someone,” he said.
“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.
“They’re closing exits.”
And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.
Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down.
“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”
He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.
“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”
“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.
“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.
He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.
A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.
“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”
“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”
“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.
The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.
Perfect.
Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.
“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”
The back door burst open under his hand.
Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.
Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.
One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.
His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he.
The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned.
"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure.
“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.
You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”
PRESENT
“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.
And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel.
Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”
“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.
“A little.”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."
Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office.
The party swelled around you.
Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.
Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold.
Steve.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen.
You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.
You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.
You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.
You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.
“What—”
“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat.
A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.
He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.
“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.
Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and—
The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.
You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.
You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.
“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.
Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out.
Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.
“We were just—”
“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.
“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."
You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again.
“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.
You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house.
Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.
Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn.
You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”
You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.
“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him. “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."
You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"
He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."
You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you.
For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb.
And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours.
Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter.
He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.
Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."
He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision.
Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh.
His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.
"Steve… People might see…"
"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"
You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day."
That did it.
Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.
His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.
His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"
He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.
Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue.
"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.
"Steve, what the—"
He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.
Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.
He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.
Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair.
"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."
Fuck him and that nickname.
His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing.
His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission.
You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips.
The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.
At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"
He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.
Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded.
Not at all.
He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."
He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming."
Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage.
"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.
Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit.
Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you.
"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"
You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue.
He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it.
He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you.
In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers.
Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.
And hard.
Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.
He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist.
And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness.
Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further.
You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"
He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."
He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge.
“Steve, please put it in…”
"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any.
You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"
"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."
And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:
There's more?!
"Oh God…"
That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."
"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.
"Barely half." He grunted.
You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again.
"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."
You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"
After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice.
You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.
“Steve, please, please let me—“
Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”
You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.
As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.
You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.
“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”
“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”
You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”
His eyes rolled to the back of his head.
“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”
“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.
Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.
As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.
After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."
He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”
You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.
“I could do this all day, Cap.”
final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh
˚౨ৎ ⋆ you can't start a fire (without a spark) - 2.3k words
r.grace x fem!reader ⋮ nsfw, 17+ ⋮ male masturbation ⋮ subby!ryland ⋮ consent is clear ⋮ reader teases ryland ⋮ no swearing ⋮ no use of y/n ⋮ reader calls ryland 'ry' ⋮ ryland is a whiny mess ⋮ masturbation ⋮ hand-job ⋮ premature ejaculation ⋮ reader's appearance is not detailed
req: him being pent up on the ship and excusing himself because he's hard and doesn't want the reader to see. meanwhile the reader understands that he might have urges and helps him out. i'm thinking sub!ry for this
For the third time today, you've brushed past Ryland.
The touches were innocent. Your hand brushing his arm as you point at something, speaking like one of the smartest people he's ever met. When he wasn't paying attention, your palm flattened against the small of his back, sweet smile on your face to get his attention.
Each time he felt how warm you were. The heat bled through his clothes— and gosh, he's really touch starved for someone who wasn't a fan of it. You were like a tempting heater. Soft, warm, and smelling faintly of flowers.
Maybe it was like hunger. It's the best seasoning. Your touch must be the same thing— in a sense. He's so touch starved any sort of touch feels like ecstasy. Because you've just slipped past him in the pilot control bay, trying to help him flip one of the many levers. Your bottom brushed against his front.
Normally, this would do nothing to him. He was a gentleman. That would mean nothing to him.
But he hasn't felt the touch of another person in four years.
And now you've touched him.
Instead of helping you with the other switch, he's taking a leap backwards. His leg tries to cover the growing erection in his jumpsuit. Every fiber of his being prays he's not as red as he thinks he is.
Yet, he knows he is. There's a bright pink hue dusting the apples of his cheeks. His eyes are wide like he's fallen flat on his face in front of his hallway crush like a schoolboy.
You turn to see him about six shades of pink. All at the same time.
For the first time, you get a really good look at Ryland. His mussed dirty blonde hair, how it's fluffy and looks like it's begging to get a hand run through it. The way his lashes flutter against his cheeks. Big, puppy eyes that are the color of pure flame. Like two pools of endless ocean water.
He fidgets. Fingertips tapping against the tops of his thighs rapidly. You watch as he angles himself half away from from you— which only makes it worse.
Because you can see the protruding bump in his pants. And jesus, the sight is startling. You tear your eyes away from it to look at his face.
