The cold shoulder every time he stepped into the house. And the worst of all punishments: sleeping on the couch. That goddamn couch, stiff and distant, miles away from your warmth.
He didn’t complain. Not when his back screamed in the morning, not when his neck cracked with every shift. Nothing.
Work was a blur. His focus, shot. Every time his phone buzzed, he snatched it up like it might be you.
It never was.
Nope.
Fucking Soap.
> “MY wife lets me sleep in bed with her. :]”
Asshole.
By the end of the week, Simon was in ruins—your absence chewing holes into what little remained of his sanity.
He needed to touch you.
Hold you.
Lay his head on your chest and breathe.
How were you fine with this?
How could you just shut him out?
And why, in God’s name, had he married such a stubborn woman?
…because he liked it.
That night, Simon did everything right.
Boots off at the door.
Duffle stowed neatly in the closet.
Gear stripped down and tossed into the laundry bin.
A real shower, not one of those rushed rinses—he scrubbed until the scent of Oakwood and Pines clung to every inch of scarred skin, drifting from the bathroom and bleeding into the bedroom.
You felt it before you heard him—the familiar pull of his presence mixed with the clean musk that always made your willpower falter.
Your fingers tightened around your book. You didn’t look up. If you looked, you’d fold.
You knew it.
But damn it, he smelled good.
Simon stepped out, towel drying his hair, shirt damp against the curve of his back. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, casual, familiar, like a memory you didn’t want to admit you missed.
You peeked. Just a little.
And he saw.
The flicker of your eyes in his direction set off something in him. Hope lit up his face like a dog hearing the treat bag crinkle.
He pounced.
No warning, just all six-foot-something of him crashing onto you like a damn tree falling.
“Oof—Jesus CHRIST, Si!” you gasped, struggling under the sudden weight. “You’re too big for that!”
“’m not,” he grumbled into your stomach, arms snaking around you, face pressed to your skin like he planned to melt into you. Honestly, if he could crawl inside and live under your ribcage, he would.
You sighed, tossing your book aside, hand finding its way into his damp hair. The tension bled from his body instantly under your touch.
“Big baby…” you muttered.
He tilted his head, just enough to look up at you.
Those brown eyes—eyes that had seen war, death, and worse—were impossibly soft now.
“You done ignoring me?”
His voice was small. Hopeful. Like he’d crumble if you said no.
You stared down at him for a moment, lips pressed tight, trying to hold on to that edge of power you’d clung to all week. You wanted to stay mad—hell, you should stay mad. But Simon curled around you like a man starving, clinging to scraps of affection like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
And maybe, just maybe, it was.
Your fingers slid slowly through his hair again. “I shouldn’t be done.”
His arms only tightened around you, body sinking deeper into your side, like the very idea of you pulling away would kill him dead. “I know.”
“You forgot our anniversary.”
“I know.” He groaned the words into your stomach, shame thick in his throat. “I’m the worst husband alive.”
“You’re up there.”
But your voice was already softer, that edge fading with each breath he took against your skin.
Simon peeked up at you again, brows drawn in that pitiful, wounded-puppy expression that always made your heart twitch no matter how pissed off you were. “I had somethin’ planned. Got pulled for a mission, got back late, then… I didn’t know how to bring it up.”
You gave a small scoff, fingers absentmindedly combing through his undercut now. “So your solution was radio silence and hiding in your own house?”
“...Y’weren’t exactly giving me a warm welcome,” he muttered.
“I wasn’t the one who forgot, Simon.”
He shut his eyes, face buried against your stomach again like he was trying to disappear.
You let the silence stretch for a few seconds, your other hand moving to rest on his back. He was warm—always so damn warm—and solid, like you could press your entire body against him and still not get close enough.
And that’s what made it so hard to stay mad.
“I missed you,” he said quietly.
You closed your eyes.
"Then act like it next time."
He nodded against you, barely more than a brush of movement. “I will. I swear.”
Another silence, but this one wasn’t heavy—it settled between you like a blanket, familiar and worn.
“You’re still not getting laid tonight,” you added.
Simon let out a pained noise, somewhere between a groan and a dying animal. “C’mon, love…”
“Nope.”
“Can I at least stay in bed?”
You looked down at him—his whole body wrapped around you like a lifeline, those big brown eyes begging without a hint of shame.
“…Fine.”
He exhaled like he’d just been released from captivity. “God, I missed this mattress.”
“I missed my space,” you shot back, but there was no bite left in it.
Simon wiggled just enough to fit perfectly against your side, one leg tossed over yours, his head nestled under your chin now. “I’ll sleep on the edge.”
“Damn right you will.”
A pause. Then, muffled into your chest:
“You still mad at me?”
You sighed, long and theatrical. “Ask me in the morning.”
Ways in which You, the MC, raise the Characters Blood Pressure
All characters, except Luke
Cw: suggestive, spoilers and lesson 16 mentions.
Lucifer
You arranged the bottles of liquor in his study. It is order, you claim. In height and color, but for Lucifer it is chaos. It is a mess, he declares, his hands having to re-route every time they search for the intended bottle.
You do not wear weather-appropriate clothing. Look at the waistcoat on him, MC, with gloves and a dramatic flair which mimics a peacock. It is about to snow, and you do not have a jacket on. You're not cold, you affirm, but the goosebumps on your skin say otherwise. What a pity, here, have his coat.
You send him those god-awful, brainrot reels on Devilgram and expect him to watch every single one. Not his feed, not his brick, but it is there thanks to you.
You decide to climb the shelves to reach for the jar of choco-chip cookies. Yes, demons are taller, but please just use a stepping stool or ask for assistance. Imagine his plight when he walks into the kitchen half-dead from exhaustion and sees you scaling the shelves like a monkey, feet and hands gripping the wood for dear life.
You act flamboyant. Not too much, but with your head held high and that smirk on your face, fully aware of your capability and achievements, throwing him a sly glance as he takes the coat off your shoulders at a ball in the Demon Lord's castle. It gets him weak.
You participate in his brothers tomfoolery. They decided it would be a great idea to rearrange the dining room's furniture. Everyone is bickering about the ideal placement, there are streaks on the floor, and is that fire???!!! Mammon he can string up in the living room, Satan and Belphegor can be on bathroom cleaning duty, but you—what does he even do with you?? When you sheepishly apologise and give that godforsaken smile, he has no choice but to relent.
You get a little too buddy-buddy with Solomon. He's from the human world, sure, it is natural to bond with one of your kind, but when he sees you two together with almost identical smirks on your faces his brows furrow. In resignation. And a little bit of trepidation. What are you planning, MC?
Mammon
You threatened to take away Goldie when he did not listen to you. Stack it away nicely in a place where he can't reach it. Maybe the freezer. Maybe the toaster. He doesn't know.
You run headfirst into danger. Listen, Mammon knows you are very strong. Capable and headstrong. But please, please, MC, thats an Abyss Snake! Those creatures have venom so potent it can obliterate demons, and you are a human! Blessed, even though, but still, have some consideration for his heart before he runs after you, who is insistent on petting it.
You get a little too close to others. Nothing wrong with that, but his brain can't stop but cry out in protest. Biology deems it so. He's your first man! Don't you forget it! Lesser demons don't get too close though, because his scowl is enough of a warning. And he's not just all bark. Second-oldest, don't you forget.
You own him. Others demons trying to get close to him, subtly trying to slot their bodies against him at a club, or even in public. You glare and with ease tug Mammon towards you, until your lips nearly touch, intent on showing them that he's not available. Only for you.
You ate his noodles, leaving none for him.
You don't pick up his calls when you're in the human world. Crows he can send in every corner of the Devildom to look for you, assured of your safety and wellbeing. But in the human world, he can't. Six missed calls, MC, better pick up the seventh, before he decides to conjure a portal and come down there.
Leviathan
You criticised the figurine in his room. It looks weird, you say, like a blob of soup. It's magic munchkin from Igotreincarnatedinto soupduringtheTangdynasty, he says. Normies don't appreciate art. Hmpgh.
You cosplayed as Henry 2.0. and crept into his room at 3 am. Imagine his plight when he opens his eyes because he feels as if someone is watching him, only to see you decked out in full fish, contacts and all. He woke up the whole house with that scream.
You don't react to every single Devilgram reel he sends you. Friends send each other reels, sure, but these are fifty reels in a span of an hour. Just an hour.
You denied sleeping in the bathtub with him when you came over to his room for movie night, choosing to sleep in your bed instead. You claim its because the bathtub is uncomfortable. He assumes its because you hate his presence. Please just bring a mattress next time, MC, our Envy Avatar is in low spirits.
You take control. Shoving him against his chair, sitting on top of him as if you own him. Your smile is just a tad cruel, hands finding their way to the spots where he reacts the most. It makes him go blank. Please don't stop please please please
You stare at another demon too long. His envy can't help but take over. What is it that the demon have that he does not? What is it that enchants you so? Self-loathing follows after.
You forget to send him AP and receive it from your daily in-game logins. Sin.
Satan
You took the liberty of arranging the pile of books in his room. Like Lucifer, he has a natural order for them in mind, which you disrupted. Physics on the left, biology on the right and astronomy in the middle. Now its alll goneeee. No order. Chaos, however orderly they make appear.
You pet a cat and did not send him a picture. He knows from the cat fur on your clothes and the happiness on your face. Where is the kitty, MC, send him a pic now. He needs to meet the feline.
You asked Solomon for help with your studies. Sure, he's a very, very renowned sorcerer with whom even the demon likes to debate with, but study sessions are you and Satan's thing. Not with Solomon. Now you have got two intellectuals helping you study, as Satan acts passive-aggressive towards the sorcerer.
You two throw debates on random topics head to head. Intelligence is sexy, and that smile when you've outwitted him? Satan is about to swoon like a Victorian woman.
You don't walk alongside him. MC has the habit of frolicking along the path like a sheep. Cute. Maybe they have a faster pace than him. But he can't help but feel as if you are trying to avoid walking alongside him, unintentional that may be.
You add irrelevant items to the shopping cart when you both are out. Stick to the budget MC, stick to the budget, Satan chides, as he slips in a pack of the chocolate you prefer into the cart.
Asmodeus
You used a beauty product which he hates. Yes, that chaos snail cream is trending right now, but it gave him breakouts! Stop that, MC, here, use this instead!
You don't comment on his latest post/story/reel. You've been too busy with studies and Sorcerer society, we know. But you know he anticipates your comments the most! He wants YOU to look at him!!! Admire him!! You better add some heart emojis next time, MC.
You insist on cleaning together. He denies. At first. Complains all throughout, then insists on taking a bath together to get cleaned off.
You go out in public wearing an outfit that would have been put together by the enemy of fashion themselves. No, MC, you're so sexy haha please don't go out like that, when you've got Asmodeus right here to style you! He's already taking off your jacket and shoes, ready to drape you in finery. Always looking like a snack, his MC.
You see him for him, not for Asmodeus, Jewel of the Heavens. Your Asmodeus. Not the public image of him, not the impression he's curated of himself, but just the the person you see at home. At his most vulnerable. This sets him on fire like nothing else. Also when you match his freak
You insist on doing his nails. He's sweating for his life as you work on his fingernails. A very interesting choice of color there, MC, and oh, this nail buffer, seems a bit too.....rough.
Beelzebub
You don't look both ways before crossing the street. Sure, you are an accomplished sorcerer, but the inhabitants of the Devildom are still getting used to the law and order declared by Prince. That includes speed limits. His heart nearly jumps into his mouth during those moments.
