Summary: While moving in together, you find something Clark never meant you to read yet.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The new apartment smells like cardboard and fresh paint and the faint trace of Clark’s cologne. Clean, warm, familiar. The kind of scent that settles into your lungs and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
Home already, somehow.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by half-opened boxes and crumpled packing paper, when Clark straightens up in the kitchen doorway. He’s holding an empty cabinet door in one hand, brow furrowed in concentration, until he notices you looking at him.
That sheepish, boyish smile appears. The one that still makes your chest flutter even after everything. After years. After knowing him in ways the world never will.
“We forgot paper towels,” he says, solemn. Like it’s a confession. Like this might be the thing that finally proves neither of you is qualified to live like an adult.
You blink at him for a second. Then laugh.
“Of course we did,” you say, shaking your head. “We remembered the coffee maker but not paper towels.”
He winces slightly. “That’s on me.”
“No, it’s on us, baby,” you say. “This is a shared failure.”
He laughs softly, relief easing his shoulders. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promises, already reaching for his jacket. “Ten, max. I’ll just run downstairs.”
He hesitates before leaving, eyes lingering on you in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s committing the image to memory, your hair pulled back messily, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose on you, surrounded by boxes labeled Kitchen and Bedroom and Our Stuff in his careful handwriting.
He steps closer, crouches down in front of you.
Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t rush toward the next moment. Just affection, given freely.
Like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
“Don’t unpack anything suspicious without me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin.
You snort. “No promises.”
That earns you a grin—fond, hopelessly in love—and then he’s standing again, slipping on his jacket, glancing back one more time before opening the door.
The lock clicks behind him.
The apartment goes quiet.
Not empty, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that exists only when you’re building something with someone. When silence isn’t absence, but comfort.
You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, just taking it in. The light filtering through the windows. The way the space already feels shaped around him. Around you.
Then you turn back to unpacking.
Clark’s boxes are… exactly what you expect.
Neat. Carefully taped. Every one labeled in that slightly slanted handwriting you know so well. You open a box marked Kitchen and find everything wrapped meticulously, towels folded evenly, utensils bundled together with rubber bands.
You smile to yourself. Of course he did this.
The next box reads Books (Misc.).
That one draws your attention immediately.
You open it and begin lifting out familiar spines—journalism textbooks from college, thick hardcovers with cracked spines, novels he insists he only read once but you’ve caught him rereading late at night more times than you can count. There’s a battered paperback with a folded corner you recognize; he’s had that one since before you met.
Each book feels like a quiet reminder: I know you. I know this life.
Then your fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel like the others.
Smooth. Cool. Leather.
You pause.
Nestled between two hardcovers is a notebook. Dark blue. Leather-bound. The edges are worn, the spine softened like it’s been opened and closed many times. Cherished.
You lift it carefully, like it might be fragile.
Your brow furrows.
You’ve been dating Clark for a while now. Long enough to know his habits. His routines. Long enough to know he’s not the kind of man who leaves things unexplained—not intentionally, anyway.
And he doesn’t keep a diary.
You’ve never seen him write in anything like this. Never noticed a notebook tucked away. Never seen him carry it, never heard him mention it in passing. For someone who’s otherwise so transparent with you, this feels… different.
Private.
Your thumb rests against the edge of the cover.
A small voice in your head speaks up, gentle but firm.
This is private.
You hesitate, the weight of the notebook suddenly heavier in your hands. You imagine Clark’s careful way of holding things he values. The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The trust between you—earned, mutual, precious.
You should put it back.
But curiosity slips in—not sharp or invasive, just confused. Tender. The kind that comes from closeness, not entitlement.
Why has he never mentioned this?
You glance once toward the door, as if he might somehow already be back, watching.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the cover.
Just a peek, you tell yourself. Just the first page.
The paper inside is thick, slightly yellowed with age.
And then you see the handwriting.
Clark’s.
Careful. Earnest. Familiar.
Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first line.
For my wife, Y/N.
Your heart stutters so hard you actually have to put a hand to your chest.
For a second, you think you’ve misread it. That your eyes are playing tricks on you. You blink once. Twice.
The words don’t change.
Wife.
The room tilts, just slightly—not enough to knock you over, but enough to make everything feel unreal, like the ground has shifted beneath your feet. You sink back onto your heels, the notebook heavy in your hands, heavier than any box you’ve lifted all day.
Wife.
He hasn’t proposed.
You’ve talked about the future—carefully at first, like people do when they’re afraid to hope too much. Conversations that started with someday and maybe and eventually grew into when and we. You’ve talked about living together, about places you might want to travel, about growing old in ways that felt half-joking and half-serious.
But this?
This feels like peeking behind a curtain you weren’t meant to see yet. Like stepping into a moment that was supposed to belong to another day. Another version of you—dressed up, heart racing, standing across from him while he asks the question out loud.
Your hands tremble as you turn the page.
The paper whispers softly, like it knows it’s holding something sacred.
I’ve held this diary since the moment I met you in the Daily Planet lunchroom. November 30th, 2021. The day my world changed color, suddenly brighter, like a rainbow I didn’t know I’d been missing.
Your breath catches painfully in your throat.
November 30th, 2021.
You remember that day. The awful salad. The broken microwave. The sandwich he offered you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You remember thinking he was kind in a way that felt rare, disarming.
You didn’t know you’d changed his world.
Tears blur the ink almost immediately. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, then stop—afraid of smudging the words, as if they might disappear if you’re not careful enough with them.
I’m giving you this on our wedding day. I don’t know what our lives will look like then, or how many ordinary, beautiful days will have passed between now and that moment, but I know this much with absolute certainty.
If one day, any day, you ever feel like I don’t love you, like I’ve grown distant or the world has tried to convince you otherwise, I want you to open these pages and see how completely, how endlessly, you are wrong.
Every word here is proof of how I fell in love with you and how I kept falling, again and again, without ever meaning to stop. I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you for the rest of my life.
Yours forever,
Kal-El
Your chest aches in the best, most devastating way.
It’s not the sharp kind of pain. It’s warm and overwhelming, like your heart has grown too big for your body. Like something is blooming inside you without asking permission.
Never stopped falling for you.
You press the notebook to your chest for a moment, breathing around the emotion, trying to steady yourself. The apartment feels impossibly quiet, like it’s holding its breath with you.
Then, slowly, reverently, you keep reading.
Every page is dated.
Every entry is a memory you recognize.
11/30/2021
I think I met the love of my life today.
I don’t know if that’s ridiculous. I don’t know if it’s too soon to even write that sentence. But if I don’t write it down, I’m afraid I’ll convince myself later that I imagined how it felt.
Daily Planet lunchroom. Same cracked tile floor. The microwave was broken again. Someone burned popcorn. Perry was arguing with someone down the hall. It was just… another day.
And then she was there.
She was sitting by herself at one of the small tables near the window, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at a salad like it had personally wronged her. She looked exhausted. Not just physically, like the world had asked too much of her lately. There was something about the way she sighed that made my chest tighten.
I don’t usually act on impulse. I think too much. I hesitate. I measure consequences.
But today I didn’t.
I walked over and held out half my sandwich before my brain could stop me. I didn’t even introduce myself first. Just said something awkward about how the salad looked like it needed backup.
She looked up at me, like really looked, and for half a second I thought I’d made a mistake.
Then she smiled.
Not polite. Not small. A real smile that reached her eyes. She laughed and said I was “brave but misguided,” and suddenly the noise of the room faded into nothing. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like the air changed density. Like the world sharpened into focus around her.
We talked. About nothing important. About everything. She teased me gently. Asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers. When I told her my name, she repeated it like it mattered. When she told me her name, I repeated it because it did matter.
When she went back to work, I stood there for a second too long, holding the empty plate, feeling… undone.
My hands were shaking.
I’ve lifted mountains. I’ve stopped trains mid-crash. I’ve flown through storms without fear.
I have never, ever felt like this.
If this is love, then it’s quieter than I expected. Steadier. Like something ancient settling into place.
I don’t know what will happen next.
I just know I don’t want to forget how today felt.
12/14/2021
First date.
Coffee was supposed to be an hour. That’s what I told myself before I left my apartment. That’s what I told her when we sat down. I even checked the time at the start, like that would somehow keep things contained.
It didn’t.
It lasted almost four hours, and I didn’t notice the time passing until my cup had gone cold and the café started emptying around us. I don’t think either of us wanted to be the one to say it first, that it should probably end, like saying it out loud would break something fragile.
She talks with her hands when she’s excited. I noticed that almost immediately. Little movements at first, then bigger ones when she got passionate about a story. She smiles before she finishes her sentences, like she already knows how they’ll land. And when she listens, really listens, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes focused, like she’s saving every word somewhere important.
No one has ever listened to me like that before.
I found myself talking more than I usually do. About work. About Kansas. About things I don’t normally share. It felt natural, like my mouth was ahead of my caution for once. She never rushed me. Never looked bored. Every response made me want to tell her more.
When we finally left, neither of us wanted to go straight home, so we walked. No destination. Just side by side, letting the city unfold around us. The air was cold, and she tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. I kept noticing small things, the way she matched her pace to mine without realizing it, the way she pointed out things she liked as if she wanted me to see the world through her eyes.
The city felt different with her there. Smaller. Kinder. Like it was giving us space. Letting us borrow it for a while.
I kept thinking I should impress her. Say something clever. Something charming. Something worthy of the way she looked at me. But every time our eyes met, my chest felt too full for pretense. Every rehearsed line disappeared. All I could do was be honest.
And she seemed to like that.
I felt safe.
That word keeps circling back. Safe. Not because I’m strong, not because I could protect her if I had to, but because I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than myself. I didn’t feel watched. Or measured. Or like I was hiding parts of who I am.
I walked her home and stopped outside her building. I told myself not to linger.
I lingered anyway.
When she said goodbye, smiled at me one last time, and turned toward the door, I felt it, physically, like something tugged inside my chest, like part of me wanted to follow her without question.
I stood there longer than necessary after she went inside, just breathing, memorizing the feeling.
I replayed her laugh the entire way home.
I still am.
01/22/2022
Dinner with her.
We went somewhere small tonight. Nothing fancy. One of those places that smells like oil and salt and warmth the moment you open the door. The kind where the tables wobble slightly and the menu hasn’t changed in years.
She ordered before me because she already knew what she wanted. I liked that. I ordered fries, intending to share them, but I didn’t say it out loud. I just assumed. That probably says something.
They came out hot, steam curling into the air between us. We talked while they cooled, about work, about something she’d read, about nothing important. I was halfway through a story when she reached over.
No asking. No hesitation. Just gently, like it was understood.
She took one fry, careful not to brush my hand, and went right back to listening like she hadn’t just done something quietly significant.
She didn’t even look guilty.
A few seconds later, she noticed me staring.
“What?” she asked, smiling around the bite.
The corner of her mouth curved up like she already knew the answer. I felt my face ache from smiling back before I even realized I was doing it.
Anyone else, I would’ve said something. Joked. Pretended to be annoyed.
Instead, I felt… calm.
Something settled into place inside me. Not a spark. Not a rush. Something steadier. Like my body recognized her before my mind caught up. Like some part of me had already decided: this is where you’re supposed to be.
I didn’t mind losing the fry.
I didn’t mind anything at all.
Oh.
This is it.
This is how it starts, not fireworks or drama or some grand moment you tell people about.
Just a shared table. Warm food. Easy silence.
Belonging.
03/05/2022
Fifth date.
I told her.
I knew I was going to tonight. I’d known all day, maybe longer. The thought sat in my chest like a weight—heavy, necessary. I kept telling myself that if this was going to be real, if she was going to be real to me, then she deserved the truth. All of it.
Still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
We were sitting close, closer than before. The lights were low. The city outside the window hummed softly, distant and unaware that my entire world was about to split open. I could hear my own heartbeat. I kept rehearsing the words in my head, terrified that if I didn’t say them perfectly, I’d lose her.
Superman.
Krypton.
The truth.
I’ve faced down enemies without fear. I’ve stood between the world and destruction without hesitation. But tonight, my palms were damp, my throat tight, my voice almost too small to trust.
I told her anyway.
I told her who I am. Where I come from. What I can do. What I can’t. I told her about the loneliness. About the responsibility. About how sometimes it feels like I’m made of glass despite being unbreakable.
I watched her face the entire time.
I was ready, so ready for her to pull away. To stiffen. To look at me like I was something dangerous or unknowable. I was ready for disbelief, fear, distance. Ready for the sound of my own heart breaking quietly while I pretended I understood.
She didn’t do any of that.
She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t stare at me like I was a spectacle. She didn’t flinch when I said the word Superman. She didn’t look for the door.
She listened.
The same way she always does. Head tilted slightly, eyes steady, hands folded together like this mattered. Like I mattered.