A forced smile captures your lips. It is sweet— really. For someone to react like that at your mere touch. It's a reaction you hadn't gotten in a really long time; probably since high school. Which you refused to believe was a long time ago, though, you knew deep down it was. The grin on your lips meant to be comforting.
Ryland clears his throat. "All good?"
"You alright?"
Silence halts you both. It's awkward for a second. Then, you both let out a chuckle.
"The ship's fine." You say softly, nodding to him.
Ryland nods. "m'fine. Just, uh, tired, actually."
You watch as he scratches the back of his neck, cheeks turning a darker pink. If that was even possible. The poor thing looks akin to an apple. Or a beet. Either way, he was pinker than the pink panther with a sunburn.
"I'm gonna— you alright if I take a, uh, nap?" He stutters through his question, trying to subtly angle his hips away from you.
His pupils had dilated. There was barely any blue left— just a thin ring around black. Selling him out as if he had a blinking sign above his head that read 'hey! i'm horny!'
"s'all good here, Ry." Your hands find purchase on your hips, making a conscious effort to not steal a glance at the rock he's got between his legs.
Ryland nods, trying to turn around and walk off slowly. The effort is fruitless. He practically scurries down the hall of the ship.
A silent chuckle falls past your lips. There was no doubt in your mind about what he was going to do. Hell, you'd do the same thing.
Ryland, since meeting him a few weeks ago (which was not the first time, apparently), had been nothing but a sweetheart. He made sure to instruct Armando to get your coffee before you woke up. Even taking the executive action to put a stop to your nonstop work, carefully guiding you to bed before passing out.
There were no unwanted advances. Or even an inkling that he wanted you.
Well, until just now.
Maybe that's why you're so okay with it. It's probably what has you following his footsteps, following slowly behind him with a gentle weight in your chest. This was something you wanted—only if he'd let you. To help him feel good and release that pent up emotion and lack of touch.
You're not at all surprised by the sight that greets you.
Ryland has his back pressed against the ship wall, standing rigid. The bed cots were a few feet away from him. Though, they would have been in your line of sight if you'd come after at some point. He's got himself tucked into a corner with pinched shut eyes.
Your gaze drops to his hand. Large, pressing over the hard line in his pants. His other hand is pressed over his mouth. Muffled noises are escaping his throat— and they're so soft and sweet.
Just palming himself. Rutting his hips into his hand. Trying to stay quiet.
Something clicks in your mind. Any inhibition is cleared from your system in an instant. You were in the same boat as him— not getting any sort of touch in years.
What could you even say? There was just something about a big man reduced to a melted puddle that really did it for you.
"You want some help?" Your words come out sweet and syrupy.
His glasses are slipping down his nose. When he recognizes your voice, his eyes spring open. There's something adorable about the way he jumps in the air like a cat. Arms darting behind his back to cover up the action he'd just been doing.
Your name spills from his mouth, breathy and paper-thin.
"Hey." Your hands come up to calm him, the ghost of a smile twitching at your lips. "It's okay, Ry."
"I'm sorry— I didn't realize you'd walked in.." Ryland continues rambling, somehow going through the entire red scale in the blink of an eye. He looked like a tomato. "Gosh, I'm so sorry. This is terrible— I would never ever—"
His words were spewing from his lips, barely making any sense as he strings them together.
"You can keep going."
Ryland's brows furrow. He's launched into silence. Confusion blankets his features as his jaw drops slightly. "What?"
You don't miss a beat.
"Keep going." You murmur, tongue darting out to wet your lip. "Just wondering if you wanted some help."
The ground falls out from under his feet. There has to be a camera somewhere— no way was this actually happening to him. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. This is one of the more weird wet dreams he's had, though.
"Help?" He squeaks.
Your gaze drops to his prominent bulge. It's straining against the fabric, practically half-way down his thigh.
"Help fixing that problem." Your chin juts in the direction of his crotch. "Only if you want."
A quiet noise wells up in his throat. The ache between his legs was diabolical— it tarnished any logical thought. All he could think about was how much he needed friction, how good you smelled, and how your eyes were looking at him like he's something to be taken care of.
All he could do was nod.
"Yeah?" The prompt was clear.
Ryland withers against the wall. "Yes. I want you to— gosh, please."
A chuckle leaves your mouth. It's not teasing at all. You're giddy about his excitement, words being babbled like he's never spoken before.