You surprise him after his Fangol match. Him, all sweaty and red in the face. You, electrolyte in hand and that saccharine-sweet smile on your face that makes him weak. You could shove him against the wall and he would crumble.
You don't think before taking risks. Nothing peeves Beelzebub more than when you disregard your own safety. Please think twice before making hasty decisions that involve potential injury. For his sake, please, and the integrity of your physical body. Let him fuss over you.
You don't try your hair after you bathe/shower. You'll get a cold, he says, and a hairdryer is already in his hand. Sit down MC, and let Beel dry your hair. It will be quick.
You go out without him to eat. Eating together is love for Beel, nothing better than sharing a meal with your partner. So please don't deprive him of your company, MC, food tastes better when you are there with him.
You kill a fly. That was his friend, MC. His pal.
Belphegor
You downplay your injuries. Anyone who saw you fall down the stairs in the library knows that it would have hurt. You laughed and walked it off. He noticed the way your pace faltered, the hiss of pain when no one was looking. Please, take care of yourself, MC.
You leave hair ties around the house. Belphegor woke up to one next to his pillow, another on the RAD bench. One on top of the cabinet. And it drives him crazy. You're wondering how your supply of hair ties is running out fast, meanwhile, his supply is full, ready to be given when desired.
You put him in his place. He knows he's bratty at times, being the youngest comes with its own traits. When you bite back at him, grabbing him by the hair, showing him how brats are treated, he's gone. A demon deceased. At your mercy.
You make cow puns. Yes, he can talk to cows, yes, his clothes have a similar pattern. But enough with the jokes now, MC, go along and get mooooving—
You take his favourite pillow to be washed. It is dirty indeed, but Belphegor cannot sleep without it. He's sitting by the washing machine and waiting. Until its ready to be used again.
You crack your fingers. The sound can't help but remind him of that time when you fell down the stairs, and he watched from above in damned glee—until he saw the expression on his brothers faces and the way you gasped in pain. Please do not do it in front of him.
Diavolo
You decide to serve him pickles. It's good to try new things, you say, content on eating your own serving of pickles. Diavolo stares at the offending item as if it has committed regicide.
You make him finish his work. Yes, there is a pile of reports waiting to be signed, but its only a ten minute break, MC, what harm can it do? You're like Barbatos sometimes, hovering over him. Maybe if he jumped out the window to make an escape it might work.
You challenge his authority. Diavolo has been questioned plenty of times in the past, when he was still new to governance without his father overseeing affairs. The House of Lords opposed many of his orders. But you, you are different. Standing in front of him, challenging his opinion, so bold in stating your opinion and your claim. On him. Only him. Excuse his meetings for an hour, minimum, there is a very urgent matter right in front of him, one whose wishes he's willing to bend to eagerly.
You team up with Solomon. Diavolo cannot tell what you two are planning. Nothing but chaos is guaranteed. He's already bracing himself for a surprise.
You refuse to accept his gifts. You deserve the best of the best. What do you mean, MC, that this hundred thousand jewellery set is too much? that the piles of gifts outside your room is too much? None of that now, none of that.
You wear a strong perfume. His nose is sensitive, and the scent is so harsh that it makes him nauseous. Too polite to comment, he silently bears it while you wonder as to why he keeps leaning out of the window. Maybe there's something going on outside.
Barbatos
You don't tie your hair up while cooking. It gives him the ick like nothing else can, and before you can even start on chopping up the potatoes he's already working on tying your hair, clips and a headband magically appearing.
You showed him Ratatouille. Barbatos dropped the item he was holding. You thought he had gone catatonic after.
You serve him instead. He's accustomed to being the one assisting others, but when you do it it's different. When you straighten out his tie in the way you deem satisfactory, hands running down his chest for a brief moment, he's a demon gone.
You decide to make tea incorrectly, or incorrect in his eyes. The temperature has to be a perfect 40 degree celsius, MC. Ginger has to be shredded, not cut. Milk has to be warm, not straight from the fridge. MC—just let him—he'll do it. Just sit down and he'll make you a cup. With a bloody strawberry pastry.
You went inside his room, and ten different versions of you came out. He had to spend an hour trying to ensure all your versions did not meet each other, with Diavolo asking for him every fifteen minutes.
You go to the port market without him. Sacrilege. When he sees you with fresh groceries in hand, Barbatos feels betrayed. Without him?! He'll subtly make quips at you, and the next outing will be at the port, and you're going to be besides him. For safety, he says.
Simeon
You decided to stay at Purgatory Hall for the night, but not in his room. See, MC, he has a bed right here for you! And cookies!! Four pillows!! Please don't deprive him of your company.
You fold clothes incorrectly. The sleeve is hanging out, wrinkles already forming on a pair of trousers. The handkerchief is crumbled up into a ball. Simeon just sighs. Takes the clothes from your hands, gently sets it aside.
You act as the knight in shining armour. Sweeping in with just what he needs. He gazes at you in longing, perhaps one of a thousand years. Just kiss him MC, he'll be so good. He promises.
You text him in lingo he does not understand. "So true, bestie." ??? "Not very sigma of them." ???? "I've got major tea about the two demons who made a ruckus during curses and hexes." Tea???? Send him some reels, MC, maybe then he will get it.
You chew on a pen. People do it when they're in deep thought. Sure. But Simeon can't help it when he sees the indentations left on the body and the head. That poor pen. Crime committed.
You decided to teach Luke slang. Now he's cursing like a sailor. What will he do now, MC? Look at that sweet boy, now yapping. You've spoiled him with bad influences. How will he undo this?
Solomon
You don't sit on his lap. Never mind that there are plenty of seats around. His lap is the best seat. The chair on which you are currently sitting on feels like nettles. The sofa is too hot. His lap is the only option left.
You get a little too close to Asmodeus for his comfort. Solomon can't help but feel a pang of jealousy in his heart when you warm up to him. He's not so subtly interrupting you both, and acts as if everything is alright. Yeah, just apply that facemask on him too, he'll eat the cucumber.
You shove him into a nearby closet or an empty classroom. He barely has time to breathe before you are on him, hands fisting in his shirt, all his senses occupied by you. It drives him mad like nothing other.
You wake him up in the morning. He's catatonic at that hour. Any attempts to wake him up will be met with groans and grunts. Shaking him awake does not work. Mandatorily kisses are prescribed to wake him right up. Doctor, he needs them to wake up!
You deny his help. He knows you're a capable sorcerer, your power immeasurable. But let yourself rely on him sometimes, he's more than happy to help you. He'll drop everything to come to the aid of his beloved apprentice.
You dress up to go outside, expectedly staring at him. Solomon's sweating bullets internally, wondering if he missed a date. A special event. His book lies abandoned while he racks his brain. Was it today? Or tomorrow? Oh no no no no
Thirteen
You brought a bug in the house once. Claimed it cute and adorable. Thirteen climbed on top of the closet, did not come down till you let it outside. Banned, she tells you, from bringing them inside.
You didn't admire her latest creation well enough. She spent such a long time on it, MC! The giant bazooka!! And you gave it a glance and nodded!! Her heart!!
You get too chummy with Solomon. She declares it a crime. His cooking made her see stars during the day, and she woke up a whole day later on top of a bridge. Why do you have to hang out with that loathed sorcerer, MC?
You give her that smug smirk of yours, and she feels weak in the knees. Getting too close to her, acting so nonchalant. Her heart is doing cartwheels in her chest.
Mephistopheles
You forget titles while referring to Lord Diavolo. It's "Your Majesty," and "Lord Diavolo," MC. Don't be so rude towards his sovereign. He'll spend the whole day correcting you.
You ruffle his hair. Such an innocent gesture, but Mephistopheles can't help but stutter when you do it so casually. He's stuttering. Face hot.
You don't read the latest edition of the R.A.D. newspaper. He spent so long proofreading and collecting information, MC. And you still haven't read it. The demon is hurt. Better read it now, MC.
You bring out a chihuahua from your bag and place it on the desk. During a meeting. The tiny thing trembles. He sighs.
Raphael
You sew hastily. He can see the haphazardly put together stitches. Raphael is already gesturing you over, needle in hand. Sit down and let him fix it.
You find yourself in trouble due to the brothers shenanigans. He walks out of Purgatory Hall and sees you upside down on a tree. He sighs. Takes his spear and removes the branch, catches you in his arms.
You manhandle him. Something about the way in which you effectively guide him away from your path by grabbing his hips, or even pulling him closer gets him going.
You stop him from sampling Solomon's cooking. Its a culinary delight, he says. It is assault on the tastebuds, you claim. He's offended, already grabbing a spoonful of his food. Heaven, he sighs.
summary: to the outside world, andrew is a rough man, someone who likes to fight and get his hands dirty. someone who isn’t afraid to hurt people. but you know that’s not really him. your boyfriend really just wants to be pampered and loved on, and it shows when he gets sick and your job is to take care of him.
pairing: andrew ‘pope’ cody x reader
warnings: mentions of a storm/hurricane/thunder, andrew gets a fever :(, petnames used, totally babying him a bit but idgaf, sub!pope but it’s not sexual he’s just a puppy hehehe
a/n: started writing this after the joost concert in nyc which was… yikes. kind offfff self projecting on andrew after feeling like shit from getting trampled in the crowd crush but who cares!!! i just wanna take care of my sweet boy, he deserves it :( also thank you so so much for all of the love on my last fic!! it makes me so happy to see all of the reblogs/comments/asks, i try to look at them all <3 i hope you enjoy this one just as much! title from i wanna be adored by the stone roses!
wc: 1.5k+
andrew always got from jobs late at night, you were used to it at that point. you were used to him quietly slipping into your shared bedroom, getting undressed and crawling in beside you, his arms wrapping around your waist to soothe you back to sleep.
what you were not used to was him being out at 2am in the middle of a hurricane. not used to lying in bed alone while thunder crashed just outside your window, having no idea when he’ll get home. you were worried about him— you always were, but now more than ever. you decided to just try to sleep like normal, hoping he’d be back soon.
you were finally drifting off when you heard the front door opening quietly. you knew it was him from the soft, careful way the keys turned, he always tried to be quiet just in case you woke up and heard him. after rubbing your eyes and stretching, you jumped out of bed to go meet him in the living room.
there he was, standing in the dark by the front door, completely soaked to the bone from the rain pouring down outside. you ran to him, your hands finding his face and observing him, “andrew! oh, andy, what happened to you?”
he just sighed and let his head drop into the crook of your neck, allowing your fingers to gently comb through his wet hair. “s’fine, just got a little caught in the rain… job went well, at least. smurf’ll get off my ass now,” he murmured against the warmth of your skin, his arms snaking around you.
you frowned, hating to see him like this. so tired, so cold. he was shivering from the rain that was seeping into his t-shirt. “aw, love…” you cooed, “you’re so cold. your skin feels like ice, don’t you wanna take a warm bath?”
he hummed quietly, nodding into your neck and curling his fingers in your shirt. he really was just a baby when he needed comfort, and right now, you knew that was exactly what you needed. so you kissed his nose gently and pulled him into the bathroom, helping him peel off his wet clothes and getting him into the warm shower.
as you helped him out of the jeans and t-shirt he wore to his job, you made sure to be very gentle. you were always gentle with him, that was exactly what he needed from you. he needed someone to balance out the roughness he displayed around everyone else, and you provided that for him.
once he was in the shower, you stepped in next to him, standing behind him and kissing his cheek. “you want me to wash your hair, baby?” he hummed in agreement, too tired for words. “which shampoo, hm? mine or yours?” you knew that sometimes, he loved to use your shampoo. he loved to smell like you and the soft vanilla scent you always used, it felt like home. “yours, please?” he asked shyly. he got shy sometimes, but you didn’t mind, you just coddled him more.