When I finished, the silence stretched. I could barely breathe. I felt exposed in a way I never have before. Like I’d peeled myself open and handed her everything unguarded.
Then she reached for me.
She took my hand—warm, grounding, real—and said, “Thank you for trusting me.”
That was it.
Not I need time.
Not I’m scared.
Not I don’t know what to say.
Just gratitude.
Trust meeting trust.
Something inside me broke open then. Something old and carefully guarded. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been holding back until that moment, how alone I’d been even when surrounded by people.
I don’t think she knows what that moment did to me.
I don’t think she knows she became my safe place tonight. That for the first time in my life, the truth didn’t feel like a burden, it felt like a bridge.
I fell in love with her again. Deeper than before. Permanently. In a way that doesn’t fade or loosen or ask permission.
If she ever doubts how much she means to me, I want her to remember this night.
I want me to remember it.
06/18/2022
She fell asleep on my shoulder.
We were supposed to watch the movie all the way through. She picked it. I remember that, she was excited about it, insisted it was better than I thought it would be. She curled up beside me like she always does, close enough that our arms touched, close enough that I could feel her warmth even before she leaned into me.
About halfway through, her head tipped just slightly toward my shoulder. I felt it before I saw it, the gentle weight of her settling, like she was testing whether it was okay.
I didn’t move.
A few minutes later, she tucked herself in properly, her head resting just under my chin, her hair brushing my jaw. Her breathing changed slowly, quietly, until it evened out into something soft and steady. The kind of breathing that only happens when someone feels completely safe.
I could feel everything. Every small shift of her weight. Every tiny exhale. The way her fingers twitched once, then relaxed, trusting I was there.
The movie kept playing. The plot resolved. The credits rolled.
I didn’t move.
Forty-two minutes passed. I know because I counted, not because I was bored, but because I wanted to remember how long I’d been allowed to hold this moment. My arm started to ache. My shoulder went numb.
I didn’t care.
I’ve stopped disasters. I’ve lifted impossible things. I’ve been praised for saving the world more times than I can count.
Tonight, the most important thing I did was stay perfectly still so she could rest.
I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I memorized the way she fit against me, like she had always been meant to. I thought—very quietly—that if this was all love ever asked of me, I would give it gladly.
I would do it forever if she asked.
And if she never did, I think I still would.
09/02/2022
Work.
Nothing remarkable was supposed to happen today.
Just another morning at the Planet. I was standing by my desk pretending to read an article when I felt it.
That gentle pull. That awareness.
I looked up without thinking.
She was across the newsroom, half-hidden behind a monitor, focused on her screen. And then—like she felt me looking—she glanced up.
Just a second. Maybe less.
Our eyes met.
She smiled.
Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. Just for me.
My heart did something ridiculous. The kind of thing I’d laugh at if it were anyone else. I felt it in my chest, in my hands, all the way down to my feet like I’d forgotten how gravity worked for a moment.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.
It felt like a secret we were sharing in plain sight, something small and precious tucked between deadlines and coffee cups.
I looked back down at my desk, fully aware that my smile was impossible to hide.
I still get nervous when she looks at me like that.
I’ve faced impossible odds. I’ve stood against things that should have terrified me. But that quiet smile across the newsroom still makes my pulse stumble like I’m fifteen and hopelessly obvious about it.
She makes me feel young. Not careless, but alive. Like someone who’s still discovering what love can be, who hasn’t reached the end of the feeling yet.
Lois noticed. Of course she did. She smirked when she passed my desk.
Jimmy noticed, he raised his eyebrows and whispered “cute.”
Cat noticed. Steve noticed. I think Perry noticed too, though he pretended not to.
I don’t care.
They can notice all they want.
All I want—all I will ever want—is for her eyes to keep finding mine. In crowded rooms. In quiet mornings. Across every place life puts us.
For the rest of my life.
11/30/2022
One year.
I don’t think I really understood what today would feel like until it was already happening. I knew it mattered. I knew it was important. But I didn’t expect the weight of it, the way it would sit in my chest all evening, heavy and warm and almost too much to hold all at once.
A year.
That sounds so small when you say it out loud. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five ordinary days stacked gently on top of each other. Days that didn’t look remarkable from the outside. Days filled with work and quiet dinners and laughter over nothing.
But when I looked at her tonight, really looked at her, I felt the miracle of it.
The fact that she’s chosen me. Every day. For an entire year.
Not the idea of me. Not the parts that are easy or impressive. Me. The quiet mornings. The long nights. The truths she learned early and never turned away from.
She gave me her gift first.
She didn’t hand it to me right away. She asked me to sit down, her voice careful, almost shy. I noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table between us, wrapped in brown paper, the edges taped too neatly. Like she’d redone it more than once. Like she’d worried about it.
“I need you to know,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the package instead of me, “I tried my best.”
That alone made my chest tighten.
When I unwrapped it, I understood why she’d been nervous.
It was a painting.
Not small. Not casual. Not something done in an afternoon. This was time. Intention. Patience. The kind of work you only do when you’re willing to put your heart somewhere visible and vulnerable.
It was the farm.
My parents’ farm.
She’d painted it in late-afternoon light, the kind that turns everything golden and soft, the kind that always made me feel safe growing up. The house stood steady and familiar, the porch just right, the fields stretching out behind it the way they always do. Endless. Open. Like they belong to anyone who needs space to breathe.
And in the center—
All of us.
Ma and Pa.
Me.
And them.
My birth parents.
All of us standing together, arms around one another, no distance between us. No time separating what was lost from what was found. No planets. No years. No absence.
Just together.
Like it was always meant to be that way.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
She rushed to explain, words tumbling over each other as if she were afraid the silence meant she’d done something wrong.
She told me she used pictures to paint the farm I have hanging in my apartment since she hasn’t been there yet. Told me she watched the video again—the one that came with me when I was sent to Earth—paused it, rewound it, studied my birth parents’ faces so she wouldn’t get them wrong.
She told me she didn’t want to mess it up. That she just kept thinking—
Her voice softened then.
—that they’d want to see me happy. That my parents—all of them—belong together in my life. Even if it never looked like this in real life.
My hands were shaking when I held the frame.
She painted Ma’s smile exactly right. The gentleness in my Pa's eyes. That quiet pride he never needs to announce. And my birth parents—hopeful, loving, looking at me like I was everything.
She gave me something I didn’t even know how to ask for.
A world where nothing was lost.
I didn’t cry right away. I think I was too overwhelmed. I just stared, memorizing every brushstroke, every careful decision she’d made with love. Trying to understand how someone could see me so clearly.
“I didn’t know if it was okay,” she whispered. “But it felt important.”
I pulled her into my chest without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I needed to feel her there, solid and real.
It was the most understood I have ever felt in my life.
Then it was my turn.
I won’t pretend I didn’t agonize over her gift. I did. For weeks. I wanted it to be something beautiful. Something lasting. Something that carried meaning even if the words failed me.
Inside the small velvet box was a necklace.
Gold. Delicate. The chain thin and warm. And at its center, a butterfly—crafted so carefully it looked like it might lift off at any second if the light caught it just right.
She went very still when she saw it.
I remembered something she told me once—quietly, almost like she didn’t want to make it important. That butterflies were her mother’s favorite. That they reminded her of gentleness. Of transformation. Of staying, even after someone leaves.
I chose it because of that.
Because I wanted her to have something close to her heart. Something that carried love forward instead of marking loss. Something that said she is held—by memory, by love, by me.
It cost more than I usually allow myself to spend on anything. More than was practical. More than was reasonable.
But she’s worth it.
All of it.
She cried then.
Not loudly. Just leaned into me, clutching the necklace like it was something fragile and sacred. My hands weren’t steady when I fastened it around her neck. I don’t think I trusted myself to be.
It looked like it belonged there.
We didn’t say much after that.
We just sat together, her painting propped carefully against the wall, the butterfly warm against her skin, the quiet settling around us like a promise.
A year.
One year of choosing each other. Of learning each other. Of loving in ways that still surprise me.
I still can’t believe she’s with me.
I still wake up amazed that someone so thoughtful, so kind, so deeply human, has chosen to share her life with mine.
If this is what one year feels like, I want all the years.
Every single one.
With her.
02/11/2023
She had a bad day.
I knew the moment I saw her.
She tried to hide it, smiled when she walked in, asked how my day was—but her shoulders were too tight, her voice just a little too careful. I didn’t call it out right away. I’ve learned that sometimes she needs space to land before she can let go.
Later, when the apartment had gone quiet, she finally sat beside me on the couch and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day.
She didn’t want fixing.
She didn’t want answers.
She didn’t want me to make it better.
She just wanted someone to sit with her.
So I did.
I stayed exactly where I was. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that she could lean if she wanted to—but I didn’t pull her in until she chose it herself. When she finally rested her head against my shoulder, it felt like permission.
I wrapped an arm around her slowly, carefully, like she was something precious.
We didn’t talk much. A few quiet words. Long stretches of silence. I could feel the tension leaving her shoulders little by little, like she was setting something heavy down piece by piece. Like she trusted me to hold the weight with her, even if I couldn’t take it away.
I watched her breathe. I watched her relax.
I wished—again—that she could see herself the way I do.
Strong, even when she’s tired.
Kind, even when the world hasn’t been.
Brilliant in ways she never gives herself credit for.
Braver than she knows, simply for showing up every day and trying.
She thinks strength looks loud. Unbreakable.
But this—this quiet endurance, this softness she allows only with me—this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
Loving her feels like standing in sunlight. Not blinding. Not overwhelming. Just steady and warm and certain. Like something you can build a life in.
I finally understand what “home” means.
It isn’t a place.
It’s this moment, her leaning into me, the world quiet for a while, knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
With her.
07/29/2023
She met my parents today.
I’ve been nervous about a lot of things in my life. I’ve faced fear head-on more times than I can count. But today, today my stomach was in knots in a way that surprised me.
I brought her home.
Not just to Kansas. Not just to the farm.
Home.
I didn’t warn her much beforehand. Maybe I should have. I only said that my parents would love her, and that was true—but it didn’t feel like enough. I don’t think I realized until today how much it mattered to me that they see her the way I do.
She wore something simple. Comfortable. Herself. She was polite without being stiff, warm without trying too hard. When Ma hugged her, I watched her melt into it like she’d been waiting for that kind of welcome without knowing it.
Ma loved her instantly. I could tell by the way she touched her arm when she laughed, by how quickly she started asking questions—not the polite kind, but the ones you ask when you want to know someone. Pa watched quietly at first, like he always does, measuring more than he speaks.
Then she offered to help in the kitchen.
She didn’t have to. She just did. Like she belonged there.
I stood in the doorway for a while, pretending not to watch as she laughed with Ma, as flour dusted her hands, as she listened to stories about me growing up with the same attention she always gives me. I saw something in Pa's expression then. Something soft, approving, settled.
At dinner, she asked them about their lives. Their history. She listened when Pa talked about the land. She thanked Pa for the meal like it meant something to her.
When Pa finally said, “We’re glad you’re here,” I felt something loosen in my chest that I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Later, when she stepped outside with me and the cicadas filled the evening air, she slipped her hand into mine like it was second nature. Like she’d always known how to find me.
I realized then that this wasn’t just me bringing her into my world.
She was already part of it.
If there ever comes a day when she doubts—when the world feels loud or unkind or she wonders where she belongs—I want her to remember this. The way my mother smiled at her like she was already family. The way my father looked at her like she was someone worth trusting with what matters most.
I don’t know when I’ll say it out loud.
But today made something very clear to me.
She isn’t just someone I love.
She’s someone I’m building a life with.
Every single day.
10/26/2023
Tonight reminded me why I survive.
I came home barely holding myself together.
I don’t usually let it get that bad. I tell myself I won’t, that I’ll pull back sooner, that I’ll know my limits. But tonight I misjudged things. Strength. Timing. My own belief that I can always take one more hit if it means someone else doesn’t have to.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, my ribs felt like glass. Every breath was shallow and sharp, like my lungs were cutting against something broken inside me. My shoulder burned, deep, angry pain that wouldn’t quiet no matter how I shifted my weight. I could feel blood drying along my side, stiffening my suit, pulling at my skin every time I moved.
I didn’t knock.
I couldn’t risk standing upright long enough to do it.
I just leaned against the doorframe for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood, wondering how much she’d see the moment I stepped inside. Wondering if I could make it to the couch without worrying her too much. Wondering—selfishly—if I could keep this from being one of the nights that lives in her fear.
She heard me anyway.
She always does.
The door opened before I could decide anything, and there she was.
Not panicked.
Not shouting my name.
Not frozen in shock.
Just there.
Her eyes found me instantly, sharp and assessing, taking everything in at once—the blood, the way I was favoring my right side, the way my shoulders were held too stiff, like they were bracing against pain I didn’t want to admit to yet.