The distance between you both is closed easily.
You're in his space. A hand comes up to cup his cheek, brushing against his stubble. Ryland gasps as the contact. It wilts into a throaty whine, eyes fluttering shut. He head gently thumps against the wall as he leans back.
His lashes fan out beautifully. They're long and dark and perfect. Just like every inch of him. He's so pretty— especially when he's all flushed and needy.
Ryland opens his eyes to gaze up at you. His eyes are glazed over, admiration frayed around the edges. He's looking at you like you've hung the stars.
"Please." His voice is small, barely audible. "Need you."
"I know." You reassure, palm flattening to run down his neck. His skin is soft. Your feel his pulse jump beneath your fingers as you trail down his body.
His heart is beating like a rabbit. Quick and hard. It thunders against his ribcage. As your hand slowly drags down his chest his heart rate accelerates. He's smooth muscle beneath the cloth, prominent even now.
You silently thank the electrodes that were hooked up to his body during the duration of his coma.
When your head dips, confusion settles in his hazy mind. Only for a second. Because the next sensation sending fire coursing through his veins is your lips— on his neck. Soft and plush. His breath gets trapped in his throat, lungs contracting to stop breathing for a moment.
His eyes flutter closed, taking what you're giving him. The kisses are tender. Your mouth brushing against his sensitive skin as his hands made a grab at your waist. The grasp he has is tight. As if he was trying to use you as an anchor. But he thinks better of it after a moment, relenting his grasp a fraction.
Your hand continues traveling lower. Past his sternum, down the defined abbs, and slowly past his navel. A wonton moan slips from his throat as you do it. He feels the way your lips form into a smile before starting to suckle at his neck. No doubt leaving a mark.
"Gosh, that's, oh that's good." He mutters, head tilting to grant you better access.
A shiver runs up his spine as you hum against his neck.
He opens his mouth to blabber some more, only to gasp when your hand finally made contact with his length, Even over the cloth of his clothes it felt heavenly. Endorphins rushed through his mind, exploding like fireworks behind his eyelids.
Ryland buckles beneath your touch. His knees weakened, having to change his footing before he crumpled like a house of cards. "I can't—need you, honey."
Honey.
It came out so soft and breathy, veneration dripping from his lips. It was like a burst of energy surging through your system. Your hand gently squeezes the thick line of him, tongue poking out to lick at his pulse point.
You're not sure how you end up with him sitting on his cot. You come to, gazing down at him. Shaking hands ripping off his jumpsuit, face flushed, and breath stuttering. the prettiest person you'd ever seen.
The glasses on his face are slipping down the bridge of his nose. They've become crooked in the heated journey from the wall to the bed. Tentatively, your hands help move his glasses correctly and up his nose.
"Go on, baby." You murmur, eyes lightening up at his reaction to the pet name.
The jumpsuit pools around his ankles. He's left with just boxers that were too tight and a heaving chest. The mark on his neck was ringing a purple hue.
His eyes flicker up to you. Looking at you over the rims of his glasses, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. But there's no fear in his gaze— only need. The kind that makes you shake. The kind that makes your head feel like it's swimming as you move towards him.
There's only a few seconds between your hand dipping beneath his boxers and feeling the velvety skin of his cock. He groans low in his throat. From being abandoned of touch to this— it was delicious torture.
For the first time today, you are surprised, though.
Because his breath stutters. A whimper falls from his lips and his hips buck up. Then, he blows his load like a virgin being touched for the first time.
Your whole body freezes.
Ryland splutters. "nngh—crud, m'sorry! oh, i'm sorry I didn't mean to—"
Just the simplest touch made him unravel. Your touch did this—a dark spot in his boxers where he'd made a mess. your hand had barely wrapped around his shaft.
A little smile tugs at your lips.
"Shh, ry. It's okay. Hey, it's okay." You try to settle him, pulling your hand from his boxers.
Your fingers have little droplets of his release, splattered like strokes from a paintbrush. A feeling of pride stirrs in your chest.
You still had it. Even after years of a coma.
"Been a while…" He reasons, voice small.
He's embarrassed.
You can tell by the way his shoulders had deflated. Hunching over himself, an arm dropping away from you to try and cover up his lap. Something tugs in your chest.
"That's okay." You whisper, looking down at him gently.