for the next hour, you stood in the shower with him, carefully cleaning off the dirt and grime from the job he was and maybe getting a liiiiitle distracted… until he was warm and safe. by the time you were done, he was so tired he could barely stand, so you helped him back into your bedroom and assisted him in putting his pajamas on. pajamas for him were really just boxers and a t-shirt that he’d throw off after getting too restless, but you helped him anyway, knowing he needed the care.
eventually, the two of you were in bed together like usual, him pressed into you from behind, feeling his chest rising and falling softly against your back. tonight, the rhythm was slower than usual, and you knew he was tired. you pressed a soft, sweet kiss to his hand and whispered, “you can sleep, baby, it’s okay. i’ll be here in the morning, okay?”
he just made a quiet noise of assent and mumbled into your neck, “okay, gonna sleep now… love you…” prompting you to smile and reply, “i love you too. get some rest.” he was gone in moments, allowing you to turn the tiredness from the long night into the soft calming sensation that lulled him to sleep.
every morning, andrew woke up before you. partially out of habit and because of his bad sleeping habits that you just can’t fix, and partially because he loved to just stare at you before you woke up.
right now, though, you woke up to find him still asleep. his t-shirt was still on, meaning he didn’t even wake in the middle of the night to pull it off. this was extremely unusual for him, and this unusual behavior paired with the rain from last night prompted you to worry. you rolled over to face him and gently pressed your lips to his forehead, met with burning skin.
frowning, you shook him awake as slowly as you could. when he groaned and nuzzled into your neck, you rubbed his back and cooed sweetly, “i know, baby, i know you don’t wanna get up. but i think you’re sick. could you get up for a minute to tell me how you’re feeling? please?”
he ended up giving in, sitting up (with your help) against the pillows while you left the room to go get a thermometer. when you returned, you gently brushed his hair away from his forehead, “just gonna press this against your forehead for a second, yeah? just sit still for a second.”
after a few moments the thermometer beeped and you pulled it away, kissing his temple yet again as a reward. you looked at it and frowned, “baby, it says 101.6… that’s not good. you got a fever from the storm last night.”
you could see the signs more clearly now. on top of the warmth of his skin, his eyes were glassy and you could tell he was a little dazed. “oh, love… i’m gonna go get you some water and something to eat.”
when you tried to pull away, he didn’t let you. he grabbed your arm gently, “wait, don’t go.” he paused for a second, then muttered, “please,” with those sad eyes you could never say no to.
sighing, you decided to just indulge him and get back in bed with him for a bit. you knew he needed the comfort and he probably wouldn’t eat anything you gave him, anyway. as soon as you climbed back into bed, he was all over you, hugging you as tight as he could (which was not very tight, after being weakened from the fever…) and pressing his warm forehead into your skin. just like that, he drifted off again, surrounded by you and the warmth and softness you emitted.
you didn’t even realize you were falling asleep. you really didn’t, you thought you had been taking care of him well. but you’re proven wrong when he’s the one shaking you awake hours later. “love. love. love. wake up. wake up. can you wake up?”
confused, you rubbed at your eyes and sat up a bit to look at him. “wh…” you started, but he cut you off, “hi.” you looked up at him strangely, “you… i fell asleep? how long have you been awake?”
it was then that you noticed the tv was on, playing one of his favorite movies. “an hour. i didn’t wanna wake you up. i was watching my movie, see?” he looked so… normal. you assumed he was delirious. “i’m hungry, though, and i missed you. sorry for waking you up.”
your expression softened, he really was adorable. “it’s okay. you know you can always wake me up.” you gave a little kiss to his nose, “i’ll make you something. what do you want?”
he smiled sheepishly, “some soup would be nice. something warm. i’m cold.” your lips tilted down a bit, “cold? alright, i’ll make some soup. you just get under the blankets while i make it, okay?” he nodded and settled back in bed, watching you leave for the kitchen.
when you came back, you were carrying his favorite miso soup in a little heart-shaped bowl, and a tiny cup of fruit. he was getting increasingly more tired. “alright, baby, open up.” he would usually never ask you to feed him, that’s too much, even for him. but right now he’s just so tired and he’s shivering so much that he can’t do it himself.
he ate slowly, allowing you to feed him little spoonfuls of soup and bites of fruit. by the time he’s done, his face is buried in your shoulder as he groans and mumbles unintelligibly about how awful he feels. you can’t really hear most of it, but you’re able to catch a muffled, “hurts…”
your fingers comb through his hair gently, “oh, honey… i know. you’re tired, aren’t you? do you wanna take a nap?” when he nods against your skin, you carefully lower him onto his pillows, “shhh, just rest now. i’m here. you’ll feel better soon, i promise. just gotta rest.”
he stares up at you, eyes bleary, “okay… love you…” you squeeze his hand, “i love you more. just go to sleep, okay?” which convinces him to finally shut his eyes and let himself rest. maybe the sickness wasn’t gone yet, but he felt safe and comfortable, and that was enough.
WINTER'S TOUCH
the winter soldier x female!reader [14.9k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: in the shadows of hydra’s control, the winter soldier secretly finds refuge in you. in the safe sanctuary that is your apartment, he allows himself to be fed, tended to, and held, while he silently guards the woman who anchors him. every touch, every whispered reassurance, is a rebellion against a cruel world that tries to erase his humanity, and a reminder that even a weapon bred for destruction can crave love and safety.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: MDNI; non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; civilian!reader; reader is pierce's personal assistant at shield (didn't know about hydra until she met the soldier); pre-established relationship; angst; self-loathing; wounds & blood; trauma; violence & punishments & complicated relationship with food (fuck hydra); one (1) very brief panic attack; bucky is called winter; bucky uses broken english & short sentences; protective!bucky; size difference (yes he’s beefy and tall); caregiving dynamics (no ageplay; reader takes care of him & he lets her be in charge); fluff; showering together; emotional vulnerability & intimacy.
A/N: this is such an important story for me and I’m really glad it got so much love and support when it was first posted on my other blog. there are some changes, because I realized some parts didn't really fit the situation. at the very end you'll find a brief explanation about why I removed the smut part. I know it "sells" more than angst/fluff, but I hope you’ll enjoy the story anyway 💛
His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place.
This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different—and definitely purer—reason.
You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps.
The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street.
The echo of gunfire. An agonizing cry. The sharp, electric snap of orders obeyed too fast.
He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.
The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet.
He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first.
They never do.
He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. He didn’t know it was possible for something so human to exist, completely different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds.
One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale measured and unafraid.
Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.
Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a trembling hand hesitantly reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin.
Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes his chest tighten, yet the sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into your world.
Then, your eyes open.
You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.
“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.
He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… woke you.”
You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his cold wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”
That’s enough—being here.
You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.
“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he rigidly stands where he is.
“Winter.” You call out gently.
He shakes his head. “Dirty.”
You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.”
You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your laptop. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”
That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why.
“Or… you can come with me?” He gives you a sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.
In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, but he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment, nor mind.
Standing amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat, makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes.
“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”
The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now—small, like he’s holding something intense back.
You keep moving, deliberately slow, as you retrieve towels and test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him.
They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.
Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze.
“Do you want my help to undress?”
His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.
“Yes. Just… don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.
“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.
“Yes, please.”
It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt, your hands stopping short as you feel the weight of his head settle, now caressing his back instead.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You don’t seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”
You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.
Unknowingly to you, a faint blush spreads on his cheeks as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the mysterious Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra. A ghost. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love.
It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not sting anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.
He knows the sight makes you sad by the way the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadistic bastards. He hates himself for being the reason of your sadness, but there’s nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.
Another way he keeps failing you.
His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and his ears turn scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well—he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands.
With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; abruptly turning around, his eyes frantically fly left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.
“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.
“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, immediately complying. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be a song by your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago... he wouldn’t know. Music is a strange concept to him.
You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… there, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.
The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. It allows him to bring a part of you with him when he is forced to go back there.
“Smells good.”
It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions.
Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and almond shampoo?”
“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, the corners of his mouth twitching at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway.
“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning.
Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.
Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness.
Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them. To him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.
Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.
Just… to be cleaned.
When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.
“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?
“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”
You tilt your head, slightly confused.
“I want... to do it.”
“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug.
That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.
“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. It’s adorable how he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away.
When you are ready, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips.
Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. With eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he cleans all around. You stay quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied.
He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking.
“Okay?” He asks quietly.
You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”
So he does. He kneels, the tiles hard on his skin but he barely registers the dull ache. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons—thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath.
The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you as if he has all the time in the world. There’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch confident yet tender enough to never startle, cleaning each toe in the same systematic way he did with your fingers. His eyebrows twitch in sincere concentration, every motion conveying something akin to reverence.
At last, he rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.
When Winter’s finished, he stays where he is, water still dripping from his hair and blue eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks.
The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.
Hope that he’s done well.
Hope that this, at least, was done right.
You meet his gaze with a soft smile. “You did a perfect job.”
You notice the moment your words settle into him, seeping into his bones and reaching the most visceral part of his soul. On the outside, he simply nods, accepting the praise the only way he knows how: silently, but at least the tension he’s been holding loosens its final grip on his shoulders. As a matter of fact, he rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.
“You are clean too.” He utters, quietly proud.
“Thank you.” You smile.
Once you’re out, your hand reaches for his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.
You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.
“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.
You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you simply nod with a knot lodging itself in your throat.
“Alright.”
He dries you the same way he washed you, tenderly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing, bought specifically for him after the first time you met.
His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.
Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.
“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.
You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering on his broad chest just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.
“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that was chosen, not assigned.
He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.
“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.
You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help?”
“With clothes.”
Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. So the fresh pair of pajamas you picked is gently pried from your hands, before he bends down. He holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.
This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate: he follows easily, allowing you to decide where he should sit.
Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, but like setting it down somewhere safe. He is stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.
You kneel on the mattress in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.
For a moment, he’s here.
Then the stillness stretches.
The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.
His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.
“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”
Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He flinches just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.
“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”
You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers instantly fidget with it, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.
“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me, you are safe. Can you tell me five things you see?”
His mouth opens, then closes.
“… Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”
“Good. Four things you can touch.”
He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The—” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”
“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.”
He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… your voice.”
You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”
“Shampoo, and… soup.”
“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”
“I—water… from shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”
“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are, good job.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.
His breath catches. Then quieter, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go, “Winter.”
The way it rolls on your tongue like silk sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all.
Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.
Just Winter.
Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Blood crusted into his hair, fingers numb from the snow, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him—remembers the blank space where his name should have been.
“Then, I’ll call you Winter.” You stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it’s been plunged under water anymore.
“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”
Means he is here with you: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands.
The hand caressing his locks stills.
“I know.”
After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside.
“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”
Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”
“Of course.”
He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting.
When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand.
“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.
“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down, cheeks flushed. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into a bad memory.
He glances at it, then at you.
“You know… I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum, by morning.”
“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.
His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “… A bit.”
“Then we can take care of them so they don’t.” You add, softer now.
He looks taken aback for a moment, surprised at how simple you make everything sound. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.
You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.
“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”
He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin.
“You’re doing great.” You whisper. “How are you feeling?”
He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… here.” He says finally.
Your expression softens. “Good.”
Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, or reach for something new, your voice narrates.
“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”
“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”
“I’m almost done.”
The predictability steadies him, causing the rigid line of his spine to soften, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, and it’s enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again—an old reflex—so you pause immediately.