I could hear her heart.
It was racing. Fast. Uneven. Terrified.
And still—her voice was calm.
“Hey,” she said softly, like she wasn’t looking at someone who’d barely made it home. Like she wasn’t scared out of her mind. “Come sit down. Slowly. I’ve got you.”
Those words, 'I’ve got you', did something to me. I felt my knees weaken the moment she said them, like my body finally believed it was allowed to stop fighting.
She moved with such care. Every step deliberate. Every touch gentle and precise, like she was handling something precious instead of broken. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t bombard me with questions or try to assess everything at once.
She knew (somehow) that her calm was the thing keeping me upright.
That her fear, however loud it was inside her, wasn’t what would help me heal.
I watched her swallow it down for me.
I watched her steady her hands before she touched me, watched her breathe slowly on purpose, watched her make herself quiet so I could finally exhale.
She helped me sit, eased my weight down inch by inch, murmuring small reassurances the whole time. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just constant presence. Proof that I wasn’t alone in the room with the pain.
When she cleaned the blood from my hands, she did it like she’d done it a hundred times. Cloth warm, pressure careful, movements practiced. But I could hear her heart the entire time, still racing, still afraid.
It never slowed.
And still, she stayed steady.
She talked while she worked—not about what happened, not about what could have gone wrong. Just small things. The grocery list. Something funny she’d read earlier. The way the neighbor’s dog barked all afternoon.
Grounding sounds. Anchors.
I realized then how much effort it must take. How much strength it takes to choose calm when fear is screaming in your chest. How brave you have to be to love someone like me and still soften your hands when they come home hurt.
That’s when it hit me. Again.
Anyone can love the invincible part of me.
The symbol.
The strength.
The idea of safety.
But she loves the part of me that limps home at midnight, trying not to bleed on the floor. The part of me that miscalculates. The part of me that hurts. The part of me that needs someone else to be strong for a moment.
She didn’t ask me to be Superman tonight.
She let me just be Clark.
The way she held me—careful, unafraid, unwavering—did something to me. It settled somewhere deep and permanent, like a truth clicking into place.
I fell in love with her again tonight.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just deeper.
And I don’t think there’s an end to how far that goes.
04/10/2025
We talked about moving in together.
It wasn’t supposed to be a big conversation.
We were sitting on the couch, legs tangled, the TV on low in the background. I don’t even remember what we were watching. She said it casually, almost offhand—something about how much time we already spend together, how it might just make sense.
My heart immediately started racing.
I tried to play it cool. I nodded. I said something reasonable. I even managed to keep my voice steady for a few seconds.
I failed.
I felt my smile give me away before I could stop it. I felt the warmth spread through my chest, that light, buoyant feeling that only she gives me. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been hoping for this until she said it out loud.
We talked about logistics—closets, commutes, who has the better couch—but underneath it all was something quieter and deeper. Certainty. Not excitement that burns out fast, but the kind that settles in and stays.
Ever since that conversation, my mind hasn’t stopped wandering.
I keep imagining mornings.
Her hair messy, sleep still clinging to her voice when she says my name. Sunlight spilling through the window, dust floating in the air like it’s been waiting just for us. The sound of her moving around the kitchen while I pretend not to watch, the comfort of knowing that no matter how the day unfolds, we’ll come back to each other at night.
I imagine shared spaces—books mixing on shelves, her things slowly finding their way into every corner. Little arguments about nothing. Quiet routines that become sacred simply because they’re ours.
I’ve already imagined a ring.
Not just the ring itself, but the way her eyes will widen when she realizes what I’m asking. The way her hands will shake just a little when I take hers. The way saying her name followed by my wife will feel like the most natural truth I’ve ever known.
I don’t know when I’ll ask.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—honest, unhurried, full of love.
But I do know this: the answer has lived in me for a long time. Longer than I realized. Since the day I offered her half my sandwich in a noisy lunchroom and felt my world shift in a way I couldn’t name yet.
Everything since then has just been catching up.
If love is choosing someone every day, then I’ve already made my choice.
I’m just finally ready to say it out loud.
11/11/2025
Lois asked me today why I haven’t proposed yet.
She didn’t mean it unkindly. Lois rarely does, even when she pretends otherwise. We were finishing up a story, the newsroom mostly empty, and she leaned back in her chair, studied me for a long moment, then said it like it was obvious.
“So,” she said, “are you ever going to put a ring on her finger, or are you just going to keep pretending she’s not wildly out of your league?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
Because she’s right.
I know she is.
I’ve always known.
Lois kept going, softer this time. “You love her. Anyone with eyes can see that. So what are you waiting for? You scared?”
I thought about that long after she turned back to her screen.
Am I scared?
Yes.
But not in the way she meant.
I’m not waiting because I’m unsure. I’m not hesitating because I don’t know what I want. I don’t wake up questioning whether she’s the one. That answer has lived in me for years now, steady and unmovable.
I’m waiting because I’ve never been this sure before in my life.
Everything else I’ve ever faced—every fight, every impossible choice—has always come with certainty baked in. I knew what had to be done. I knew I could endure it. I knew the risk.
This is different.
This isn’t about survival.
It’s about forever.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—unrushed, honest, full of intention. I don’t want to trip over my own eagerness and risk losing something this precious by moving too fast, by letting the moment feel careless instead of considered.
She deserves a proposal that feels like a promise kept, not a step taken too quickly.
I want the timing to be gentle. The kind that says I chose you every day before this, and I will every day after.
I know she’s out of my league.
She always has been.
But she chose me anyway. She keeps choosing me. And that still humbles me more than I know how to say.
So no Lois, I’m not waiting because I’m afraid to commit.
I’m waiting because this is the most important question I will ever ask.
And when I ask it, I want my hands steady, my heart open, and the certainty she’s given me reflected back to her without doubt or hesitation.
I already know the answer.
I’m just making sure the moment honors how much she means to me.
Always.
Your tears fall freely now, blurring the words, splashing onto the pages of a love story written quietly, faithfully, just for you. You don’t try to stop them. There’s no point. This is what it feels like to be seen so completely it almost hurts.
The notebook trembles in your hands.
Then—
The soft jingle of keys at the door.
You gasp, sharp and startled, like you’ve been caught somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Your head snaps up, heart slamming against your ribs. Panic flares—not guilt exactly, but something close enough to make your chest tighten. You scrub hastily at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, trying to erase the evidence, trying to breathe like your world hasn’t just quietly, irrevocably shifted.
The door opens.
Clark steps inside, paper towels tucked under his arm, jacket half-unzipped, hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside. He looks relaxed—content in that soft, domestic way he’s been wearing all day.
Happy.
Then his eyes find you.
Sitting on the floor.
Diary open in your hands.
Eyes red. Face flushed.
He freezes.
Not just still—suspended. Like time has paused mid-breath.
“…Hey,” he says carefully, voice gentle but alert, like he’s approaching something fragile. “What’s wrong?”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You push yourself to your feet slowly, the movement unsteady, like gravity has changed without warning. You clutch the notebook to your chest instinctively, fingers curling into the leather as if it might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough.
“I—” Your voice breaks immediately. You swallow, try again. “I’m so sorry.”
That stops him.
He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Sorry?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I was unpacking and I found it and I didn’t know what it was and I shouldn’t have opened it, I know that, I just—” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “I’m really sorry, Clark. I never wanted to invade your privacy.”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you.
Then realization dawns.
You watch it ripple across his face: the widening of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders tense as understanding crashes in. Horror. Embarrassment. Tender, helpless panic.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh—Y/N, I—”
The paper towels slip from his arm as he sets the bag down too fast, hands fumbling like his body can’t quite keep up with his thoughts. “No—hey, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I swear, I wasn’t hiding it from you. I just—I wanted it to be for later. For the right moment.”
His voice falters, vulnerability bare on his face. “I was waiting. I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted everything to be… right.”
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “I know. I know. I just—reading it felt like stepping into something I wasn’t meant to see yet.”
His expression softens instantly.
Before either of you can say anything else, you cross the space between you in three quick steps and throw your arms around him.
Clark stiffens in surprise for half a second—pure reflex—before he melts into you completely. His arms wrap around you strong and sure, one hand pressing gently between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid to let go.
He holds you like you’re something precious.
Like you’re fragile.
Like you’re endlessly, irrevocably loved.
You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in—home, warmth, safety—and your voice shakes when you speak.
“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written about me,” you whisper. “About us.”
He exhales, long and unsteady, like he’s been holding that breath for years. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closing briefly as if to steady himself. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glossy, shining with emotion he isn’t trying to hide.
“You weren’t supposed to read it yet,” he murmurs softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with reverent care. “I was waiting for the right moment to propose. After we settled in. After this felt like home.”
Your breath catches.
“But,” he continues quietly, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at his mouth, “everything in there is true. Every word. I’ve loved you since the moment you smiled at me over a sad microwave lunch.”
A wet laugh slips out of you despite everything. “You really wrote it all down.”
He nods, almost shy now. “I wanted proof,” he admits. “For you. For forever. In case the world ever got loud. In case you ever doubted how sure I am.”
You lift your hands to his face, cradling him the way he always cradles you, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Your heart feels too full, like it might burst if you don’t say this out loud.
“I don’t need proof,” you say softly. “But I’m really glad I have it.”
He smiles then.
Wide. Radiant. Hopelessly, undeniably in love.
And in that moment—standing barefoot in a half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and cardboard and the life you’re still building—you know.
Even without a ring.
Without a question asked out loud.
may or may not have had an irl crash out (that got rudely interrupted by someone calling the wrong number??) then wrote this. enjoy.
poly141xreader.
cw: reader has a crash out and then receives comfort and cuddles from the boys. V soft and I cried three times. this is a vent fic. wompwomp
...
The flat was too quiet.
And you’d told yourself you were fine with it. Hell, you were fine with it most of the time. Had been for nearly a whole year now. You had your projects, your friends, little routines that made the days slide by until the promised call came through.
But tonight the silence was just... too loud. You’d tried to fight it with tea, with cleaning, with a craft, with music, with scrolling your phone. Nothing worked. And at some point between the cute kitten video you found and looking over at the picture of the five of you on the table.
It was taken at the beach. It featured those silly things you loved about them. Simon's God awful sunburn. John's God awful green swim trunks. Johnny's God awful attempts at keeping ice cream from melting down his chest. And Kyle's God awful attempt at giving you a big kiss on the cheek before the picture. All smiling and laughing. Now it also made you smile... of course it did. Of course they did.
And before you knew it, you were sobbing into a throw pillow, screaming muffled against the fabric. Throwing cushions across the room. Fists pounding into the couch until your knuckles stung from the carpet burn.
To make it worse you didn't even know why you were... angry? scared? lonely?
By the time you collapsed, the clock glared 2:37am back at you. Your body shook, emptied out. You had, by this point, wrapped yourself in Simon’s hoodie and curled around the giant stuffed elephant Johnny had won for you on that beach trip weeks ago, head resting on the pillow that smelled faintly of John’s tobacco and Gaz’s cologne. You cried until there was just... numb... face sticky and hot... ringing ears matching the hum of the fridge.
The lock turned quietly some time later. You froze, but didn’t move... couldn't really, it was as if someone had cut the strings from a marionette. Soft boots padded into the flat. Flashlights swept careful arcs across the dark. You half heartedly braced for strangers, holding the elephant tighter.
“Shh, watch the closet door, it's open.” Johnny’s voice was quiet, and you heard them gently tug their boots off and set them by the door. They were home...
Then the warm click of the lamp by the bookshelf illuminated the darkness.
Light spilled over the room, and Soap froze in the entryway. His chest heaved once, then twice, before his whole body softened. “Oh, bonnie…”
You curled tighter, shame prickling behind your eyes.
John was behind him in a heartbeat, big hand landing on Johnny’s shoulder before crossing the room. He crouched beside you, the scent of smoke and pine settling over you.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, not asking anything, just there.
Kyle knelt on the other side, flashlight forgotten, thumb brushing under your damp lashes with so much care it broke you open all over again. "Oh, Love,” he whispered. “We're home, yeah?”
And Simon, finally stepping near, stood like a shadow until the others made the unconscious space for him. He tugged his hoodie sleeve down in his hand, wiping your cheek with the gentlest touch. His eyes flicked over the mess of the flat, then back to you. Finally, he sank down on the floor and pulled you bodily into his lap, elephant and all.
“Enough now,” he rumbled, arms caging you in. “We’ve got you.”
And you let go, sobbing into his chest, while the others wrapped around both of you. Piling onto the floor, ignoring sweaty clothes, ignoring fatigue, until you tapered into nothing more than quiet breaths
Johnny was the first to move when it became clear no one was going anywhere on their own. He looked down at himself, miraculously covered in less grime than the others, and tipped his head. “Aye. A bed waitin' on you. Allow me.”