Ryland watches as you bring your fingers up to your mouth—tasting him. His jaw slackens, eyes bugging out of his head. That was something he'd never seen someone do in his life. Something twists in his tummy, melting into a familiar warmth spreading through his limbs.
"We could always try again." There's no humor in your voice. Just flat conviction.
Ryland nods, completely transfixed by you. "Oh my— okay."
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I was just reading one of the best Jack Abbott fics ever and it was about Jack and her intern who had a terrible family life and he pretend to be her boyfriend. PLEASE HELP ME I DIDNT FINISH IT
getting ready to leave the house to go out to dinner + drinks with some gfs on a hot summer night. jack sitting on the couch with his readers on, reading off his kindle. you walk over to him, leaning down to kiss him and he holds your waist with a squeeze so you giggle, “love you jackie!” as you turn. you’re almost at the door when he stops you “uh uh, wait a second little miss.”
so you turn all confused, but you know. you know why he’s stopping you. somehow, jack knows that you aren’t wearing panties.
he’s standing up, firm eyes and thick hand held up in a “stop” motion as he walks up the stairs. you stand at the door, frustratedly tugging your tiny fucking dress down your thick thighs (as far as it can go without sliding up…. which is not far, at all.)
he comes down holding a soft, pink cotton pair on his index finger. kneeling on one knee, he huffs a little grunt as he situates himself, instructing you “up” as he taps your ankle.
he slides your panties on as you whine “jackie!!! i don’t wanna have a panty line!” kissing your calf and running his hands across the soft sides of the bikini panties & your hips, he smiles up at you under his readers, “don’t know who’s around, baby. you know that.”
you nod, jack is always right. he kisses your knee and stands with a groan, pulling you to kiss him with a hand on the back of your neck. a sloppy, wet, nasty kiss to your lips and he’s sending you on the way with a pat to your butt and a request of “call me when you want me to get you baby, kay?”
Taking requests for PHM, marvel, the 100, basically anything lol
A — Admiration: Your curiosity. Ryland fell in love with the way you ask questions about everything, the same hunger for understanding that he has. He finds it remarkable that you can sit with uncertainty and still be joyful. He tells you, matter-of-factly, "You're the most interesting experiment I've ever run," and means it as the highest compliment he knows.
B — Body: Your hands. He noticed them early on, the way you use them when you talk, the way they move when you're working through a problem. He's a details person, and your hands are full of details he keeps returning to. He'll pick one up sometimes with no explanation, just to look at it. He loves to see you work with your hands, how meticulously and effortless you look when pouring a substance into a beaker or adjusting the microscope settings.
C — Cuddling: Turns out Ryland Grace has always been a natural cuddler, he just didn't have anyone to do it with for a very long time. Once he has you, he latches on completely and without apology. He gravitates toward you on the couch without thinking about it, wraps around you in sleep like it's instinct, tucks his face into your neck or your hair when he needs to reset. He's warm and he takes up space and he doesn't let go until he absolutely has to. He finds it grounding in a way he can't entirely explain scientifically, which he finds both annoying and wonderful.
D — Dates: Casual and unhurried, always. A museum on a slow afternoon and he becomes insufferable in the best way, knowing too much about everything, reading every plaque and then correcting it under his breath. He buys you something from the gift shop without making a big deal of it. Or a night walk, just the two of you, no real destination and he'll point out constellations without being asked and talk about whatever's been on his mind, and somehow an hour passes without either of you noticing. He's not a planner when it comes to romance. He just wants to be somewhere quiet with you, moving or still, it doesn't matter much.
E — Emotions: Ryland is not repressed — he's just a little slow. He try’s to let emotions flow through him. He processes feelings the way he processes problems: methodically, sometimes delayed. He'll go quiet when something moves him. The way he shows love is through action: a tea made exactly how you like it, a detail he remembered from three months ago.
F — Family: He's thought about it more than he lets on. He'd be a good father, patient, curious, great with kids. He wouldn't bring it up until he was certain, absolutely certain, about everything. When he does, he'd frame it like a proposal he'd already run the numbers on: "I think we'd be good at this. I think we should try."
G — Gifts: Terrible at traditional gifts, extraordinary at specific ones. He will not get you something generic. He will get you the exact book you mentioned once in passing, or a rock sample from a place you said you'd like to visit, or something he made himself — a star chart of the night you met, calculated by hand. The thought he puts in is almost alarming. His gifts are either incredibly niche or incredibly dorky, usually both.