“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing shakily. “Yes.”
You unhurriedly wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist eventually goes lax. By the time you finish, he’s slightly leaning forward, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that his body feels safe enough.
Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.
He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut.
“Yes. But…” His fingers clutch the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.
“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”
You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely.
“Alright, let’s go slow, one foot at a time.” You keep mumbling, his steps sluggish and heavy.
The light in the kitchen is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on.
“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”
You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You expertly spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back, staring at your hands with half-lidded eyes.
The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you try not to shiver, instead focusing on adding the cheese, then placing the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.
Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.
When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.
“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat.” He agrees silently.
After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.
Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.
Food is… complicated.
Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming... something to manage carefully.
That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.
Things he knows and trusts by now.
Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the rich taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.
You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.
“Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.
“Hot.” He mutters.
“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”
Halfway through, he slows.
The spoon lowers, his gaze drifts to the plate, then somewhere far away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.
“We can wait.”
A few seconds pass, then a full minute. Winter shifts, all breath shallow and pink cheeks. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.
“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.
“Can you… ?” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, it’s not the first time he has asked you to feed him.
You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course, baby.”
Scooping a modest bite, you wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.
His lips part, trusting your timing. He swallows, exhales, nods faintly. And you watch him proudly, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.
“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”
When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter hastily wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you set everything back on the tray.
“Can I ask you something?” Leaning back, your turn your palm up so it rests on your thigh. An offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.
“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders—the left one.”
He tries to shake his head. It’s the instinctive denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He answers a little too quickly.
You never argue, yet you don’t look totally convinced.
“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”
Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars—the way his entire body had locked, every instinct screaming at him to pull away, to fight, and how he had forced himself to stay anyway, breath shallow, heart pounding like he was standing in the middle of a battlefield instead of your quiet room. The memory presses in now, not painful, but almost disorienting in its intensity, because nothing had happened, there was only your hands, warm and mindful.
“… Okay.” He agrees quietly.
The corners of your mouth lift relieved, and your hands promptly reach into the drawer beside the couch for a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.
“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. Meanwhile, you pour the liquid in your hands to warm it up. He watches the motion, the sweet intention behind it.
“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.”
He nods, shoulders raising and lowing deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.
The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.
“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”
Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.
“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”
Your palms settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as distress begins to give way.
When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. The marks are still flushed beneath your hands, the skin uneven and textured, a map of something that was never meant to heal cleanly. You slow even further, letting your movements grow lighter, more deliberate, using only the soft pads of your fingers as you begin to trace along the edges.
“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”
You keep your touch predictable, circling carefully, letting him feel exactly where you are at all times, the warmth sinking deeper rather than forcing it. The muscle beneath your hands is still tight, but no longer braced for impact, and when you finally move closer, it’s with the same patience, the same quiet assurance. He shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.
At that point you lean forward and press a soft kiss on one of the scars where skin meets something unyielding—brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.
The next inhale is sharp, hands curling in his lap.
“Okay?” You ask immediately.
“Yes…” he breathes. “Again. Please.”
You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with small kisses, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. Your lips are featherlight at first, it almost feels unreal, like they might vanish if either of you breathes too hard. You let them rest on his skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, sealing the place with care rather than trying to erase what it holds. For once, the metal is simply acknowledged, included. Treated with the same love as the rest of him.
You learned where to touch by trial and error—where his body locked, where it flinched. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.
He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first. When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him abruptly, and his body reacts before his mind can catch on.
His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire while shoulders square as if bracing for brutality. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks—a wordless signal that something else is about to begin.
He hates that his body betrays him even here.
But nothing happens.
No command, no pain, no hands forcing him down.
Instead, he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing his nape. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.
Winter lets out a strong gasp that almost hurts his throat.
For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands on the skull mean restraint, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, sliding gently through the strands.
The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions underneath him, his head tipped forward just enough to give you better access.
Permission, offered without words.
Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose—basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his efficiency. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about—the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you touch it with your usual tenderness, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be cut away, reshaped, erased.
Your fingers linger with unhurried patience, treating each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool of camouflage, an accident of neglect. With you, it’s just something worth loving.
“Today was… kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to bother him.
Your fingers separate a section of hair.
“Mh.”
“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”
You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.
“That… happen often?” He asks quietly.
“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”
Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic to the point his eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to the pleasant tingling sensation at the back of his head.
“Do you remember that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how emails work? Today he spilled coffee everywhere: papers, desk, his shoes... He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor, it was the first time he said more than one sentence.”
Winter breathes out, something akin to amusement. “Poor papers.”
“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him clean it up but he stomped around, shrieking that he could do it himself.”
He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.
“And then the elevator here got stuck. Again.” You sigh. “Well—not really stuck. It just stopped for a minute, but you know I get anxious in small spaces.”
He nods slightly. “I hear weird metal sounds,” he says. “Now.”
You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”
Your fingers let the braid unravel and start again, patient.
“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful sundress in the window, but the color… eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”
“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.
“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that shade of yellow. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”
His mouth twitches. “You… think a lot.”
“Too much.” You agree with a dejected sigh.
You then gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, causing him to exhale, long and slow. The line of his throat lengthens as his head unconsciously tips back, until he accidentally meets the solid warmth of your shoulder. The knot inside his stomach finally loosens, body going lax, trusting that you will support the weight.
When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, combing through the locks.
He could easily fall asleep like this.
The thought never fails to surprise him, because the idea of falling asleep without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it tiptoes at the edges,
A gift.
He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their moviments. Always checking, always attentive.
“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” Your voice is nothing short of a whisper.
“Better now.” He murmurs.
“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”
Your breath tickles his cheek when you sigh.
“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.
His answer is swift. “It is. For me.”
Your hands still in his hair without meaning to, caught mid-motion as the weight of his words settles somewhere low in your chest.
There’s no hesitation in his voice. He means it exactly as it is, and that kind of blunt sincerity hits deeper than you’re prepared for. Your heart doesn’t quite know how to contain it. The idea that your voice, your ordinary life, your presence alone can anchor him like this, can matter this much to someone, feels like a hand squeezing your lungs.
This man, shaped by a life that has taken and taken until there was barely anything left for himself, is offering you four words so simple and yet so impossibly devastating. There’s something unbearably precious in him, in the way he gives without realizing the importance of what he’s placing in your hands. He doesn’t see how his quiet affection unravels you each time, slipping past every defense you have built throughout the years spent here in this big city, alone and far from your family.
He just sits there, unaware, trusting, letting you hold him while you’re the one coming undone.
As soon as you feel the familiar sting behind your eyes, you draw in a slow, entirely too shaky breath, forcing your fingers to move again.
Before you speak, you have to clear your throat.
“Then I’ll keep talking.”
You shift behind him. It’s a small movement, just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but he reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.
His eyes snap open.
The world sharpens instantly, his heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. His hand shoots back, fingers curling into fabric and gripping your sweater at the hem until his knuckles turn white.
“Don’t—”
The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.
You freeze.
“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, tender and grounding. “I just wanted to get your shirt and the blanket.”
Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.
“Sorry.” He mutters.
You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.
When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then you pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.
The blanket faintly smells of your detergent, the scent keeping the edges of him from drifting apart as he grips it reflexively.
You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.
He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest on his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.
But then he feels it.
The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Calm. Steady.
Your breathing.
And beneath that, fainter but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.
Alive.
The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath… The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.
Winter inevitably presses closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own beat gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your breathing.
Meanwhile, you pick the remote and turn on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.
It’s the show you introduced him to months ago—something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast and cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.
It’s safe noise.
“This one… good?”
“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”
He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they bickered at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That’s what friends do, apparently.
“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as one of the protagonists keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused.
Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “You care. Is good.”
You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice way to put it.”
You go quiet for a moment, then continue, pensively. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven’t finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.
“They ruined it.” You whine dramatically. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”
Winter exhales through his nose, close to a laugh. “A crime.”
You chuckle at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show, as your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.
Eventually, you speak again.
“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”
He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”
“That’s the goal.”
He gathers enough courage to add. “You… make it better. Eating.”
Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.”
The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrowing again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the pressure of the blanket holding him together.
This... This is what matters.
Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.
He can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still here with you, safe.
His eyes flutter shut without he meaning to, sleep pulling at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the tension has been sanded down by love and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, still, his mind can’t quite settle yet.
The sigh escaping his nostrils is small but purposeful.
“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” Another nod, suddenly more awake.
You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion and his movements lethargic. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.
Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your body registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with unsurprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.
When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where one of the protagonists worries about menopause.
The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.
He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.
Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim.
He pauses, considering, then adds.
Did not hurt stomach.
His handwriting is uneven, but each letter is formed with intent, pressed harder than necessary, as if afraid it might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.
Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.
Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose. She wears it when too cold.
His grip tightens slightly on the pen. Flipping back a few pages, his eyes scan what he’s written on previous nights, focusing on continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it’s forgetting you.
They notice it before he can do something about it.
A second too slow to pull the trigger, the way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention.
Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.
They restrain him in a room that smells like metal and disinfectant, rough hands pull and prod at his skin, clipped and impersonal voices talk about him like an object.
He fights them harder than he ever has before. To remember.
He snarls, limbs thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.
Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your palms stroking his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees by gloved fingers.
He can’t lose that.
He can’t lose you.
“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please—I can’t—”
They don’t listen.
He twists free for half a second—enough to stumble back, enough for a spark of hope to deceptively ignite in his chest—and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced on the looming chair, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest, and a mouth guard forced between his teeth.
Panic explodes.
He screams.
Your name flicks over and over again in his mind, and he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it can’t be burned away.
The warmth. The quiet. The way your eyes light up when he finally comes home.
He begs fiercely for those moments to stay.
Then the world goes black.
A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and foggy fragments. His head feels hollow, like a forgotten room after furniture has been stripped out.
When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the static noise in his brain fades and the city falls asleep… His feet take him somewhere else.
The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.
His head hurts.
Then, the door opens.
You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you finds the courage to move.
Something is wrong. He could see it flash in your expression—shock, something like grief—and it makes his chest hurt inexplicably.
“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… here.”
Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your vision instantly blurs with tears, because his blue eyes are so... empty, yet he came here. Not by memory. Not by choice. Not in any way that makes sense, but something buried deeper than whatever they took from him still found you.
Crossing the room with measured steps, as if approaching a scared animal, you stop just short of touching him, like you are afraid he might vanish with a single brush of your fingertips.
“Winter.” You whisper.
A flicker, small and disoriented, passes through his expression, like a crack forming beneath the surface. His breathing stutters, just once, and for a second he looks like he’s caught between two places, two versions of himself that don’t quite align.
Then his gaze slips away from you. It drifts unfocused, like he’s trying to escape the weight of the moment, until it catches on something sitting on the coffee table. A notebook, plain and worn, nothing extraordinary, but the sight brings a frown to his face.
Why does that object suddenly feel important enough to be acknowledged?
“That.”
Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at.
“You—” Stopping yourself when your voice breaks, you take a moment to swallow back a sob and clear your throat. “You wrote it for—for moments like this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”
You carefully place it in his hands.
Inside, there are endless pages of his own messy handwriting.
She keeps me safe.
Not a weapon here.
I love her.
The words land one by one, heavy... devastating.
He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might keep his body from crumbling.
Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.
Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just his ordinary state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.
The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. The chair and the restraints are almost manageable. What haunts him the most is the look on your face when you realized Winter was gone.
He remembers the fear, that’s what stays with him.