John hesitated, then nodded once. Kyle smoothed a hand over your head and pressed a kiss to your temple before rising. Simon just stayed put, one last squeeze around your shoulders before he let Johnny ease you away.
Strong arms slid beneath you, the shift effortless as Johnny stood with you cradled against his chest. You clutched the stuffed elephant tighter, and he made sure to grab your pillow too. You let cheek pressed to the side of his throat. His heartbeat was solid beneath warm skin.
“Got you, hen,” he murmured, soft and low and rough from exhaustion.
You didn’t mean to cry again. But the warmth, the smell of him, cheap base soap and smoke and still faint cordite, undid you all over. Johnny didn’t say a word, only started humming. Some tune from home, low and steady in his chest, vibrating through you.
The others peeled away toward the bathroom, boots thudding soft down the hall, clothes discarded in a trail behind them. Johnny backed into the door of the bedroom you’d all claimed together. He laid you down gently, pulling the quilt over your body before sliding in beside you, keeping you pressed close.
Minutes passed. The sound of the shower turning on for a while. Then turning off. A door creaking open, the hallway closet door closing. One by one, the others padded in. Kyle slipping in on your other side, still warm and damp, curling a hand around your wrist. John settled behind Johnny tonight, arm heavy and protective over his waist, hand on yours. Finally Simon, last to finish, sliding in carefully behind Kyle. His big palm found John's at your waist, and you could feel their fingers thread together on your skin. And in that softness, tears found you again.
The lamp cast everything in amber until Simon’s hand reached out, thumb brushing the switch, finally letting the night blanket the room.
Your last waking thought was the hum of Johnny’s voice fading, the weight of them crowding close, and Kyle's chest against your back, his breath slow and stead, as sleep finally took you.
summary: you've been hooking up with your best friend, steve rogers, and when he walks you home after his birthday celebration, you end up drunkenly making out against your front door—which leads to some reckless decisions.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, porn with feelings, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, just the tip, drunken kissing that leads to sex (both are clear-headed by the time they get to sex though), consent checks, enthusiastic consent, dry humping, vaginal fingering, thigh riding, nipple play, cockwarming, sex toys, dirty talk, daddy kink, breeding kink, praise kink, brief degradation kink, begging teasing, pet names (sunshine, baby), aftercare, happy ending
word count: 7.3k
a/n: after angsting all week about what i was going to write for steve rogers' birthday, i had a stroke of inspiration yesterday and then i worked on editing this fic today—and i'm getting it posted just in time!! i really, really, really love this fic ☺️ i wanted to do something with 'drunk makeout session' and 'just the tip' and this idea came together so well it actually surprised me! it might be my favorite birthday fic for steve that i've written yet! so i hope y'all enjoy ♡
A cool breeze swept through the dimly lit Brooklyn street, rustling the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalk and chasing away some of the July humidity that clung to the late evening air.
An errant gust brushed along your legs, flirting with the edge of your dress as it swirled around your thighs. It teased you, as if hoping to catch your attention.
But you paid the summery breeze little mind. You had more important things to focus on, like drunkenly making out with your best friend, Steve Rogers, against the front door of the Brooklyn brownstone where you lived.
His big body was curled around yours, his thick, muscled arms feeling like bands of steel as they held you tight to his broad chest. His palms cradled your body, fingers splayed and digging into the bare skin of your back where your dress dipped low.
You could feel his need in every point of contact where he touched you, his hands clinging to you like he was afraid you’d be swept away on the summer breeze if he loosened his hold even a little bit.
The way he held you made you feral, ravenous. You’d never get enough of Steve Rogers, and if he let you go—even for a moment—your body would combust, leaving only ashes and devastation in your wake.
A moan dragged its way up your throat, spilling into Steve’s kiss.
He slipped his tongue past your lips, messily licking the filthy sound from your mouth. His hands slid down your spine, bunching in the sweet sundress clinging to your curves as he hauled you even closer, until there wasn’t any space remaining between you.
Steve’s rumbling groan tasted like beer and bad decisions, and you gulped it down eagerly.
The heady flavor of him went straight to your already hazy mind, making the edges of your mouth curl into a smile, before you met his tongue with your own, kissing him like you were starved for him.
Your fingers trailed up over Steve’s broad shoulders, reveling in the strength hidden just beneath the surface, before diving into his soft, blond hair. You raked your fingers through it greedily, mussing it up the way you’d wanted to all night.
It had been torture to keep your hands to yourself at the bar where all your friends had assembled to celebrate Steve’s birthday, but you and your best friend were still keeping your hookups a secret. You’d both agreed not to tell everyone and risk blowing up the friend group until you knew what you had was real.
It had occurred to you, though, while you’d been playing the part of the dutiful best friend and merely watching as Steve politely shrugged off the attention of other women that you were kidding yourself. What you felt for him was plenty real.
But you weren’t ready to have those thoughts yet, so you’d drowned your feelings in beer and tried to have a good night at your best friend’s birthday party.
Steve didn’t make it easy to not think about him. You caught him staring at you across the crowded bar too many times to count throughout the night, even as his friends tried to get him drunk by buying him birthday beers.
No matter what, though, Steve’s eyes always found you, and when the time came for everyone to go home, he’d insisted on walking you back to your Brooklyn brownstone.
You’d hardly lingered even a moment at your front door before you were kissing your best friend, abandoning the pretense that you didn’t want his kiss more than you needed air.
“Invite me inside, sunshine,” Steve growled against your mouth, his hips grinding the hot, hard length of himself into your belly. “Or I’m gonna fuck you against your front door.”
He sucked your lower lip into his mouth, dragging a whimper from you that had another, feral growl rumbling in his chest.
“Unless you wanna give your neighbors a little show?” he mumbled against your lip, laughter in the warmth of his tone.
You knew he was joking, but you still snorted at his suggestion. Your neighbors weren’t the type to take kindly to such a performance, but that wasn’t the real reason you didn’t like the idea—you didn’t want anyone else to see that side of Steve Rogers.
He was all for you.
“No way, Rogers,” you shot back, your voice dripping with breathy excitement even as you tried for a teasing tone. “This show’s all mine,” you said, your hand slipping down his chest and palming his cock possessively through his jeans.
Steve’s hips kicked forward, grinding his hardness into your palm. He tried to kiss you, but he let out a groan so tortured, you began to take pity on him.
“You wanna—” you started to say, then you remembered something crucial and a bolt of sense shot down your spine. Your body stiffened in your best friend’s arms.
Immediately, Steve eased back, giving you some space and straightening up so he could catch your eye. You’d known each other a long time, long enough that you could read the question in his blue eyes without him having to voice it.
“I don’t have any condoms,” you explained, your voice filled with anguish. “We used them up last week and I forgot to get more.” Hope made your body thrum as you asked, “Do you have any?”
Your best friend grimaced, his expression one of misery, and all the hope you’d felt a moment ago shattered. Steve’s head dropped, his forehead pressing to yours as he confirmed what you already knew.
“I don’t,” he said. “I meant to pick some up and forgot.”
You hummed in resigned acknowledgement, but even with that knowledge hanging in the air, you couldn’t seem to untangle yourself from Steve’s arms.
Your nails raked idly through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and you breathed in the comforting scent of him—the cologne he always wore and the leather of his jacket.
Steve didn’t pull away either, holding you in his arms while his hands skimmed lightly up and down your back. Eventually, they settled on your waist, his fingers groping lazily at your soft curves.
Without saying anything, your bodies drifted closer together, as if your hearts and hips were magnetized and there was nothing either of you could do to resist the pull.
Steve’s bulge brushed teasingly against your belly, and heat surged through your body, making you suck in a sharp breath as you pressed closer on purpose.
He was so big, his shoulders so broad. His hardness was so hot and thick against your stomach.
You and Steve had been hooking up for a few months—ever since that fateful night when you’d leaned in to kiss him on the cheek after he’d walked you home, and you’d ended up kissing him on the lips.
Even so many weeks later, you weren’t sure if he’d turned his head or you’d somehow missed. Personally, you suspected it was a combination of both, your bodies giving in to the attraction you’d both kept secret for years.
But it didn’t matter, because that accidental kiss had led to more, and the two of you had been hooking up every chance you got ever since.
And that meant you knew all too well how good Steve’s cock felt inside you while he was wearing a condom—and you imagined he probably felt even better bare.
In your opinion, your best friend’s cock was perfect.
He was big and thick and filled you so good, stretching you out to make room for him without hurting you. And if it was that good when he wore a condom, you knew that letting Steve Rogers bury his cock in your cunt without anything between you would be amazing.
It could even be life-changing…
“Y’know there’s plenty we can do without condoms,” Steve said, tearing you from your dangerous thoughts and towing you back into the moment.
His big hands were sliding around to your ass, his fingers digging in so he could hike you up against his thigh, which he pushed between your legs.
“Bet I could get you off without even putting it inside.”
Steve’s smirking mouth found yours and he kissed you deeply, his lips sliding slowly against yours as he guided your hips to rock against him. He knew exactly what he was doing, angling you just right so your pussy dragged against the hard denim of his jeans and the thick muscle beneath.
When your clit bumped against his hip, you tore your mouth from Steve’s with a gasp, but he only let out a low growl and chased after you, drinking down the sound like a starving man.
You moaned your pleasure into your best friend’s mouth, feeling the tantalizing breeze swirling around your bare legs, teasing against the heat between your thighs.
Already, you could feel yourself making a mess of your panties, soaking through the thin fabric to the point that you worried you’d leave a wet spot on Steve’s jeans with how tightly your soft, sodden pussy was pressed against his leg.
You knew Steve was right—he could absolutely make you come just by having you hump his thigh, but it was a special day and that didn’t seem good enough.
“But it’s your birthday,” you whined, pulling back enough to pout up at your best friend, giving him your best pleading, puppy dog look. “I want to give you more than some dry-humping, at least let me give you a birthday bj.”
“Baby,” Steve cooed admonishingly, sending sparks of pleasure dancing in your head. “There’s nothing dry about what I wanna do with you,” he rumbled, his hand sliding down your ass and slipping under your dress, finding the drippy slit between your thighs from behind.
The moment Steve’s fingers brushed against your aching core, you buried your face in his shoulder, muffling the obscene moan that spilled from your lips. Your body flushed hot, your muscles spasming as you tried to hump against his thigh and push back against his fingers at the same time.
Steve was stubborn when he wanted to prove a point, so his fingers pressed deeper, pushing your panties into your drippy, throbbing heat. He rubbed his fingertips along your soaking wet slit, rumbling a sound of deep male satisfaction in his broad chest.
“See, sunshine, you’re already fucking soaked for me,” Steve purred, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It’d be a shame to let this go to waste.”
Between his fingers rubbing your pussy and his warm breath ghosting over your cheek, your best friend’s touches sent delightful shivers up and down your spine, and it wasn’t long before you were trembling in his arms.
“Besides, it’s my birthday,” he went on, his voice dropping low so it wouldn’t carry on the evening breeze. “Which means you should let me have what I want—and what I want is to rub my cock against your hot, wet pussy until we both come.”
A breathy little laugh escaped your lips, and your shoulders shook under the onslaught of pleasure your best friend was wringing from your body on your front stoop.
It didn’t take much thought to realize Steve was right. It was his birthday, and you wanted to give him exactly what he wanted. But that didn’t mean you had to make it easy for him.
“I guess that’s how it works,” you said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. Leaning back, you caught Steve’s eye and gave him a playful smirk to let him know you were joking, and were gratified to see his gaze sparkling with humor.
Then you did the hardest thing you’d ever done in your life—you extricated yourself from Steve’s arms, pushing his hand out of the way and easing off his thigh before digging in your bag for your keys.
You spun around, grateful Steve still kept his arms looped around your waist since your knees were a little weak, and unlocked the door.
Before you opened it, you cocked your head to the side and turned to Steve, letting your eyes rake over his handsome face as you shot him a flirty smile and murmured, “But just so you know, the offer for a birthday bj is still on the table.”
He chuckled, the sound husky and hot as his hands gripped your hips and he ground his erection into your ass. “Good to know, sunshine—now get this cute butt inside,” he rumbled, pushing you gently through the front door of the brownstone.
You lived on the top floor of the building, which had been converted into apartments, and thankfully, you and Steve knew the way up the stairs well enough that you didn’t have to pay much attention.
Instead, you could focus on more important things, like kissing and groping each other’s bodies, trying to make the other even more feral.
You grinned when you felt Steve’s cock twitch whenever your palm or fingertips brushed against it, drinking down his groans of torture, just like he smirked and greedily devoured your moans when he copped a feel under your dress, cupping your pussy possessively in his big hand and making you clench pitifully around nothing.
At the door to your apartment, Steve barely gave you a chance to unlock it before he was propelling you through it and kicking it closed, reaching back to make sure the lock had latched.