H — Holding Hands: Initiated by him more than you'd expect, but always quiet about it. He'll just reach over and take your hand like it's the obvious thing to do. He rubs his thumb across your knuckles when he's thinking. Doesn't let go until he has to.
I — Injury: Calm on the outside. Terrifyingly focused. He'd immediately go into problem-solving mode, assessing, treating, doing. Cause feeling scared is not useful and he has decided to be useful. Later, when you're okay, he'd sit beside you and just be there, and you'd realize his hands had been shaking the whole time.
J — Jokes: Dry wit, constant. He delivers jokes with a completely straight face and then looks mildly pleased when you laugh, like he ran an experiment and got the expected result. He's particularly fond of extremely specific science puns that require explanation, which he will provide, in full, which somehow makes them funnier.
K — Kisses: Unhurried. He kisses you like he has time, even when he doesn't. Like it's something worth doing properly. Forehead kisses are frequent and automatic. He'll kiss your hand sometimes, which feels oddly formal and completely sincere at the same time. He's not showy about it, but he means every single one.
L — Love: He shows love by paying attention. He remembers everything, your coffee order, the name of your childhood pet, the thing that made you cry once that you thought he'd forgotten. He makes your life slightly easier every day in small ways you don't always notice. He shows his love through actions, gift giving, physical touch. He’s not always good with words but never shuts up.
M — Memory: The first night you stayed up past 3am talking — about space, about consciousness, about whether fish have preferences. He didn't want to stop. He told you later that was the night he realized you were someone he wanted to keep. He still thinks about it when the world feels heavy.
N — Nightmare: Being alone again. Not in space specifically, just the specific silence of being the only person in a room who cares about what you care about. He spent so long like that before. He doesn't talk about it, but some mornings he wakes up and just needs to see you, and you've learned not to ask why.
O — Oddity: He narrates things. Under his breath, like walking through the grocery store, he'll mutter observations about product placement or the aerodynamics of a shopping cart. He's been doing it so long he doesn't notice. You find it completely endearing.
P — Pet Names: after he got comfortable just about anything goes. A few favorites include: baby, honey, sweetheart, as well as some random ones he’ll come up with while working: oh my little Protozoa c’mere
Q — Quality Time: Parallel play is one of his favorites. He's happy doing his work while you do yours, just together. He'll look up occasionally to tell you something interesting. He considers this ideal. When he's feeling more deliberate about it, he'll plan something intentional, a hike, a trip to a lecture, cooking a meal together. He likes having a project with you.
R — Rhythm: His music taste is a spectacular disaster. He loves Whoomp There it is because duh. His driving playlist is an unholy mix of 70s disco, one-hit wonders, and whatever was on the radio in the early 2000s. He sings along with full commitment and zero self-consciousness. ABBA gets him every time. Stayin' Alive comes on and suddenly he has choreography. You've stopped being surprised. Somewhere between Le Freak and Brick House you realized this is just who he is.
S — Secrets: More open than he looks. He keeps things close until he trusts you, and then he trusts you completely. He'll tell you things he's never said out loud: fears, regrets, the strange transcendent loneliness of deep space, all in a calm, factual tone that makes them hit harder. He doesn't perform vulnerability, he just... offers it, quietly, when he's ready.
T — Time: it took you twoLonger than it needed to be to get together, because he was sure before he said anything. You'd been friends, then something more, for months before he finally said, very seriously: "I think we are in a romantic relationship and I should have said that sooner. I'm saying it now." You laughed. He did too, eventually.
U — Upset: If you’re upset he doesn't crowd you. He gives you space and then fills it with small comforts: tea, a blanket, sitting nearby without demands. He's not great with the right words in the moment, but he'll stay, and he'll ask the right questions eventually, and his steady presence is more comforting than most people's grand gestures. When he’s upset he gets quiet. shorter sentences, busy hands, tea he forgets to drink. He'll find his way to wherever you are without meaning to, and once he's ready he just tells you plainly what's wrong.
V — Vaunt: Quietly, immensely proud. He doesn't brag — it's not in him — but he lights up when someone mentions you. He'll say something understated like "yes, she's exceptional" with the energy of someone who could write a dissertation on the subject if you gave him time. He shows you off by making sure people know you matter to him.