After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. From the smell of your hair to the cadence of your soft laugh so you don’t wake your neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him.
He also starts writing more.
The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages, dates, details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.
Drinks her tea too hot.
Bounces her right knee when nervous.
He knows writing won’t save him, but the thought of waking up without any memory of you terrifies him more than pain ever has.
The fear also changes how he touches you. His fingers linger longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hands rest on your waist a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep.
He never confesses that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest could vanish, leaving nothing but orders.
He also becomes more careful with routine.
If he misses a visit, panic coils hot in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he frantically asks you where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals—a different kind of food, a different chair—he stiffens before he can stop himself.
So you learn to reassure him in new ways.
“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it together. I promise.”
The desperate urge to believe you is there, but his heart won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.
He is still here.
You are still here.
And for now, that has to be enough.
It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the exact moment he steps inside.
Your mug is wrong.
For starters, it’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. It’s also a different one—slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sole sight makes something inside his stomach churn.
You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.”
You weren’t expecting two visits in two days, not that you’re complaining.
Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh! The blue one is still in the dishwasher.”
His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.
“Okay.” He rushes out. “Okay.”
He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.
Your smile fades into a thin line.
Setting the dishcloth down, you call softly. “Winter, can you sit here for a second?” He hesitates.
“Please.” Your eyes are not as sparkly as usual, and that’s what makes him move, perching himself on the edge of his chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the plates of his metal arm hum faintly.
His eyes stubbornly fix on the floor as you open the dishwasher, pick the right mug, still wet and hot, and set it in front of him. A quiet exhale escapes him before he can stop himself.
“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.
“You panicked.” Not accusing, just stating a fact.
Winter shakes his head. “No. Just—the mug… not here.”
“There was a different mug. It was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”
His jaw tightens, still not looking at you. So you reach out, your hand resting over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”
Winter swallows.
“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”
Your breath catches.
“Didn’t know…” He quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters, but his lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I can’t forget this, I can’t forget you.”
Your other hand tentatively comes up to cradle his cheek, soft but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distress, almost close to bursting into tears.
“Baby,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”
He shakes his head, breath coming out dangerously fast. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out like a waterfall. “What if I walk here but don’t stop and—and don’t see you again?”
You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. His body stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once, tears already wetting your collarbones.
“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces, but they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”
“I’m scared.” He chokes on a sob, barely audible.
“I know, sweetheart. I am too.” You chin wobbles. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”
You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush his stubble. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue with a sniffle. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”
Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.
“But you need to tell me when it gets bad, my love.” You add. “You can’t just carry it alone.”
He nods, a small, shy movement. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
You rest your forehead against his, his body still trembling under your palms. Gradually, his shoulders lower, the panic ebbing vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow against the warmth of your chest.
That day, the Soldier learns that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.
On the bookshelf nearby, something colorful catches his peripheral vision. A photograph. His eyes squint faintly, not remembering having ever written about it. Walking with military precision, he retrieves it to study it under the low light. You look younger, standing with a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers.
Graduation.
He sits back on the couch.
Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.
He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Still, he frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.
Watched show. Cheesecake episode is my favorite.
Winter finally closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment his palm rests flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and secured.
He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.”
It’s never shaped as a command, yet you nod and stay on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal protectively pressed against your chest as your gaze follows him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately: spine straightening, eyes narrowing and breath recalibrating.
This is another version of him. Not the one who blushes when you call him sweetheart, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.
He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room comes first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice... because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.
The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.
That’s when he stops to listen. The building has a specific rhythm at night, he learned it in his second month here, the same way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours. The distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.
Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.
The windows come next. He just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.
Good.
There are things you don’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong, too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The suspicious absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.
Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and metal laid instinctively in the path of danger.
Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, when sleep turns against him and memories surface uninvited, too vivid and sharp. His body reacts accordingly, with a hand curling at his side as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.
You know the signs, and you talk him back every time, unfailingly.
Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades as your voice tenderly tells him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it. That here, he doesn’t have to worry about loud voices and aggressive hands. That you love him.
You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that, yet his eyes wet at your refusal to let him carry everything alone, at the way you fiercely fight to give him some respite.
It still takes him everything to not pull you back.
Winter’s not only good at spotting things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump because your lower back hurts, your hands faintly shaking when you’re anxious. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment—he just intervenes. Gently guides you to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you observe him with half-lidded eyes, beaming as he lines the edges up with meticulous precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. You can handle it, yes, but he wants your world intact, even in small ways.
He never tells you everything and because of that, his stomach often twists with guilt.
You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. His answers tiptoe around the truth, the sharp edges trimmed to not worry you more than he has already done. He leaves out the blood, the parts that would keep you awake at night, and when memories surface, too dark to contain, he removes himself, stepping away so the weight of them won’t taint your peace.
When you apologize with a small voice and unshed tears for constantly worrying about him, he shakes his head, strong arms already cocooning you in his warmth.
Winter also keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.
He teaches you safety in pieces small enough to not frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there, a careful demonstration of how to free yourself from unwelcome hands.
“Always look peephole first. Even if you wait for someone.”
“Leave lights on when not home too.”
“Don’t say you live alone.”
If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.
“Too crowded.”
“Only one emergency exit.”
And you prepare accordingly.
On rare days when he can stay longer—when missions are short or delayed—he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.
Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to assess the building from a distance. He always makes sure to check on you in his own ways.
So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.
By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have blurred with unavoidable exhaustion. You are now curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but your full attention instantly shifts on him when he sits beside you.
“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. “Everything okay?”
He nods once. “Good.”
“Do you want to go to bed?” He hums, promptly following you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you, like a shadow that isn’t meant to be threatening, his fingers still hooked into your shirt. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.
There’s something else he wants to do.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, searching for the right words without imposing. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly in hesitation.
“Uh,” he starts. Gapes. Then tries again. “We… do face thing?”
You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”
“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”
There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes studying your face with a smile.
“If you’re not too tired.”
His answer is immediate, punctuated by a firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”
It isn’t a lie. His body is drained, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.
The corners of your lips lift in amusement. “Okay. Come on, then.”
The first time you introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.
His blue, confused eyes follow your movements as you adjust the Shrek headband on his head. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend.
“What?” Winter frowns over your shoulder, staring down at the two colorful face mask packets.
“These are face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost.” You explain, opening the first one.
Winter’s eyebrows rise in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the foreign object. “Cold?”
“Yep, they’re a little cold.” You carefully unravel the mask sheet.
“Pretty?” You hum in confusion. “My skin pretty like yours with… this mask?”
Oh.
You look up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blink down at you, curious and innocent.
“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gain a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”
He tries his best to stay still as you set it on his face, your lips twisting into an amused grin at his grimace when one hem briefly gets caught on his left eye. You carefully smooth the mask on his features, before pulling away to admire your work.
Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.
“Alright?”
“Sticky.” Winter mutters as his eyes glance up at the mirror, studying his face.
You tear open the other pack, giggling. “It’s just for a few minutes, I swear.”
His nose wrinkles at the reflection staring back at him. His face feels wet, and the mask actually forces him to keep his chin up, worried it might suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loves the way you touch him to apply your little products right after. He also can’t deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cup his cheeks to check for any left over cream? He melts into your hold like ice cream under the sun. But it’s only when you lean over him a little at the end to peck his lips that Winter promises himself to never skip skincare.
You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.
“Wolf?”
You nod. “Wolf.”
He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, the fuzzy feeling prompting him to close his eyes and hum under his breath.
You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his following visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.
You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to, drinking all your details in: from the way you unconsciously lean forward to examine your skin, to the small crease between your brows when you floss. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the people they love, arguing about the correct way to squeeze toothpaste. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.
“Okay?”
He nods a little embarrassed. “I like this.”
Your smile softens. “Me too.”
Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.
“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount on your palm.
“Cleans skin?”
“Correct.” You smile brightly, working it on his face carefully, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation of your thumbs circling his cheekbones, and the mild, clean scent that causes his nostrils to flare.
The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.
“This is funny.” He murmurs when you unfold the pattern of a panda.
You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”
He shrugs, lips twitching. “Animals are cute.”
You put on yours while he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each label. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.
“Serum.” Winter mentions suddenly. “What do?”
“Serum helps with a lot of things. Let’s say it gives skin the support it needs.”
He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.
“Sunscreen?”
“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”
He frowns indignantly. “You are not old.”
You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”
With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?”
“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”
He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.
He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your eyes light up at his curiosity. He loves this version of you—relaxed and smiling. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he’s not allowed to be part of.
When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.
“Mh, moisturizer...” You mumble absently. “Now where did I put that?”
Your fingers are gentle when you finally smooth the cream into his skin, the movement unhurried, almost reverent. The texture melts beneath your touch, and you take your time with it, tracing along the lines of his face, easing it especially into his forehead and nose, where the skin looks particularly dry.
He leans forward slightly without seeming to realize it, naturally drawn toward the contact. When you finish, Winter doesn’t move.
He waits expectantly, holding completely still. Finally, his patience is rewarded.
The press of your lips is a chaste, little thing, but his entire body locks for a fraction of a second, a slow, unmistakable wave of heat rising through him, creeping up his neck and into his face before he can regain control of it. The kiss ends too soon, yet when his eyelids flutter open, he pushes down the need to caress his lips, still tingling with the memory of your mouth. They part slightly enough for the tip of his tongue to lick them to try and taste you again.
For a moment, he just sits uselessly, gaping as his heart does some embarrassing cartwheel in his ribcage. Then he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn now.”
Your smile is radiant when his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer on your face with precise movements, not caring about the way his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without the urge to hide out of embarrassment.
When Winter hums satisfied, you know he’s finished. Once your eyes open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.
“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.
His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. He simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you—quick, shy, barely there.
You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?”
He reaches for your hand with a nod, fingers threading through yours.
The mattress dips under your weight, sheets rustling softly and pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, your arms relaxed at your sides.
Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging motionless at his sides for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, cozy haven where the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.
“How do you want to sleep?”
Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much might be a burden.
He swallows, shifting forward, movements clumsy enough that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in action elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now, nor is control. So he awkwardly climbs onto the soft bed, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs, before hovering for half a second and checking your face for any sign of discomfort.
“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.
Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his strength. He would never forgive himself for hurting you, even by accident.
When he’s comfortable enough, his head finally rests on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself.
The effect is immediate.
Your heartbeat meets his ear, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.
His body exists in a world that is often abstract—rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But here, your heart gives shape to time, each beat a proof of continuity.
He adjusts his head again, angling his cheek so his lips are directly brushing the fabric of your shirt. The movement of your chest is calming and deep, and without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. His body sinks further when your palm settles between his shoulders, while your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.
“Are you comfortable, baby?” With a simple nod, the fluttering in your stomach eases, and you wish him a good night, punctuated by a soft peck on his forehead.
His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name.
“Thank you.”
“Rest, my love. Tonight, I’ll keep everything else far away from you.”
You keep stroking his back until you eventually drift off as well.
The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom timidly. Winter would have slept longer, lulled by your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises abruptly, and he forces to stay still for a long moment, before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.
“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”
“I can’t.” You mumble, voice tight. “Not today.”
It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door.
And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.
Under different circumstances, you’d probably try to bribe Winter to stay under the covers with you, ignore your responsibilities and spend the entire day lazing away and making love. But your situation is not normal, and your body hurts as if a million needles are pricking your skin; the urge to move, to do something to exorcise your heartbreak claws restlessly under your ribs.
You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail.
“No, or I never leave.”
You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it’s because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one and only to elicit such a melodious sound out of you.