From there, the two of you made quick work of shedding your clothes. Steve helped you drag your dress up over your head, tossing somewhere in the hallway as you stumbled together toward your bedroom.
His shirt joined it a moment later, and you paused in the threshold of your room, admiring the broad shoulders and golden, sun-kissed skin of your best friend’s bare chest. A dim lamp was on beside your bed, and you took a moment just to appreciate the gloriousness of Steve Rogers.
After a slow sweep of his body, the urge to touch him struck again, and you crashed back into your best friend, your mouths fusing together in a fierce kiss while your hands continued exploring.
Your fingers trailed across the breadth of Steve’s shoulders, then down the sculpted planes of his pecs until you reached the little divots demarcating his abs. You loved the layer of softness covering his muscles, and the way his waist tapered down, as if inviting you to his cock.
Steve huffed a shaky laugh, his stomach contracting beneath your touch when your fingertips dug hungrily into his abs, and you felt him smile against your mouth.
With a grin, you suddenly remembered your best friend was ticklish. But before you could exploit that knowledge, he was shucking off his jeans and boxer briefs, letting his cock bounce free, and distracting you entirely from thoughts of torturing him with tickles.
Steve Rogers’ cock was a thing of perfection. You swore it was sculpted by the gods themselves to turn you into a squirming, lustful creature with nothing on your mind besides touching him, stroking him, taking him inside your body.
If you’d been able to speak in that moment, you would’ve blurted that he could take any hole he wanted for his birthday, just so long as he was inside you. But then you remembered what he wanted, and heat suffused your body, gathering between your thighs.
Unable to hold back another moment, you reached for him, your fingers curling around the perfect girth of Steve’s cock. He was long and hard, and you knew from experience that he filled you up perfectly, like his body was made to fit your own.
When you gave him a firm, affectionate stroke with your fist, you wrung a pleasured groan from your best friend, his head tipping back and showing off the long length of his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing just for you.
“Sunshine,” Steve growled, his voice a low, delicious rumble that licked a long line of heat down your spine.
You watched as he gathered himself and reached behind your back.
With a quick twist of his fingers, he undid your bra and yanked it off your body. The garment had barely hit the floor before his hands were on you again, his big palms cupping your tits, fingers plucking at your nipples.
The cool air of your room teased across your bare skin, warring with the heat building in your body, erupting in bursts of pleasure everywhere Steve touched you. It felt so good, but it wasn’t enough—you didn’t think you’d ever get enough of him.
So you kissed your best friend harder, your tongue tangling with his as you moaned into his mouth and stroked his cock. His fingers pinched your nipples and pulled, sending sparks of an aching, exciting pleasure through your body, and you mewled loudly, squeezing his cock tight in your fingers.
Steve thrust into your grip, chasing your hand as you pumped his cock in a slow, lazy rhythm. Your mouths slid against each other messily, the kiss devolving as both your moans grew louder.
Steve’s hands skimmed down your sides, grabbing the plush curve of your hips in a delicious squeeze before slipping his fingers under your panties and shoving them down to your feet.
Finally, you were both naked, and you pressed close to him, mindless moans falling from your lips as you felt the heat and solid firmness of his body against yours. It felt so fucking good, you could lose yourself in it.
Steve growled against your mouth, pulling you back into the moment as he muttered, “Get on the bed before I toss you down myself.”
A panting laugh burst from your lips even as a bolt of heat shot straight down your spine. The thought of your best friend manhandling you onto your bed was too good to pass up, so you hooked your free arm around his shoulders.
“Mm, actually I think I’d like to see that, Rogers,” you shot back, an insolent challenge in your tone. To drive your point home, you nipped at his lower lip playfully, satisfied when it had the desired reaction.
With a deliciously deep growl, Steve grabbed the backs of your thighs and tumbled you down onto the bed. Your back landed on the soft blankets, but he didn’t stop there, his hands digging beneath your body and moving you up the mattress until your head hit the pillows.
A delighted, breathy laugh tore from your lips and you wrapped your free hand around the back of Steve’s neck, dragging him in for another messy, filthy kiss. He licked your laughter from your tongue, your hand still pumping his cock while he manhandled you into the position he wanted.
His hands slid down to your legs, grabbing them and pushing your knees up toward your chest, spreading your thighs until they bracketed your breasts. Then he sat back, his cock slipping from your grasp, and stared down at you, a smirk on his flushed face as he admired his work.
You were folded in half, your pussy on full display for your best friend while he loomed above you like a golden god. You were entirely at his mercy, and you couldn’t possibly be happier.
Steve’s blue eyes were bright and shining in the dim light of your room, all remnants of the drunken haze having been burned away by his desire for you. He looked so handsome—his blond hair mussed by your hands, and his eyes burning with lust for you—that it took your breath away.
Your heart thumped in your chest, butterflies whirled in your belly, and you knew right then that Steve Rogers was way more than your best friend. He was…yours.
He was yours and you were his. But what that meant, and how exactly you felt about him, could wait to be unpacked and discussed in the morning.
Still, you suspected Steve had an idea about what you were thinking and feeling by the way his eyes narrowed on you, darkening when they raked over your expression.
He’d been your best friend long enough to know you, and somehow, you were sure he knew exactly how you felt—and he felt the same way.
A shaky smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you stared up at him, feeling just as clear-headed as he looked—if a little drunk on the yearning desire simmering between you.
Steve smiled back at you, his eyes filled with so much affection, it made your heart feel warm and cozy and secure.
“Ready, sunshine?” Steve asked, his words gruff and tentative.
You got the sense he was asking about more than just what you two were about to do. But Steve Rogers was your best friend, and you knew you were safe in his hands. So you nodded, your mouth curving into a beaming smile.
“Ready, Stevie,” you answered sweetly, tilting your hips up and holding your legs spread for him, giving him your pussy the way you’d already given him your heart.
A grin stole across his face and Steve shifted closer, until his cock slid against your pussy, making you whimper while he grunted at the feel of you.
“Fuck, baby,” Steve groaned, staring down at his cock dragging between your slick folds. “You have the prettiest pussy, ya know that?”
His hands stroked down your inner thighs, goose bumps raising in their wake, before settling in the juncture between your legs. Using his thumbs, he pushed his cock deeper into your slit, bullying between your soft, swollen lower lips to drench himself in your dripping desire.
“The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen in my life.”
His voice was ragged with barely leashed hunger, his blue eyes dark and focused as he stared down at where his cock was splitting your pussy lips open around his thick length. He rolled his hips, fucking against you at a steady, maddeningly slow pace.
“Steve,” you cried in a keening whine, lifting your hips up off the bed to roll against the underside of his cock. Your fingers clawed at the blankets of your bed, desperate to cling to something while he drove you wild.
You could feel every hard ridge and throbbing vein on his shaft, could feel the way the flushed tip bullied your clit as he pushed through your folds over and over and over again. You could feel the way your slick coated his hard length, making him slide more easily against your hot, needy cunt.
“Fuck,” you cursed, your body writhing on the bed. Your lips moved, words spilling from your mouth before you could even think to bite them back. “Oh god, daddy, you feel so good.”
A low, delicious chuckle sounded above you and you cracked your eyes open in time to see Steve flicking his gaze to your face. He wore a crooked grin that only highlighted his flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
“Already calling me daddy, baby?” he teased, leaning down until he was hovering above you, his thumbs still pressing his cock as deep into your slit as it would go without pushing inside your tight hole. “I’m not even inside you—usually you don’t go dumb for me until I’m balls deep in your hot little pussy.”
Steve’s words sent a rush of heat through your body so devastating, your spine arched up off the bed and your eyes rolled back in your head. A loud, throaty, obscene moan wrenched from your lips, and you could feel your cunt clenching pitifully around nothing.
You were so lost in the reaction of your body, your mouth opened and you spoke again without thinking.
“Put it in, Steve,” you panted, still squirming beneath his larger form. With great effort, you opened your eyes and met your best friend’s gaze. “Just the tip, just a little bit. Please.”
At your pleading words, Steve went completely still.
You expected him to shut you down—gently, of course—so you were surprised when you saw the conflict in his eyes.
His mouth twisted with desire, and his gaze turned scorching as he stared down at you. But his brows were pulled together, a divot of uncertainty marring his handsome face.
“Sunshine,” he growled, his voice a deep, delicious rumble as he shifted above you, planting his hands on the mattress on either side of your body so he could lean down close to you.
His eyes searched yours for a moment before he went on.
“I don’t… I genuinely don’t know if I’ll be able to stop,” he confessed, his words rough and blistering, like he’d dragged them from the depths of his soul. “I know how good you feel with a condom—like fucking heaven wrapped around my cock…”
He trailed off, his fingers smoothing over your cheek before trailing down to trace along your lower lip. You stayed still, your breath caught in your throat, mesmerized by the sight of your best friend wrestling with your request for him to fuck you bare.
“If you let me put it in without a condom, even just the tip, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to stop myself from pushing all the way in—from pounding into your cunt until I make you come on my cock and fill you up with so much of my seed, you’ll be leaking for the rest of the night.”
Shivers zipped through your body until you were trembling beneath Steve, and you had to close your eyes for a brief moment while you collected your thoughts, which had been scattered across your bedroom floor by his filthy words.
When you blinked your eyes open, you found your best friend—your Steve Rogers—watching you closely, his brows still furrowed with concern. For a moment, you were so thankful that life had led you to him, because you didn’t want to be in this moment with anyone but him.
You knew it was risky to have bare sex. You were on birth control, but you knew there was always the possibility that it failed, which was why you used condoms.
But in that moment, you didn’t care about the risk half as much as you wanted Steve to fuck you bare. And once you allowed yourself to want that, you wanted it so fucking bad.
You wanted Steve to fuck you raw and come inside you, fill you up until his seed spilled over.
Besides, you reasoned with yourself, if the worst happened, you knew your best friend wouldn’t abandon you. You’d never felt safer than in Steve Rogers’ arms, and you knew that if you got pregnant, you’d figure it out together.
So you let a smile curl the corners of your lips and you turned your head, pressing a sweet kiss into the palm of Steve’s hand. He’d been cupping your face, his thumb stroking your cheek, while he waited patiently for you to make your decision.
You could still smell the faint trace of beer on your breath as you exhaled against Steve’s palm, and you remembered what you’d thought when you were drunkenly making out against your front door—he tasted like beer and bad decisions.
Maybe someone else would say your decision was a bad one, but you didn’t care. It was yours, and it was Steve’s, and you were excited to make it together.
“I trust you, Steve,” you whispered, turning your face back to him. You stared deep into his eyes, showing him the surety of how you felt. Then you let your mouth curve into a playful smile. “What’s a little birthday breeding between friends?”
Steve’s expression was inscrutable for a moment. Then a grin broke across his face like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, and he huffed an amused laugh.
Ducking his head, he stole a kiss from your lips before pulling back to hover above you again.
“You’re ridiculous, sunshine,” he murmured, nothing but affectionate teasing in his tone. He pressed his forehead to yours, and you stayed like that for a moment before he spoke again. “We’ll get the morning after pill tomorrow, yeah? I’ll take care of you—we can watch all those silly movies you like.”
Happiness bubbled up inside you and it spilled out in the form of a goofy laugh, which you silenced by wrapping your arms around Steve’s shoulders and dragging him down for another kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, the two of you savoring each other as the heat between you began to build again.
“You’re the best, Stevie,” you said sweetly on an exhale, your lashes fluttering as your eyes opened. You met Steve’s gaze above you, trying to fight off a flirty smirk as you taunted him. “Now, will you put it in already?”
Steve huffed a surprised laugh, stealing one last kiss before sitting back up on his knees and shooting you a good-natured glare. “Remember, sunshine, it’s my birthday—so be good.”
At the steely, commanding growl in your best friend’s voice, you lost the fight against the smile trying to spread across your face. You grinned up at Steve as you settled back into the pillows on your bed, spreading your thighs wider and using your arms to push your tits together, offering them up for your best friend.
“Yes, sir,” you purred, watching Steve’s gaze rake appreciatively down your body until it fixed on your cunt, where his cock was still wedged between your folds.
Before you could tease him any more, Steve pulled his hips back and pushed forward, dragging the hard length of his cock through your drippy, messy pussy lips.
A moan tumbled from your lips, and your hands found their way to your tits, your fingers pinching your nipples while Steve slid his cock through your slit, coating himself in your slick juices.
He thrust against you a few more times, his pace slow and controlled, driving you wild until you were whining and writhing beneath him, staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Please, daddy,” you panted pitifully. “Just the tip.”
Steve’s eyes flicked to yours, so much heat in his gaze that you felt it burning through your entire body and making your cunt pulse between your thighs. His blue eyes darkened as he watched you, a wicked smirk curving his perfect mouth.