W — Warrior: He'd fight for you without hesitation and feel awkward about it afterward. He's not a fighter by nature but he is relentless, he survived alone in space on stubbornness and ingenuity, and he would bring that same energy to protecting you. He'd want to be beside you, not in front. He respects you too much to stand in the way.
X — X-Ray: he is disturbingly good at reading you, in the way scientists are good at observing, he notices micro-expressions, patterns, the way your voice changes. He'll say "you're not actually fine" so calmly and accurately that it's almost annoying. He doesn't pry. He just makes space for the truth and waits.
Y — Yes: when proposing he’d have the whole thing planned down to the last detail, the right place, the right moment, everything accounted for, and then be an absolute wreck anyway. Hands not quite steady, unusually quiet on the drive over, checking his pocket about six times. When the moment actually comes he'd go still, look at you very seriously, and say something simple and completely honest. No grand speech, just the truth: that he's sure, that he's been sure for a while, that he'd like to keep you. The nerves would still be there in his voice and he wouldn't bother hiding them. For someone who always has the answer, loving you is the one thing that still makes him feel like he's holding his breath.
Z — Zen: You. And the ocean, and the sound of a problem clicking into place, and a good cup of coffee, and the specific comfortable silence of a room where he doesn't have to explain himself. But mostly you.
Ryland Grace actively talking about science while your fucking.
Hear me out walk with me.
Ryland is stressed a lot, I mean the world is ending, let’s say he’s stuck on a particularly hard problem, and you know what helps him think? Being relaxed, and you know what relaxes him? Sex.
Either your sucking him off or your riding him, and he’s working through the equation in his head, eyes squeezed shut, holding onto you in some way.
If your riding him, maybe hes at his desk and you noticed he was a little worked up, or just wanted some attention, and just like that the second your on him he can breathe.
“Oh frick- baby- if I could create lightweight orbital mirrors to- fuck- gather the sunlight then-“
All the sudden hey turned to his desk, you pout because his beautiful scrunched up face is now focused like an idea popped up in his head. He’s scribbling down something on the scratch paper near him, you slow down so he can think properly. Once he sets the pen down he looks up at you like you’ve hung the stars, and when you start moving again at the beautiful pace that makes him want to die in the best way possible- he’s gone.
“So tell me more about astrophage breeding hm?”
He’ll try to stumble out his solution, a mix of science terms as you speed up the pace, but he’s GONE.
deer girl. warm tea. dainty trinkets & collectibles. long walks in the woods. wildflowers & berries. vintage film camera. browns & whites. watching her man stream. the people's fairy. alfie's angel.
some messy drama cheating type of fic where a woman is in a completely loveless marriage, clark notices her one day in a crowded place and then he can’t get her out of his head. even if he notices the shiny rock on that finger, it doesn’t stop him from the thrill of persuing. over time he introduces himself. learns her little intricacies, learns her routine. persistently becomes very flirty and always tip toes the line of being too much and being too giving to a married woman.
he’s not subtle either. asks about her husband frequently, how it’s going with him, why he’s always out of the house on business trips neglecting his woman, leaving her home to deal with everything. clark knows exactly what he’s doing while he stirs the pot, butters her up, giving her shoulders a nice massage while he whispers to her that she deserves so much better, she shouldn’t have to suffer like this. shouldn’t go to bed alone every night to an empty house. tells her she should be given way more attention than she’s getting. promises to her that he’d never let her feel this isolated if she was on his arm instead.
one night he actually weasels his way into her panties, finally allowing him to show her the treatment he’s always telling her that she truly deserves.
clark sees her phone light up and begin to ring with her husband’s name on the screen while he’s balls deep inside her in her in her husband’s bed. it makes him smirk, thinking of all the evil opportunities suddenly flooding his head. how he could answer her phone and let him listen to her moan clark’s name instead, listen to her squirt on his dick in their bed. thinks of sending him a dirty photo or maybe a noisy video of her crying so beautifully as his cock pierced her, completely rearranging her guts and ruining her for the man she married.
instead of choosing the messier route, he ends up kissing her on the lips again to swallow her moans and simply turns off her phone before taking both her legs and pulling them up over his shoulders while he kept pounding the woman he’s been so deeply infatuated with, who happens to be another man’s wife
My home page is not diverse enough, everything I want to see one of my favorite things I have to search for it and then my likes and reposts look like I’m in a hyper fixating spiral
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