You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk.
Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your waist with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line and your gaze lingers a fraction too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers deliberately brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.
Once you secure the final strap, your hand finds its place on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.
He wants to say something, anything to make this easier… but the truth is, nothing can.
When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit—apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.
Tears burn the back of his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit, a small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.
His blue eyes firmly fix on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before hurriedly stepping forward to tug you into his arms. His face presses into the slope of your neck, desperately clinging to the familiar shape of your body like it’s the only real thing left.
This is what he hates the most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.
And how wrong it seems to walk away from it.
Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.
Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.
When Winter looks at you, he lifts a shaky hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another on your lips.
“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Going to normal work.”
Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to an ordinary job crosses your mind. Maybe in a different lifetime, when you are a wife kissing her husband goodbye. Or a girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend’s arms at the promise of a romantic date. A world where he gets to live his life without vicious control.
Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”
The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.
You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you—an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.
“Remember me.” You choke out.
“Always.” He breathes out, hands clutching the back of your sweater.
“I love you.”
Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”
Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door.
The first step forward makes his jaw clench, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.
You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to prevent your body from shattering into a million pieces. Your wet eyes desperately wander all over his form, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Still, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this—serene, safe.
He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.
To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.
By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.
— ⟢ END NOTES: some of you may know that I’m not a big fan of the daddy/mommy kink, I discussed it briefly in a post a few months ago. I still insert it some rare times, because I believe it fits naturally in some stories, but I wasn't really sure about this one. as a matter of fact, I kept re-reading it after posting it and eventually I came to dislike it. I decided to remove it and with it, there have been some changes concerning the smut part. the reason is very simple: the focus of this story is taking care of the winter soldier, studying a different side of him, and yet at some point I felt like the smut became somehow the main protagonist. in the end, I decided to scrap it completely. I kept re-writing it, but then I just realized that a sexual scene didn’t fit all this. he feels comfortable enough to interact with the reader sexually, which shows a deep level of trust. he feels safe enough to be this vulnerable in a context so fragile and emotionally charged... but I wanted it to happen differently, to convey something different. I already have the scene outlined in my mind, it just wasn't right for the situation. and I guess this opens the possibility for a part 2. thank you so much for reading 💛
my masterlist: → winteryn's masterlist
enemies to lovers! (size kink warning) this one is loooong
Very few things managed to truly burrow under your skin.
A Gryffindor celebrating a win like they’d personally invented victory. Someone leaving their disgusting mess for house-elves to deal with. And, most infuriating of all, Theodore Nott.
He was a constant, walking irritation. The crude, suggestive jokes he lobbed specifically to make your cheeks burn, the dark, rolling timbre of his laugh that reached you no matter how loud the room or how hard you tried to ignore it, and those damn storm-grey eyes that always , always, found you like they were hunting.
Tonight, though, he wasn’t just looking.
He was staring.
You’d pushed far beyond your usual boundaries for this last-minute Ravenclaw party. The black dress you’d chosen clung to every dangerous curve you normally kept hidden beneath tailored robes. Low-cut enough to feel sinful, short enough that every step reminded you how exposed you were. The firewhisky your dance partner kept tipping into your mouth had set your blood alight. Your skin tingling, cheeks flushed, the room pulsing in time with your heartbeat.
You didn’t even know his name properly. Jake? Jacob? Something forgettable. What you did notice was the clean, cedar-and-citrus scent of his cologne, the confident way his hands settled on your waist, the warm drag of his palms as they slid lower, guiding your hips to the heavy bass. For once you let yourself sink into it, let your body roll against his, let your fingers trail up the back of his neck. A small rebellion. A reminder that you didn’t need anyone’s permission to feel good.
But Theodore Nott's stupidly handsome face was ruining it.
He hadn’t moved from his spot against the far wall. His long legs crossed at the ankle, cigarette hanging loosely between two long fingers, smoke curling lazily upward. His eyes were locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach clench. The easy smirk he usually wore was gone. In its place was something darker. Jaw tight, pupils blown, a muscle ticking beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone.
You should have looked away.
Instead you arched your back a little more dramatically, pressed your ass back against your partner’s hips, let your head tip back onto his shoulder so your throat was bared. If Theo wanted to glare, let him choke on the sight.
Theo wished he was choking.
It would be a cleaner explanation for the vise tightening around his throat every time that Hufflepuff prick’s hands wandered a fraction too low, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your hip like he had any claim to you. Choking would be easier than admitting to Enzo, to Blaise, to fucking anyone that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, of all people. The same sharp-tongued Slytherin who’d spent years trading venom with him like it was fucking foreplay.
He hated almost everything about you.
The way your smart-ass mouth could cut deeper than any hex, quick and precise, always aimed right at his ego. The infuriating kindness you showed everyone else. Your dumb soft smiles for first-years, easy laughs with the girls in the common room, even a patient ear for that whiny Ravenclaw prefect who wouldn’t shut up about N.E.W.T.s. Everyone but him. To Theo, you were ice and barbs, and he reveled in melting that frost just to watch you flush crimson and spit fire back.
He loved to fluster you. Loved the way your eyes would narrow, lips parting in outrage before you snarled something cutting. Loved pushing until your composure cracked and you shoved him against a wall or stormed off with that delicious sway in your hips.
What he did not love—what was currently carving a hole through his chest—was that fucking dress. Black fabric so tight it looked painted on, clinging to every dip and swell like it was daring him to peel it off. The neckline plunged low, silver snake pendant glinting between the soft swell of your breasts with every breath. The hem skimmed scandalously high, flashing perfect thigh with each sway to the music. Why did you even own something so offending? And that Hufflepuff nerd was treating your waist like his personal playground.
Theo’s cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers, ash crumbling to the floor as he watched the boy’s palm slide lower, cupping the underside of your ass for one brazen second. Your head tipped back on a laugh all light and tipsy and fucking irritating. Something in Theo’s gut twisted viciously at just the idea of you leaving with him.
Before the thought could even solidify fully in his mind and before he could talk himself out of it with another drag of smoke or a muttered curse. Theo crushed the cigarette under the heel of his boot, the ember hissing out against the sticky floor like a warning he ignored.
Ruining your little dance was better than letting you slip away into some dimly lit corridor with that spineless Hufflepuff, letting him fumble through disappointing, half-hearted sex that would leave you unsatisfied and scowling tomorrow. Really, if you thought about it, he was doing you a favor. Protecting you from mediocrity.
He cut through the crowd like a shadow given purpose, long strides eating distance until he was right behind your date. You didn’t startle when his presence registered—didn’t flinch at the sudden wall of heat and cedar-and-smoke cologne that enveloped you both. Your partner, though? He stiffened instantly, shoulders hunching as if he’d felt the blade before it even touched skin.
Theo’s eyes were cold steel, lips curved in that dark, amused tilt that promised violence wrapped in velvet. The Hufflepuff spun, took one look at the towering Slytherin looming over him with broad shoulders blocking the light, jaw clenched, grey eyes promising something psychotic. The color drained from his face before you even made eye contact.
“S-sorry, I—uh—getting a drink,” he stammered, tail tucked so fast it was almost comical. Then he was gone, melting into the throng like he’d never existed.
You feigned disappointment beautifully, eyes narrowing into slits as you turned to face the culprit. Chin high, lips pursed in that way that always made Theo want to bite them until they bled. “Do you need something, Nott? Think scaring my date off is going to finally get me to fuck you?”
Theo closed his eyes for one single, measured second, inhaling through his nose, forcing the red haze of rage and raw want back behind his teeth. He wanted to bend you over the nearest table right then, yank that sinful dress up around your waist, and spank your ass raw until it glowed crimson, until tears streaked your cheeks and you sobbed apologies between broken moans. The fantasy alone made his cock throb painfully against the confines of his trousers, thickening further at the memory of how you’d looked strutting past him earlier in this horrible dress.
He didn’t think twice.
One hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your waist and yanking you flush against him hard enough that your breasts crushed to his chest, hips slotting together with brutal precision. His erection dug shamelessly into your lower belly, thick and insistent through the fabric, letting you feel exactly what your little show had done to him.
His breath was hot against the shell of your ear, voice a low growl that vibrated straight down your spine. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
A shiver ripped through you traitorous and immediate. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, slick heat blooming between them at the dark promise in his tone. Your voice came out embarrassingly breathy, cheeks burning despite yourself. “Yeah? Or what?”
Theo’s free hand slid up, cupping the back of your neck, his thumb pressing just under your jaw, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to meet his molten gaze. His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, not quite a kiss, more a threat.
“Or I’ll fuck it,” he whispered, each word deliberate, filthy. “Right here. Shove you to your knees in front of every single person in this room, pull that smart mouth open, and stuff my cock down your throat until you’re choking on me. Until the only thing you can say is my name around my dick.”
Your breath hitched audibly, nipples hardening against the thin fabric of your dress, core clenching around nothing at the vivid image. You hated how wet the threat made you, hated how your body responded to his violence like it was praise.
Theo felt the subtle tremor in your frame, the way your hips shifted forward just enough to grind against the hard length pressing into you. His grip tightened, possessive, bruising.
“You think that little Hufflepuff could ever make you this worked up?” he murmured, lips grazing your pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to sting. “He’d fumble, come too fast, leave you aching and unsatisfied. Me? I’d ruin you. Split you open on my cock until you’re sobbing, begging, coming so hard you forget how to hate me.”
Your hands fisted in his shirt, whether to shove him away or pull him closer, you aren't sure. “You’re delusional.”
“Liar.” His thigh wedged between yours without warning, pressing up against the damp heat soaking through your lace. The friction sent sparks shooting up your spine; a soft, involuntary whimper escaped before you could swallow it.
Theo’s eyes darkened to near-black. “Doesn't feel like I'm delusional sweetheart. Now tell me again how much you hate me while you’re dripping down my thigh.”
You opened your mouth but he swallowed any sound you could make with a bruising kiss. All teeth and fury and years of tension snapping like a curse finally cast. You bit back just as hard, nails raking down his back, tasting smoke and whisky and the sharp edge of everything you’d both pretended not to want.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing ragged, foreheads pressed together.
“Upstairs,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Now. Or I make good on that promise right here.”
You didn’t argue.
You let him haul you through the crowd with his hand possessive on the small of your back, erection still evident, pulse roaring between your legs, knowing the night was about to burn everything you’d built between you to ash.
The door clicked shut with a finality that echoed in the sudden quiet, the muffled bass from the party downstairs now just a distant throb, like a second heartbeat.
Theo didn’t give you time to breathe.
He spun you, shoved your back against the wood so hard the breath punched out of your lungs in a soft gasp. The impact rattled your spine, but the sting was nothing compared to the heat of him crowding in immediately after. His broad chest pinning you, hips grinding forward so you felt every thick, insistent inch of his cock straining against his trousers.
One large hand roamed greedily, shamelessly. Palm sliding up your dress to cup the heavy swell of your breast, thumb dragging rough circles over your nipple until it peaked hard beneath the thin fabric. The other hand yanked his shirt over his head in one impatient motion, muscles flexing and rippling under pale skin dusted with dark hair. He tossed the shirt somewhere behind him without looking, but your mouth runs dry at the sight.
Merlin, he was devastating.
Every line of him carved like he’d been sculpted to ruin you. Sharp collarbones, defined pecs that shifted with each ragged breath, the deep cut of his V disappearing into low-slung trousers, abs tightening as he pressed closer. A faint scar curved along his left ribcage as if proof he wasn’t just pretty but also dangerous made your core clench around nothing.