“Ya want the tip, baby?” he crooned, his tone patronizing and a little bit mean.
A woeful whimper fell from your lips as you nodded your head eagerly, your eyes opening wide and giving Steve your best pleading look. “Please, Stevie.”
His grin widened, turned wolfish, and it was your only warning. He pulled his hips back until the tip of his cock notched at the entrance of your tight hole, ready to give you exactly what you wanted.
Steve paused there, both of you holding your breath. Your eyes locked with his, a hungry, greedy smile curving your lips to match his grin, and then he was pushing forward.
Your chest heaved with a gasp, your tits bouncing, when the thick head of Steve’s cock slid into your pussy. He breached you slowly, making you feel every bit of your pussy enveloping the tip of his cock in your warmth.
Once he was inside, Steve paused, his eyes sliding closed and his head tipping back. An obscene groan fell from his lips, and it looked like he was having a religious experience.
You understood, because the feeling of having the hot, hard tip of your best friend’s cock inside you bare was searing itself into your mind.
Time stretched on, and it felt like the entire universe was rearranging itself to lengthen the moment, letting you live in it long enough to savor it fully—and then grow restless for more.
Before you could beg your best friend to stuff you full of even more of his cock, Steve pulled back. The tip slipped out of your tight hole, so he was only pressed against your entrance, and it left you feeling so empty you could cry.
A whimper of protest tumbled from your lips and Steve cooed your nickname soothingly as he pushed the head of his cock back into your snug cunt. You moaned your appreciation, your nails digging into his taut forearms while he held himself above you.
“Christ, baby, you feel so fucking good,” Steve groaned, rolling his hips in steady, measured movements so he was fucking you with only the tip of his cock. “Your pussy’s so warm and tight—it feels like you’re sucking me deeper, sunshine, do you want me deeper?”
“Nngh, yes, please,” you cried, your arms hooked around the backs of your knees, keeping your body folded in half because you knew if you let go, you’d drag Steve deeper into your pussy in an instant. “Gimme your cock, daddy, stuff me full—please, Steve, I need it!”
“Then take it, sunshine,” Steve growled, thrusting into you another inch, his eyes closing as he reveled in the feeling of your tight heat wrapping around his cock. “Fuck, so good, baby. You feel so good on my cock.”
“Steve,” you wailed your best friend’s name on a choking sob, pleasure sweeping through your body in dizzying waves. “You’re splitting me open—oh god, it feels so good, daddy, I want it all!”
Steve was burying his cock deeper with every roll of his hips and it felt so scorchingly good. His hot, hard cock was spearing into you, rewriting the very fiber of your being to etch himself into your soul—and you welcomed it happily, eagerly.
“Please, Steve, give it all to me! I need it—I need your cock, please!”
“You want it all, you’ll get it all, baby,” Steve grunted, his hips snapping forward with a vicious thrust. The move pushed his hard length all the way into you, so you were completely connected in the most intimate way possible.
Pleasure surged through your body in a devastating swell, and a scream fell from your lips when Steve finally filled you up to the hilt. His cock was stuffed so deep in your pussy, you could feel his balls nestled against your ass. And it was exactly what you needed.
“Thank you, daddy,” you sobbed in pleasure, your mind scattered in the wind, your hands reaching blindly for your best friend. “That’s s’good—so full, ungh, yes.”
Steve chuckled, leaning down and gathering you up in his arms. His mouth found yours and he kissed you sweetly, sucking on your swollen lower lip before licking inside your mouth. His tongue stroked against yours, wringing a soft moan from you before he pulled back.
“Thank you, sunshine,” he murmured, the warm tone of his voice so drenched in affection it penetrated some of the blissful haze filling your head. “Feeling your precious cunt wrapped around my bare cock is the best birthday gift anyone’s ever given me—you feel like heaven, baby, like you were made just for me.”
“I was, Steve,” you babbled, your heavy-lidded eyes blinking through the fog of pleasure to focus on your best friend. “I was made for you, and you were made for me—you fill me up so good, Stevie.”
Your words dissolved on a whine, your hips writhing beneath Steve’s big body, wordlessly urging him to move and fuck you.
With another sweet kiss that stole your breath, Steve took the hint. His hips pulled back a little, then he rocked into you, his cock splitting you open all over again. He cradled your head in his hands as he rolled his hips, fucking you in deep, firm thrusts.
Your tits bounced against his chest, his warm, taut muscles rubbing the puckered peaks of your nipples, and you arched your spine to get more of that delicious friction. Needing him closer, you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, and you clung to him, your fingers tangling in his soft, messy hair.
But it wasn’t enough. You didn’t know if you’d ever get enough of Steve, get close enough. You wanted to be wrapped around him, pressed so tight it felt like you were one.
So you curled your legs around the backs of his thighs, using the leverage to meet his thrusts and drag him deeper into your body until you were nearly fused together. The two of you were little more than tangled limbs and writhing hips, your cunt grinding down on Steve’s cock as he throbbed inside you.
And all the while, your mouths stayed slanted together, even though you were long past being able to kiss.
You tasted beer on Steve’s breath as he panted into your mouth, and you moaned your pleasure right back, smiling wildly when he licked the sound from your lips.
Nothing about this was a bad decision, you decided. It couldn’t be, not when it felt so fucking right.
“Fuck, baby, ‘m getting close,” Steve rasped against your mouth, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. He curled the fingers of his other hand around the curve of your shoulder, holding you in place while he pounded into you. “Tell me what you want, sunshine.”
“Come inside me,” you gasped, tugging on his hair until you could look into your best friend’s eyes. “Breed me, Steve, fill me up over and over until your seed is dripping out of my achy hole.”
Your best friend’s eyes darkened so much they were nearly black, his handsome face twisting with feral hunger as he fucked you harder, rutting deep inside you with his thick, heavy cock.
“You’re such a filthy fucking slut, sunshine,” he growled, staring deep into your eyes, his gaze reverent and wild, “And so fucking perfect.”
His fingers brushed against your cheek with a surprising gentleness, and then he was stretching his arm out, fumbling with the drawer in your bedside table while he held your gaze with his own.
Your heart lurched in your chest when you realized what he was looking for, and your pussy squeezed excitedly around his cock. “Daddy,” you breathed, need dripping from your tone.
The way you sounded made Steve’s lips curve into an arrogant smirk, but he had every right to be arrogant. He knew exactly how to use that perfect cock of his, and he knew that pairing it with the toy in your bedside table would thoroughly ruin you.
“You’ve been such a good girl for daddy, sunshine, I’m gonna make you come so hard,” Steve promised.
He snagged the small, but powerful vibrator from the drawer and brought it toward you. With deft hands, he slipped it down between your bodies, wedging it against your clit and holding it steady while he fucked you.
“I wanna feel your greedy cunt milking all the seed from my balls, baby—gonna fill you up and breed you good.”
Then, Steve pressed the button on the toy and it came to life, sending wickedly strong vibrations straight into your clit.
Sparks danced across your vision and you sucked in a sharp breath, your body careening toward your release at breakneck speed.
Between Steve’s thick, perfect cock filling your cunt and the vibrator pressed to your clit, you never had a chance of holding on to the edge. Your best friend pushed you over and the tension in your body snapped, sending you into free-fall as you came apart on his cock.
A strangled scream tore from your lips and your body clenched hard, your cunt squeezing so tight around Steve’s cock, he grunted loudly.
The flash of his feral grin and the hungry spark in his blue eyes were the last things you saw before your eyes rolled back in your head and you lost yourself in the ecstasy of your release.
Your body convulsed with pleasure beneath Steve’s heavy form, and he groaned his own need, his hips rutting into you as he chased his peak. He found it only a moment later, the vibrations from the toy and the tight squeeze of your throbbing pussy too much for him.
Steve came with a roaring groan, tossing the vibrator onto the blankets before wrapping you up in his thick arms. His hips shoved flush against yours, his cock filling your cunt as it twitched and spilled his seed against your cervix.
You were still gasping for air, the waves of your release crashing through your body. You could feel him throbbing his load into you and you moaned softly, tugging on his hair until his mouth found yours for a messy kiss.
You kissed as your bodies writhed together, eking out every last bit of pleasure from your releases.
Even when you were both spent, Steve’s body slumping down on top of you—as much as he could without crushing you—you kept kissing. You made out for long, languorous moments until your mouths finally slowed to a stop.
“I’ll never get tired of kissing you, sunshine,” Steve murmured against your lips, one of his hands cradling the back of your head while the other stroked your thigh soothingly. “You taste so sweet, like sunshine and summer breezes.”
You laughed breathily into your best friend’s mouth, voicing the thought you’d had earlier in the night, when you’d been making out against your front door.
“You taste like beer and bad decisions,” you said, swallowing the grunt of protest from your best friend. “And I love it, Stevie—I never wanna kiss anyone else.”
A slow smile curved the corners of his mouth, pressing his happy grin into your lips, and it wasn’t until he spoke that you realized what you’d said.
“You love it, huh, sunshine?” he teased, rolling onto his side and dragging you with him, hiking your thigh over his hip so his cock didn’t slip from your pussy. “Is that the only thing you love, baby?”
Steve pulled back, giving you a mock serious look, the edges of his lips fluttering as he held back a smile. He looked so devastatingly handsome, his cheeks flushed pink, his blond hair mussed, his blue eyes sparkling with humor and affection.
“It’s my birthday,” he said in an overly serious tone, fighting to keep the stern look on his face. “So you gotta tell me the truth.”
You knew what Steve was asking of you, but you weren’t ready to confess your feelings for him just yet. So you rolled your eyes in an excuse to look away from the all-too-knowing gaze of your best friend, and shook your head at him.
“Just shut up and kiss me, Rogers,” you hissed with little heat, wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck and dragging him close. “Besides, your birthday’s probably over by now,” you mumbled against his mouth, nipping playfully at his lower lip.
Steve chuckled, his warm breath ghosting over your skin and making you shiver. His hand slid up your thigh and groped your ass, holding your hips tight against his body, making sure your pussy was keeping his cock warm until he was ready for another round.
“Guess I’ll have to wait until next year to get the truth out of you, huh, sunshine?” Steve asked teasingly, a laugh in the warmth of his tone.
Instead of answering, you slanted your lips to his and kissed your best friend with all the love you had for him.
You felt him take a deep breath, his arms tightening around your body, crushing you to his chest as he kissed you back, showing you he felt the same.
The words and confessions of feelings could come later. For the rest of Steve Rogers’ birthday, you were happy sharing nothing more than beer and bad decisions with him.
Update: after I reblogged this someone messaged me offering me tickets to the sold out Hausu screening with a Q&A and autograph session with the director
It isn't easy being a woman, especially an omega, in the military. Both your primary and secondary genders marking you as inferior in others' eyes. But not every man, and not every alpha, thinks that way. Captain John Price, an alpha if there ever was one, knows something special when he sees it, and the new omega on base may be just what his pack needs.
sfw + nsfw + plot + simon riley x fem!reader
wc: 1.3k
wanting independence, you buy a home. yes, it was a fixer-upper. but, who said your neighbor couldn't help?
pt. 2
home depot was...
something else, you described it.
could barely look around without a man coming up and seeing if you needed help or wanted to ask you what you were doing that you needed such tools; just a sander and a bauer drill.
"sugar, what are you doing with such tools? your man ain't here to help ya out?" the employee said condescendingly.
fucking men and trying to mansplain shit.
you were trying to be polite, "uh, sir, i'm fine. just trying to look around-"
"how about you come back with your man? he'll know what to get for whatever you're doing, alright sugar?"
you just stared at him. stared at him because who has the audacity to be misogynstic in the 21st century?
see, you were about to tell him off, shout loudly that he should go fuck off and stick his fist somewhere where it doesn't shine.
until a very familiar, a very deep voice was directly behind you.
"honey, you find what you needed?"
simon.
you turned around to find him, a little too close for people who just met the day before. shoulders directly in front of your face and his eyes on the employee who just wouldn't leave you the fuck alone.
also, honey?
your mouth was slightly ajar, but you closed it and nodded your head. "yeah...i did." you said, looking back at the employee.
the employee who was as stupid as ever, decided to start talking again. "you must be her husband! see, i told her to wait for you to make sure you got the right tools and whatnot, but-"
"now why the fuck would you do that?" simon's voice was dangerous, but oh-so tranquil. like he knew the employee wouldn't think about doing this again.
the employee just blinked and stuttered his next words a little.
"what was that? because the next words out of your mouth better be an apology to my wife."
my wife. goddamn did that sound good coming from his mouth.
"a-ah, yes, i'm so sorry ma'am. very sorry, my apologies." that apology was quick and certain as he walked away from both of you.
a breath you hadn't known you'd been holding left you as you turned around to your neighbor. "god- thank you so much for that. he would not leave me alone."