You hated how perfect he was. Hated how it made the ache between your thighs sharpen into something painful.
No time to dwell on your hatred. Theo’s fingers hook into the fragile lace of your soaked panties that cling obscenely to your folds and shoves them down your thighs in one brutal tug. The fabric caught briefly on the swell of your ass before sliding to pool at your ankles. He stepped back half a pace, just enough to rake his gaze over you like he was memorizing every filthy detail.
Your dress was rucked up around your hips, silk bunched and wrinkled. Thighs slick with your own arousal, glistening in the low lamplight filtering through the cracked window. Hair a wild tangle from his earlier grip, lips swollen and red from biting back moans, cheeks flushed a deep, guilty crimson. Eyes glassy, pupils blown wide with want and fury in equal measure.
He stared like you were art he’d waited years to defile.
A masterpiece, he thought. Every forbidden fantasy he’d buried under layers of spite and cigarettes finally breathing in front of him. Wet. Trembling. His to take.
You reached for the hem of your dress, fingers trembling as you started to drag it over your head, needing to feel skin on skin, needing more.
Theo’s hand snapped around your wrist like iron. Hard and unyielding. He pinned it above your head against the door, the wood cool against your knuckles.
“The dress stays on,” he rasped, voice wrecked, thick with Italian gravel and something darker. His thumb pressed into the racing pulse at your inner wrist, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird. “I’ve spent all night imagining bending you over in this fucking thing. Watching it ride up while I fuck you stupid. You don’t get to take it off until I’ve ruined it.”
Your breath hitched in half protest, half plea. The silk was already clinging damply to your skin where you’d leaked onto it, the fabric suddenly too tight and imposing.
Theo released your wrist only to slide both hands under the hem, palming your bare ass and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into the small of his back as he ground his clothed cock against your dripping center. The rough drag of his zipper and the hard heat beneath it made you whimper loud, broken, embarrassing.
“Feel that?” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you open that smart fucking mouth. Every time you glare at me like you want to hex me into next week.” He rocked forward again, deliberate, letting the ridge of him catch against your swollen clit. “And now you’re going to take every inch while this dress is still on you. So when you walk out of here later with your legs shaking and cunt still dripping. You'll feel me with every fucking step and remember exactly who ruined this sinful dress.”
You tried to snap something back, some cutting retort or some kind of denial, but it dissolved into a moan when his fingers found your entrance, two sliding in without preamble. Deep. Rough. Curling immediately against a deep spot that made your vision blur around the edges.
“Fuck—Theo-”
“There it is,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice low and filthy. Deep rooted satisfaction bloomed behind his chest, the nickname slipping out so easily when you've refused to use anything but his full name in years. “My name on that pretty mouth. Say it again while I stretch you open. Tell me how much you hate me while your pussy sucks my fingers like it’s starving.”
He pumped harder, scissoring, thumb finding your clit and rubbing merciless circles. Your hips bucked, chasing, thighs trembling around his waist. The door rattled hard with every thrust of his hand and even you, miss perfect, couldn't seem to care about the prospect of anyone hearing you.
“You’re going to come like this first,” he ordered, teeth sinking into the soft skin below your ear hard enough to mark. “Gonna soak my hand, then I’m flipping you around, bending you over and fucking you until you can’t remember why you ever hated me in the first place.”
Your nails scored down his bare back, leaving red trails he’d happily wear like badges tomorrow.
“Promise?” you gasped, pleasure taking over every rationale part of your brain.
Theo’s laugh was dark, dangerous “Trust me, sweetheart,” he breathed, curling his fingers harder, faster, “I promise.”
Your orgasm hit like an explosion. Shattering, violent, thighs locking around him as you pulsed and clenched, slick coating his wrist, dripping down to stain the silk bunched at your hips. You cried out his name unabashed and he swallowed the sound with a bruising kiss, drinking every tremor, every broken whimper.
The tremors still rippled through your thighs in aftershocks that made your knees threaten to buckle when Theo flipped you with brutal economy.
One hand fisted the silk bunched at your waist, the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, and he spun you so your front slammed back against the door. The wood was cool and unyielding against your overheated skin; your cheek pressed flat to it, breasts crushed to the panels, nipples scraping painfully sensitive through the thin fabric with every heaving breath. The latch rattled faintly from the force.
He wished, fiercely and uncharacteristically irrationally, that he’d dragged you all the way down twisting corridors to the Slytherin dungeons. To his own four-poster, heavy drapes drawn, sheets already carrying his scent. Somewhere he could chain this moment, repeat it until sunrise, mark you so thoroughly that even if this was the only night he ever got inside you, you’d wake up tomorrow feeling him in every bruised inch of your body. Just in case you never let him again.
But patience had died somewhere between the wall downstairs and the first landing. This anonymous room above Ravenclaw Tower with it's bare stone, single narrow window letting in pale moonlight and faint smell of dust and old books, would have to be enough. The door would have to be enough.
Your back arched immediately, involuntarily, spine curving like it had been trained to seek him out. Your cunt throbbed in vicious, oversensitive pulses, still swollen, still leaking from your release. Every tiny shift of your hips made the ruined silk drag across your folds, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly he’d already wrecked you.
Theo stepped in close. His bare chest pressed to your back, skin fever-hot, heart slamming against your shoulder blades. One long arm snaked around your front; calloused fingers wrapped around the slim column of your throat, not squeezing just yet. Possessive. Just like all the times he'd thought of this in his head, he almost moaned at just the idea he was choking slytherin's only good girl. His thumb stroked once along the frantic flutter of your pulse while his other hand shoved between your bodies, guiding himself.
He kicked his trousers and boxers aside in one impatient motion. The heavy length of him sprang free thick, flushed dark, veins standing out under pale skin, the blunt head already glistening with pre-cum. It slapped wetly against the curve of your ass before he angled it down.
No warning.
The fat head shoved against your soaked entrance, parting slick folds with inexorable pressure. Your whole body locked up. Muscles seizing, breath snagging sharp in your chest as the sheer size registered all over again. He was impossibly thick, stretching you open inch by burning inch even before he’d pushed inside properly. The stretch was obscene: a deep, aching burn that bordered on too much, the kind that made your eyes water and your thighs tremble harder.
There was no possible way you could take all of him.
No fucking way.
And there was absolutely zero chance in hell you’d ever admit it out loud.
Theo felt it instantly—the sudden, involuntary clench of your walls, the way your whole body locked up the second he tried to push an inch deeper.
He really should have known.
Some smug, rational corner of his mind had always known.
He was big. Thick. Unapologetically so. He’d never had to wonder whether a girl could take him; most of them either begged for it or tapped out early with wide eyes and shaky apologies. But you? Your perfect, dripping cunt had never been properly stretched, never been forced to make room for someone like him. Of course it hadn’t. Look at the boys you let touch you. Look at the soft-handed loser you danced with downstairs, the ones who probably came in their trousers before they even got your dress off. They’d never come close to filling you the way he was about to.
Your body knew it too, even if your mouth would never admit it.
The tension snapped through you like a taut wire, your spine stiffening against his chest, thighs quivering, breath catching in sharp, shallow hitches. Your walls fluttered wildly around the blunt head of him, clenching in reflexive panic, trying to push him out even as your traitorous body betrayed you in the most humiliating way possible. Another hot, slippery rush of slick coating his cock, dripping down the seam of your folds and onto the floorboards beneath you.
He could feel every pulse of resistance, every helpless spasm as your cunt fought to accommodate him.
And fuck if that didn’t make him harder.
Theo’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding for a second as he forced himself to hold still barely an inch deeper than before, letting you feel the impossible stretch, letting you feel exactly how much of him was still waiting. His hand on your throat flexed once, thumb stroking the frantic flutter of your pulse like he was soothing a wild animal.
His grip on your throat tightened just enough. Not cruel, but deliberate. Commanding. The pressure curled your spine further back against his chest, forcing your head to tip, neck arching in a long, vulnerable line so you had no choice but to look at him over your shoulder.
Storm-grey eyes met yours and held. Dark. Molten. Pupils blown so wide the silver was nothing but thin, razor-sharp rings around endless black. He looked wrecked already. Sweat beading at his temples, dark curls clinging damply to his forehead, lips parted on shallow, ragged breaths, and still somehow in complete control. Like he could unravel you with nothing more than that stare.
“Relax,” he rasped, voice pure gravel and smoke, fraying at the edges with the effort it took not to just snap his hips forward and bury himself to the hilt. His lips brushed the shell of your ear soft, almost tender, before his teeth grazed the sensitive skin there. A slow, deliberate scrape that sent fresh heat flooding between your thighs.
“Finally figured out how to get you to shut the fuck up.” The words were low, mocking, laced with dark satisfaction. He rocked forward another torturously shallow inch, barely anything, but enough to make your walls flutter and burn, enough to drag a choked whimper from your throat that you couldn’t swallow back.
“You took my fingers, baby,” he murmured, lips curving against your ear in something too feral to be called a smile. “Two of them. Deep. Stretching you open while you soaked my hand and begged with those pretty little gasps. You can take my cock.”
Another slow, relentless push. The thick ridge of him dragged against every swollen, oversensitive inch inside you. Your cunt spasmed, clenching hard in reflexive protest even as more slick leaked out around him, dripping obscenely down the seam of your folds, coating his balls, trickling warm and sticky onto the floorboards beneath you both.
Theo groaned low, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back where he pressed against you. His free hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough with something dangerously close to awe. “Trying so fucking hard to keep that smart mouth closed now. But your pussy’s telling the truth, isn’t it? Clenching around me like it’s scared I’ll pull out. Dripping like you’ve been waiting as long as I have for this.”
The stretch was vicious. A deep, searing burn that radiated outward from where he was splitting you open, every ridge and vein dragging against your swollen, oversensitive walls like he was carving his claim into you one brutal centimeter at a time. Tears pooled hot and immediate in the corners of your eyes, not from pain alone but from the overwhelming collision of too much and not enough. Your body screaming it couldn’t possibly take more while your cunt clenched greedily around him, betraying every hateful word you’d ever spat in his direction.
He still held your head angled back by the throat, fingers firm around your pulse, forcing you to keep looking at him over your shoulder. No escape. No hiding the way your lips trembled, the way your pupils were blown wide with a mix of fury and want, the way tears clung to your lashes before one finally slipped free and tracked down your cheek.
Your thighs shook violently, muscles quivering so hard they threatened to give out. Your nails scraped uselessly at the wood above your head, leaving faint, desperate gouges in the ancient oak as if you could claw your way out of this moment, out of him. A broken sound tore from your throat before you could clamp your teeth down on it. The satisfied look on his face was enough to piss you off.
“Fuck. You.”
The words came out wrecked, breathy, more plea than insult. Your voice cracked on the last syllable, raw from screaming his name earlier, from biting back every whimper he’d already dragged out of you tonight.
Theo’s thumb stroked once along the frantic hammer of your pulse, the barest whisper of tenderness in the middle of all this violence. His lips curved against the shell of your ear, dark and dangerous.
“Oh trust me,” he rasped, voice low and frayed, thick with the same barely-leashed rage that had simmered between you for years. “I plan to, all night long.”
He punctuated the words with another slow, punishing roll of his hips and burying that last thick inch until he was seated so deep you felt him in your fucking throat. The blunt head kissed your cervix with brutal precision; your whole body locked up in a full shudder, walls spasming wildly around the impossible girth of him. Slick gushed out around where you were joined. Hot, obscene, dripping steadily down your thighs, coating his balls, pooling on the floorboards beneath you both with soft, wet patters that echoed in the quiet room.