"just being a misogynistic prick." simon rasped, his eyes went to the two tools in your hands.
"drill and sander? fixing that porch o'yours?"
you smiled up at him, "yes sir, that i am. i know we only exchanged a few words but you were right. i am really excited to fix this house." his eyes darkened ever-so-slightly at the 'sir'. you didn't know what that was about.
you looked at his hands; empty. "what are you here for, then?" you asked.
"nosy neighbor." he said gruffly, but there was an upturn in his lips. "just here for trash bags. out of them."
you nodded, the silence filled the isle. a comfortable one. until- an idea struck you.
"want to help me out a little, simon?" you asked, a pleading tone in your voice.
"oh lord." was all simon said before getting swept up in your home depot shopping spree.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵
he helped you put the planks of new wood into your small car, along with the two tools and nails you'd purchased.
"i'll meet you back at your house." simon said, closing your trunk.
you raised an eyebrow.
"you wanna help with this home renovation?" you say, perplexed at his assertion.
"wouldn't be good neighbor if i didn't help, would i, love?"
jesus fuckin' christ, his accent and rough voice could probably make you come on the spot-
you just laughed a little, "whatever you say, simon. i'll make us some coffee, because lord knows we are going to need it."
he gave you a look, his eyes. they say a lot. they're pretty, and tell a story. you just don't know what story.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵
back at your house, you stepped through the door with simon trailing behind you. you both got home at about the the same time, since his car was basically following yours.
the sigh that left his mouth was disgruntled.
"jesus christ, woman, are you sure you're livin' 'ere?"
you planted your hand at your chest, a mocking shock of offensiveness. "don't be mean to my house! it's a work in progress. she just...isn't furnished yet."
he opened your fridge. "nor stocked with food yet." he said, closing it and looking at you with a look as he tilted his head.
you tilted your head back at him, hands on your hips. giving him the same look.
"don't get bratty with me, honey." he said, using the nickname from earlier on you, the way he said it was rough. "get some food in here." he said before walking around your island to sit on one of chairs you did have.
you rolled your eyes and started making coffee.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵
music played from your speaker sat on your driveway as you and him pulled the old, rotten boards up and threw them in a pile.
after that, the real work started. fresh, new wooden boards, nails and your drill and hammer. sweat dripped down the sides of your temple as you and simon worked hand in hand, surprisingly. he needed nails, you knew which ones. you needed a piece of wood, he was already handing you one.
you and him were about seventy-five percent done, when you went into the house to wet two rags and came back out with them, handing one to simon. "i underestimated how fucking hot it would be out here." you swore, putting the cold, wet rag on your forehead, which felt absolutely heavenly.
simon laughed. a small, but full laugh, as he put the wet washcloth also on his forehead, standing up to see the progression. "oh, look at that. almost done, aren't we?"
you smiled at him then looked at the porch, yes, the porch was almost done. first home change and it looked pretty fucking nice.
you spoke, "20 bucks says we get this done today."
simon immediately retorted, "how about a beer says we get this done today? cause i ain't takin' your money, love." he says with a small smirk.
"but, i was going to pay you for helping me-"
"and tha' money would end up back in your hands. not taking money from you. today was nice, and i offered." simon said with a tilt of his head.
you sighed, your shoulders shrugging a little. "okay, if that's fine with you." you stretched and put the washcloth back on your forehead, letting it rest there for a moment before pulling it off. "let's get this porch done, then." you said with a small, tired smile.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵
the sun was setting before simons and yours eyes. what a pretty view. you and him shared one last beer of yours as you promised to get more at the store later on in the week.
you and him sat on the two steps that lead up to your new porch. you gave the last of the beer over to him, "thanks for your help today, simon. it was really fun. very neighborly of you."
he laughed and shook his head as he downed the rest of the beer, "no need for thanks, just happy to help. don't do much, so it was a nice change of routine for an old man like me."
you rolled your eyes, and shoved his shoulder lightly, "bee-keeping age." you reminded him.
as he gruffly chuckled at your statement, your phone pinged. you grabbed your phone out of your pocket and saw it was from one of your friend from college, ava. a simple text of 'how's that house doing?'
you smiled at your phone and opened the camera app. without asking him, you took a picture of you and him with the new porch in the background, you smiling and simon holding the empty beer bottle as his forearms rested on his knees. catching simon off-guard.
"thanks." you said before sending the picture to your friend, a small brazen smile on your face.
simon just laughed, mumbling the words, "cheeky girl."
sfw + nsfw + plot + simon riley x fem!reader
wc: 745
wanting independence, you buy a home. yes, it was a fixer-upper. but, who said your neighbor couldn't help?
pt. 1
fallen off trim. messed up brick. peeling paint. rotten boards.
a hand ran over your face as you stood in front of your house.
your house!
excitement trumped all of things wrong with this place. yes, a lot of work was needed. yes, you'd probably spend more renovating the thing than you spent on buying it, but c'mon!
you were a 22 year old woman, fresh out of college, and bought a house. that has to account for something.
you walked up to the small porch, just enough to fit two chairs and a table in between them, feeling the boards under your feet. creaky, one board is molding, the other is somewhat- broken. a small smile fell on your face.
you couldn't wait to get to work.
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵
everything you had from your dorm fit into your small, beaten up nissan altima, so unpacking was an insanely easy task. a regular black mattress frame and a mattress, one box of your clothes, your toiletries fit into your backpack, and the rest of the house was bare.
it looked sad.
but, it was all you had. you were supposed to start your new job as a barista on monday, so you had about three days to work on what you could with the house before you had limited time in the day. it was almost five pm, so you made your way out of your house and started making a long list of things you needed to re-do.
looking up and down at your notepad and the view of your house, you started writing.
paint, wood, trim, a drill, paintbrush, grinder-
"didn't know someone moved in next door." a raspy, deep voice ground out.
you whirled around fast as your heart jumped out of your fucking chest. your eyes landed on a towering hulk of a man, his elbows on his porch railing, leaning over ever-so-slightly, a lit cigarette between his pointer and middle finger.
his house was directly next to yours, looked way better, but you could take a couple of steps and be in his yard.
you tried calming yourself, "you scared me." you laughed lightly at the man, smiling somewhat, but nodded, "but, yes, i just moved in. literally today."
he grunted.
you blinked a couple times, before asking, "what's your name?"
"simon." his voice was flat, your smile dropped a little. you exchanged your name, trying to get out of the silence. you looked back to your house.
he didn't seem like he wanted to say anything else, so you started writing more things down.
you definitely needed a lot of power tools-
"ain't 'cha a little young to have a house, love?"
your pulse jumped at the 'love'.
you looked up from your writing pad and rolled your eyes at him as he took a drag of his cigarette, "you're making assumptions about me when you met me, like two minutes ago?" you retorted, a hand on your hip as you looked at him.
he ran a hand through his dowdy blond hair, before stomping out the cigarette, "just observing, y'look too excited for that fixer-upper of a house." a side of his lip a slightly turned upwards, not fully a smirk, but definitely not a smile.
"i'm actually twenty-two, thank you, old man. can a girl not have independence?" you eyes ran over him again as he stood to his full height, jesus christ, the man was collosus.
"old man? thirty-three's old now?" he said, his eyes raking over you in a way you are certainly overanalyzing.
wait- thirty-three? fucking eleven years older? talk about a dilf. it would be fitting if he had a child, but it didn't look like he did. you doubt he'd be out here talking to you if he had a kid of his own.
you pushed that thought away and laughed a little, "considering you are bee-keeping age, i'd consider you old."
an eyebrow turned up lazily, "i'm not even going to ask what that means."
you snorted and shook your head.
he nodded his head toward you, "i'm going back inside, have a good night, neighbor." his voice was scratchy, with a lilt of teasing behind it.
"you too, neighbor." you replied with the same tone. a small, gruff laugh left him before you heard his door close.
you smiled stupidly as you finished writing your necessities down.
tomorrow, you'd start the real work. maybe with the help of someone, who knows?
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
help i think simon has more morals than i do. i need to go drink water and do some soul searching bc at precisely 6:59 am i would be on his DOORSTEP confessing all over again
(Divider credit https://www.tumblr.com/strangergraphics)
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
We're throwing Johnny into the mix, with a bit less Simon in this one. The dynamic was inspired by Ghouljams amulet Soap posts, in that Simon's oblivious til amulet Johnny points out there's a whole ass spirit right next to him, but we'll get there
CW: I describe the readers death in this. I don't go into too much graphic detail, but be aware.
(Simon)
Logically Simon knew keeping his new place a secret wasn’t going to last forever. Price already knew of course, couldn’t keep a secret from the captain if he’d tried his hardest in the first place. He’d gone so far as to show Price the before and after images. The rest of his leave had been spent buying new furniture, and new odds and ends for the kitchen. But apparently he’d come back too positive and with slightly lighter eye bags and it was just enough to tip Garrick off to something new in his personal life. Both his sergeants were nosy, and both were persistent about anything related to him. Being the mysterious masked ghost had its downsides he supposed. It began with Kyle asking about a possible new girl at home after a mission brief. He’d grunted out a negative and glared for good measure.
Should have known better.
Now that Kyle had smelled blood in the water Johnny’s involvement was inevitable. They’d pestered and prodded in various different ways throughout the day, and even when they were boarding for their mission. Not even Price’s rough grumble about focusing was enough to shut them up.
But after weeks of being stuck in a too cramped safe house, having bullets ricochet around his head in an enemy base, and another stint at the safe house, he did finally relent and spill about his little getaway home. He even let his team swipe through his photos of the place to see it. Price and Garrick had been content with the photos he’d taken, with the promise of more should he decide to continue with renovating. But Soap as always needed more. Thus began the planning of a trip to Ohio to satisfy his sergeant’s curiosity.
Johnny)
Johnny Mactavish was man enough to admit that he was nosy. He filed away information about anyone and everyone within his life both on base and off. You never knew when some small scrap of piece of info was going to be useful in his line of work. And it made teasing people much easier.
To say he was annoyed at knowing next to nothing about his lieutenant’s personal life was an understatement. His LT was a stone wall when it came to his and Garrick’s wheedling and prodding at everything except what was plainly obvious with just observation. Ghost didn’t mind them knowing how he took his tea, that he preferred looser fitting clothing, or that he held the incorrect opinion that bourbon was better than scotch. But anything related to life outside the base was shut down immediately. Having the Ghost admit to moving, and even seeing pictures of the inside of his new house nearly knocked him on his ass. It took Kyle’s best puppy eyes, and his own constant whining for Simon to openly tell them the address of his new place. He looked the property up at the first opportunity when back on base. The house wasn’t all that impressive looking from the street images. Plain white, gravel driveway, and a yard. Nothing special.
Til he accidentally clicked on the web search instead of little x at the top of his tab. Right underneath the realtors listing was a news article about a robbery.
The article wasn’t long. More of a headline than a story really. It mentioned a break in, and an unfortunate death on the property. It took more digging than he’d thought to find the previous owner of the house. He finally found a name after searching for more articles of their death. He’d even found a picture attached to one article. They’d been cute. Still in their twenties from what he could find. Obviously a private person based on their lack of social media activity even when alive. There was no information about what exactly had happened to them at all though, which was slightly disappointing. But this was still a worthwhile adventure, and Kyle would certainly be interested in learning more about the house. He couldn’t wait to tease the big bad Ghost about his lavender colored bathroom.
(Johnny cont.)
Simon’s house wasn’t much to look at in his opinion. The grounds were overgrown, and wild looking. The house itself was plain. But the fact that he was there at all was still a miracle. Wheedling the info out of his lieutenant had been a battle of attrition over the course of a month-long mission. And now here he was walking up the uneven sidewalk to the back door. It surprised him that Ghost had chosen such a wide open location. Even though he was on leave and safe he had immediately felt a prickle up his spine at being so unguarded. Or maybe it was just because the house still looked so abandoned. The windows looked like empty eyes peering at him, especially this late at night.
The inside didn’t do much to ease his sudden tension. Simon had clearly done some redecorating, but he’d really only decorated for one person. Nothing about his home was particularly inviting for company. At least there was an actual bed upstairs for him though. The safe house they’d been in had been less than accommodating. It felt like heaven after collapsing on it after a short shower.
He was out like a light the moment his head was on the pillow.
Standing in the basement was…disturbing. He’d told Simon what he’d found out about the house during the drive over from the airport. He hadn’t said much other than a hmm and grunt here and there at the time. During breakfast was when he’d casually mentioned noticing the spatter on the walls and floor of the basement during his initial tour. The pooling was the worst in the middle. The largest stain had seen a cleaning attempt or two, but the outline of the puddle was still visible if you were paying attention to it. The streaks and flicks in the stairwell hadn’t been cleaned at all. Though they could have look like small rusty water stain to the untrained eye.
The tension wasn’t leaving either. If anything it got worse after they came up from the basement. How Simon was totally at ease and tootling around and casually dusting surfaces off, and lounging on the porch was beyond him. Maybe he was paranoid, or maybe watching possession with Kyle had been a mistake. Regardless, laying down to sleep that second night was difficult. He felt like he had to keep watch or ....something was going to happen.
He woke up with a snuffle into his blanket. His hair was pinned in a weird position and he rolled over onto his back to ease it.
Then he felt a hand on his cheek.
(Ghostie reader)
Simon was gone longer than you had expected him to be. He had been gone for a month and half after his extended stay here. He’d managed to get new furniture inside, including a sort of second bedroom area in your old bedroom. He’d even accidentally put the bed where you had had yours in life. It had earned a small snorted giggle from you when he’d set it up. There was not much in the way of personal touches, but the house looked more lived in now. Even with its layer of dust.
Speaking of Simon. Your big scary giant was currently trudging up the sidewalk with a man trailing behind him like a duckling. You assumed he was another soldier based on Simon being one. That, and you’d never seen a normal person keep their shoulders that squared willingly. He was scruffy and had a mohawk of all things. He was cute though, especially when he puffed up his cheeks a little before retorting something back at Simon. Your eyebrows had raised even more at his accent. You’d been expecting another englishman, but the deep brogue was a complete surprise.
They spent as little time as possible downstairs that night. That was fine, you’d watch over the house as you always did while they slept.
You were hovering near them as they ate. Having someone, anyone to listen to and pretend to interact with was too much to resist after so long alone. Though you wouldn’t have chosen murder to chat about over breakfast, especially yours. Seems like Mr Scot has done some research into you. You’d startled a bit when he’d actually said your name, it’d been so long since you’d heard it last. You’d trailed after them to the basement when Simon had mentioned the stains. The Scot, Johnny you now knew, seemed to be rather ill at ease being down here. It was… interesting to see him so tense while Simon was there calm as can be. Maybe he was as perceptive as Simon is?
You’d been getting better at moving things since Simon had left. Now that there were actually items in the house to practice with. And having the motivation to be acknowledged for once was a big help. Motivation yielded results, who knew? You snorted at the thought.
Coming back to the present they really were eerily good at reading the room you were killed in. Courtesy of being soldiers, you guessed. They’d successfully deduced that you’d been thrown down here, had smacked your head at the bottom step, and finally died in the middle of the room. The only thing they’d gotten wrong was that you had not been shot in the head like Simon suggested. You’d been beaten with a pipe.
They were nearly about to leave when you decided to play with Johnny a little. As revenge for making you once again relive your death you blew on the back of his neck. It wasn’t much, but you were curious to see if he’d notice the way Simon had seen your shadow, and finger marks on the mirror.
He had rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around for the spider web he’d obviously walked into.
How interesting. He was going to be fun.
The rest of the day passed by peacefully. Eavesdropping had been fun. Johnny was a very animated storyteller, and Simon’s voice was more relaxing than it had the right to be. Listening to their combined gossip from their base was fascinating. That night, when they’d laid down for bed you made sure to hover near Johnny. You let him sleep for a while before you were brave enough to try and wake him.
What would you do if he actually did see you? He’d reacted to you down in the basement, and he was clearly tense whenever you were close to him. But maybe he’d be like Simon was and write you off as a figment of his imagination. No time like the present you supposed.
You went for his hair first. It looked too fluffy to resist after he’d washed all the gel out of it. You were rather self satisfied for a moment when he rolled over and readjusted. Much like Simon had on his first night here. Maybe you could risk a bit more.
Leaning over him you traced the line of his scruff on his cheek this time. You’d been so enthralled at actually being able to touch him that you failed to realize his terrified blue eyes were staring a hole right through you.
He made a soft noise then, glancing up, you froze. He froze, not even blinking.
Johnny MacTavish first noticed her over a spilled cup of instant coffee.
It was a dim, gray morning, indistinguishable from the one before or the one after. She was bent over a stack of paperwork at the breakroom counter, a half-empty mug in hand, her fatigues rumpled, her posture drawn inward like someone trying to fold themselves into nothing.
He didn’t see her at first — not really. Just another face in the periphery. And then he bumped her elbow. The mug tipped, a thin trail of coffee streaked across the floor and darkened her sleeve.
“Shite—sorry, I didn’t mean—” He cut himself off as she only looked down, blinking once, twice, as if it barely registered.
“Sorry,” she muttered, voice quiet and hoarse.
He tilted his head. “You alright?”
She nodded. She didn’t meet his eyes.
There wasn’t an ounce of anger in her — only a weary sort of resignation, like she expected everything in her day to break, spill, or go sideways. Johnny stood there, hand half-raised, watching her blot the stain with a napkin like it was a ritual she’d repeated too many times.
“You ever smile?” he asked after a beat, not cruelly — just curious.
Her eyes flicked up to him, startled. Not annoyed. Not offended. Just… surprised.
That was the moment.
She hadn’t done anything special. No dazzling smile. No clever line. But there was something in her — something quiet and raw and profoundly human — that hooked into him and refused to let go.
He offered to buy her a new coffee. She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either.
He counted that as progress.
After that, he started showing up more often — drifting into places she worked, loitering at the edge of her space with a grin and a stupid joke. At first she barely responded. Her answers were clipped, her eyes rarely lifted. She carried the air of someone used to being overlooked, or worse — someone who’d come to believe that maybe being invisible was safer.
But he kept coming back.
Not because he was trying to fix her, or tease something out of her. He just… liked being around her. There was a steadiness to her presence, a kind of honesty in her silence that he found grounding.
She didn’t perform. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t try to impress him.
She just was.
And that was enough.
The others noticed eventually.
Price asked one day, “You and the quartermaster?”
Soap smirked. “She’s not just the quartermaster.”
Ghost looked skeptical. “Not your usual type.”
Johnny shrugged. “Guess I’m not looking for a type.”
He couldn’t explain it in a way that made sense to anyone else. He liked the way she saw things no one else saw. The way she rearranged the supply chain so the team got downtime without realizing it. The way she listened, really listened, when most people were just waiting for their turn to speak.
He liked her quiet. Liked that she didn’t need noise to exist. Liked that when she was with him, he didn’t feel like he had to be on all the time — didn’t have to be loud or sharp or anything but himself.
She saw things in him, too — things he didn’t show often. The gentleness beneath the bravado. The way he carried other people’s grief when they couldn’t. The fact that his humor was sometimes a shield, sometimes a bridge, but never a lie.
She saw him when the jokes faded.
And she stayed.
It took her longer to believe he meant it.
She asked him once, in a rare vulnerable moment, “Why me?”
He was quiet for a second. Then he said, “You ever sit near a fireplace that’s just embers? No flames, no drama. Just heat. Real heat. Steady. That’s you.”
She blinked at him. “You’re comparing me to coals.”
“Aye,” he said, grinning. “The good part of the fire.”
She laughed — small, involuntary. Then she frowned, like the laugh had betrayed her.
“I’m not pretty,” she said. “I’m not interesting. I don’t know how to be with someone like you.”
He softened. “You don’t have to know. You just have to want to.”
“I’m awkward. I’m... tired.”
He reached out, took her hand. “I like tired. I like awkward. I like you.”
She looked at him like she didn’t understand how any of that could be true. But she didn’t pull her hand away.
It wasn’t dramatic. No whirlwind kiss in the rain. No sweeping declarations. Just small things, day after day. A warm drink left on her desk. A quiet touch on the shoulder. A joke that only made sense to the two of them.
She began to stand straighter.
He began to speak softer when she was near.
People whispered, confused. Him? With her?
They didn’t get it. They didn’t see what he saw — how she was sharp in quiet ways, how her eyes cataloged every detail, how she kept people safe without anyone noticing. They didn’t see how he made her laugh like she hadn’t in years, how he coaxed her into the world and never once made her feel lesser for her size, her silence, her shyness.
They worked, somehow.
They fit.
If anyone asked, Johnny would say it happened slow — not like falling, but like warming. A slow-burn kind of love. The kind that didn’t scream or shatter. The kind that stayed.
And if she ever wondered what he saw in her, he’d only smile and say, “Everything.”
Poly!141 x Reader - You Look Like Yourself But You're Somebody Else (Prologue)
This is something that has been sat in my drafts for a long while!
I hope you all enjoy this! 💛
Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support💛
Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)
I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!
COD Masterlist / Poly!141 Masterlist / Join My Taglist
Warnings: Brief mentions of torture, feelings of guilt, mentions of betrayal
(Credit to the original owners of these pictures from Pinterest)
John was just about to drift off to sleep, he could feel his eyelids closing involuntarily as the exhaustion of the team's most recent mission caught up to him. He was too tired to even move, so just stayed sitting in his armchair allowing sleep to slowly take over him.
That was until his phone began ringing, the brightness of the screen illuminating a small area around him in the otherwise completely dark room.
He sighed, muttering some curse words under his breath as he slowly opened his eyes to see who the caller was; there were very few people who would call him this late and three of them were upstairs asleep.
It was Kate.
Which was slightly surprising, seeing as she’d only just helped his team with their latest mission, he assumed she’d be home, with her wife, asleep at this hour.
“Kate? Is everything alright?” John asked, his voice slightly deeper than normal due to his own exhaustion.
“I’m fine, John,” Kate said calmly, but despite her tone, John knew that something was wrong, why else would she be calling at this hour.
“I um…I have some news I think you should hear,” she continued, only making John's panic increase.
“Go on,”
“We found her, John,”
Four words.
That’s all it took.
Four words that woke him up immediately.
He knew who Kate was referring to.
He didn’t need to hear your name, to know it was you.
“Where?”
“An abandoned military base not far from London,”
London?
How did you get back to London?
You’d been so close all this time?
There were so many questions rushing through his mind…but none of them were as important as the one that left his lips, “Is she alright?”
He knew it was a stupid question, you’d been missing for the best part of a year; of course you weren’t going to be alright, but you were alive. That’s all that mattered.
Kate didn’t answer his question right away though, the silence on the other end of the phone was almost deafening, until she finally spoke, “It looks like she’s working for them John,”
“What?” His tone was filled with confusion, regardless of how much time had passed, you weren’t a traitor.
“She wouldn’t betray us, Kate,”
“It’s nearly been a year John, everyone has their breaking points,”
He winced slightly at her words; the idea of you being tortured flashing through his mind.
“Shepherd won’t put you and your team on this, you’re too close to her.”
“Who do you think he’ll send?”
Again, it was another stupid question for John to ask, there was only one other team that Shepherd would send to ‘deal’ with you.
“Graves and his shadows,” Kate confirmed, and just her confirmation alone was enough to make John's blood run cold.
Not only because of his team's history with Graves and his shadows but because John knew that he’d shoot you on sight, no questions asked.
It’s what a good soldier should do.
Probably what he would do if it wasn’t you…
But he couldn’t just shoot you, not after everything you’d been through together…not after he failed in his duty as your partner and Captain to protect you.
He loved you, and he was aware he was letting his emotions of love and guilt cloud his judgement, but he needed to at least give you a chance to explain, to make sense of what was happening.
“How long can you stall them for?” His question would’ve caught some people off guard, but Kate wouldn’t have called him so early without the intention of delaying giving news to Shepherd.
She was giving him and his team that chance to help you, because before you went missing, she was one of your closest friends and John knew that she wanted this all to have a logical explanation as much as he did.
“A few hours, it gives you a bit of a head start at least,” she answered, hearing the solemn tone in her voice.
“Thanks, Kate,”
A few hours was better than nothing and with that thought in mind he rose to his feet and walked out of the living room.
“John, just be careful, I know how much you and the others care about Y/n…I do too, but if she’s a traitor…” Kate paused for a brief moment, the words she was about to say tasting like poison in her mouth, “…you know what you need to do,”
If being the very crucial word in that sentence.
With that, John hung up the phone and ran up the stairs to wake the others
He knew you weren’t a traitor.
Maybe you were tricking the enemy into believing that you were on their side; being a type of double agent so to speak.
It would make sense.
What didn’t make sense was why, if you were so close to home, you hadn’t reached out to any of them…
Everyone’s Watching Him (But He’s Looking At Her) Series Masterlist
Warnings: body insecurity and mention of reader sucking her stomach in, idiots in love, shy & insecure reader, anxiety around being in crowds, hurt comfort, crossing Bucky’s boundaries (not reader), soft fluff, jealousy, miscommunication, angst, implied sex
Main Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Taglist | Library
Actor!Bucky Barnes x Assistant!Fem!Reader
Summary: The entire world’s eyes are on movie star Bucky Barnes, what he’s wearing, who he’s dating, even the mystery behind why he needs a prosthetic arm - but Bucky doesn’t care about all that, he’s only got one thing on his mind, you.
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