You hate him.
Hate how perfectly he fills you.
Hate how your body arches back into him like it had been waiting for this exact moment for years.
Hate the way fresh tears slip free even as your hips tilted higher, silently begging for more.
Theo felt every tremor, every flutter, every helpless clench. His free hand slid from your hip to palm the curve of your ass. Fingers digging in hard enough to leave crescent bruises before he cracked his palm down once, sharp and stinging. The slap rang out; your cunt clamped down so hard around him he groaned low in his throat, hips stuttering for the first time.
“Still hate me?” he growled, lips brushing the tear track on your cheek, tasting salt. “Still want to pretend this isn’t exactly what you’ve been dripping for every time you glared at me across the common room? Every time you shoved past me in the corridor and your breath hitched?”
Another thrust harder this time. The door rattled violently behind you. Your breasts dragged against the wood through the silk, nipples scraping painfully into sensitive peaks that sent sparks straight to your core.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice fraying into something darker, more desperate. “Tell me to fuck off while your pussy milks me like it’s terrified I’ll stop. Tell me you hate me while you’re crying on my cock.”
Every thrust he gave you made your stomach warm, low molten heat spreading outward like liquid fire, coiling tighter with each brutal snap of his hips. The door at your back rattled in time with the rhythm he set: deep, punishing, unhurried enough to make you feel every single inch dragging out before slamming back in. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, still hypersensitive from the last orgasm he’d ripped out of you, every ridge and vein stroking places you didn’t even know could ache like this.
His hand on your throat flexed, squeezing just enough to make stars flicker at the edges of your vision while his other palm slid down to grip the front of your hip, holding you hard against him. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed obscenely in the small room, mingling with the slick sounds of your arousal coating him, dripping down your thighs in steady, shameful rivulets.
“You can spit venom at me tomorrow,” he continued, voice fraying at the edges with his own building need. “You can glare across the common room and pretend this never happened. But we both know the truth.”
He pulled back almost all the way leaving you empty, aching, walls fluttering around nothing, then slammed home again, burying himself so deep your toes curled against the floorboards.
“You’ll always want more after tonight.”
The words land like a hex so quiet, certain, devastating. Because he was right. You hated that he was right. Hated how your body arched back into him, hips tilting higher despite yourself, chasing the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness only he's ever given you. Hated how fresh tears slipped down your cheeks even as your cunt spasmed around him again, milking him like it never wanted to let him go.
Theo’s forehead dropped to the curve of your shoulder for a heartbeat, breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“Fuck—Theo—”
“Look at me,” he growled, fingers flexing tighter around your throat enough pressure to make your head spin sweetly, enough to remind you who owned this moment. “Watch my face while I fill this greedy little cunt.”
You obeyed with glassy eyes, lips parted on shallow pants, staring back at him as he sank impossibly deeper.
“So fucking tight,” Theo growled against the shell of your ear, voice raw and frayed, each word punched out in time with the brutal snap of his hips. “You can hate me forever. But I’m the only one who gets to fuck this pussy.”
Your head was spinning with pleasure crashing into the sweet, dizzy pressure around your throat, blurring the line between oxygen deprivation and the white-hot ecstasy building low in your belly. His fingers flexed once, loosening just a fraction, just enough for you to drag in a ragged, desperate breath—before he slammed back into you, hard and deep, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls like a curse being cast over and over.
“Fucking say it,” he snarled, teeth sinking into the soft skin below your ear hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark. His hand on your throat tightened again, rhythmic, possessive, making stars burst behind your closed lids. “Say who this cunt belongs to now.”
Your voice came out wrecked, high and broken, trembling on the edge of another shattering orgasm.
“You, Theo, please.”
The words slipped out soft, broken, desperate and the second they hit the air, something in Theo snapped.
There was a time, not long ago, when he was certain hell would freeze over before you ever begged him for anything. Before you’d ever let that pretty mouth form his name like a plea instead of a curse. He’d spent years imagining it in the dark corners of his mind. Your voice cracking, your pride crumbling, you finally admitting what he already knew: that beneath all the venom and glares, you wanted him just as badly as he wanted to ruin you.
And now here you were.
Begging.
For him.
Gods, he had a sickening feeling he'd do whatever you asked if you just tacked the word please on the end.
His pace turned feral.
He slammed into you faster, each thrust a punishing claim that rattled the door on its hinges and knocked the breath from your lungs in sharp, staccato gasps. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin filled the room, louder than the distant party thump, louder than your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. His cock drove deep, relentless, the thick head kissing your cervix with every brutal snap of his hips until stars burst behind your closed lids.
Your eyes rolled back, whites flashing, head thunking against the wood as pleasure overloaded every nerve. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but feel him: the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness that made your toes curl against the floorboards and your thighs quake uncontrollably.
“Again,” he growled, voice wrecked and commanding, lips pressed to the sweat-slick curve of your neck. His hand on your throat sliding up to fist your hair instead, yanking your head back so he could see your face. “Say it again. Beg me like you fucking mean it.”
“T-Theo—ah!—fuck—please!”
His name fell from your lips like a chant, broken and breathless, each syllable punched out by the next punishing thrust. Tears streamed freely now with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, dripping down your cheeks to mix with the sweat and the faint smear of mascara.
“That’s it,” he rasped, teeth grazing your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to leave another blooming mark. “My name. Only my fucking name. No one else gets to hear you like this. No one else gets to feel this perfect little pussy.”
He angled his hips, shifting just enough, and the ridge of him dragged over a swollen, sensitive spot inside you with devastating accuracy. Once. Twice. Relentless.
“Come,” he ordered, voice fraying. “Come on my cock right here, milk me while you scream my name into this fucking door.”
Your whole body seized.
The orgasm built so fast it stole your breath, coiling vicious and tight before exploding outward in a blinding rush. You screamed his name raw, echoing, shattering off stone walls, cunt clamping down so hard around him his rhythm stuttered, hips slamming forward one last time as he groaned low and guttural against your ear.
"Theo- I can't take-"
“You can take it, baby,” he snarled against your neck, teeth sinking into the soft skin just below your ear. “Let the whole tower hear how good you cum when I fuck you stupid against a door. You'll take every fucking drop, gonna fill you up just to watch it drip down these pretty legs while you try to walk back like nothing happened.”
His orgasm stole his breath only seconds later. Hips slamming deep, burying himself to the root as he came with a broken groan. Hot, thick spurts flooded you, spilling out around his cock, dripping down your thighs to join the mess already on the floor.
Theo’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing the bite mark he’d left there, soft now, almost reverent.
“Say it one more time,” he murmured, voice hoarse, stripped raw. “Just once more.”
You swallowed, throat dry, voice wrecked, but the words came anyway, quiet and honest in the aftermath.
“Theo… please.”
His low, breathless laugh vibrated against your skin. “Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a slow kiss to the nape of your neck. “That’s my girl.”
He didn’t pull out yet.
He stayed buried deep. Still half-hard inside you, arms banding around your waist to keep you upright as your legs threatened to give out completely.
“We’re not leaving this room until I hear it a hundred more times,” he promised, lips curving against your ear. “And maybe not even then.”
The door stayed locked.
Your dress stayed on ruined, clinging, soaked.
And the line between hate and something far more dangerous had finally, irrevocably blurred.
synopsis: trusted with finding his heartbroken friend in a sex club, bakugou finds you instead.
warnings: nsfw, heavy exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), fondling, grinding, kissing, mentions of oral (m receiving), public sex, everyone’s naked, everyone’s horny, they’re in a sex club, in my head this is set in germany, still somewhat cute because i am bfbkg
an: tumblr has me on a mature ban which is funny because this is very mature. let’s see if anyone gets this on their dash or if it’s in the tags xoxoxo
bakugou katsuki has stupid friends that make stupid choices.
“stop fuckin’ lookin’ at me like that.”
“what? you gotta get more confident man, you look good. everyone’s gonna be naked in there,” kirishima chuckles, staring down his blonde friend even though they’ve seen each other naked more than they can count. changing rooms, missions abroad with one hotel room, even an undercover situation where they had to bathe outside in a river. kirishima’s voice turns to a whisper, clutching his clothing to his chest, “don’t turn around there’s naked people behind you.”
“fuck off,” bakugou grunts stepping in unison with kirishima in the queue to slide his clothing across the cloakroom desk. “i’m gonna kill sparky once we find him.”
“arm.” the attendant demands, this bored looking guy who’s probably seen more testicles this one night than bakugou has seen his own.
“for what?” bakugou spits and it only comes out rude because he’s nervous. he’s already had his phone snatched away at the door, which explains why kaminari hasn’t been replying to their texts and now he’s standing with his dick out before a clothed man.
“cloakroom number. you’ve got no pockets.”
bakugou blinks as kirishima chuckles, handing over his clothes and holding out the inside of his muscled arm. bakugou does the same, frowning when he gets a red stamp on his left wrist.
22.
“can’t believe you’ve been to this shithole before,” bakugou grunts. he can’t stop fixing his hair, rubbing his nose, then adjusting his dick. there’s no clothes to fiddle with or pockets to stuff his hands into.
he’s following kirishima down this smoky purple led lit hallway and he can hear bustles of conversation and slow jazz getting louder with every step.
“denks took me once last summer. it was fun, everyone’s so friendly and it’s definitely not a shithole. if anything it’s pretty freeing, very clean. nothing to hide.”
he’s got no clue what that’s supposed to mean, not until he follows behind kirishima through these red velvet curtains and analyses the scene before him.
there’s a minty smell in the air, a thick layer of smoke so you can only make out details of someone once they’re beside you. the room is coated in that same pale purple light with people everywhere. multiple body shapes, genders and the only accessories being earrings.
bakugou’s never had nudity before him at this amount. he knows his friends have taken part in threesomes, a few foursomes but bakugou’s only ever been intimate with two people in his life. sex has never been a focus, not when he was so busy with saving the world… and his drunk friend who’s somewhere wallowing about his ex girlfriend.
“some people have their fuckin’ underwear on. i coulda kept mine!” bakugou whispers in his red headed friend’s ear even nudging him in annoyance.
it’s intimating. there’s women lounging in sofas, legs crossed, legs spread. arms cuddling another in conversation. two women are making out against the wall, her fingers snaking down her stomach and stuffing into the others pussy.
bakugou’s eyes widen, swings around so his back is facing them.
only to be facing a woman straddling a man’s lap, kissing down his neck, wrist flicking between their bodies. he looks to the bar and there’s three men talking, one with his hand on the others lower back pinging at his underwear band. then the third pops a pill in his mouth and swallows it down with an orange liquid. the men giggle, a palm on a chest, a leg between another, a tongue in an ear and—
kirishima shrugs and bakugou can tell he’s not fazed by anything. in fact, he’s interested. looking at the lean man against the wall, swishing a drink by the stem of his glass. he chews down on his bottom lip once he locks eyes with him.
“okay, let’s split up, he last said he was at the back? incase he’s moved, you stay at the front.” kirishima orders, seemingly now in a rush to get everything sorted.
bakugou eyes the man who’s staring down his friend. then the man looks at him, gaze slinking down his body, his cock. winks. bakugou’s eyes go to golf balls.
“you’re gonna leave me?”
kirishima laughs, already ducking out of the conversation, “i’m sure you’ll be safe, bro. you’ll get hit on a few times just say whatever you usually say.”
“how the fuck are you gonna find me again?”
“this place isn’t that big. i’ll check upstairs.”
“there’s a fuckin’ upstairs?” bakugou mumbles to himself once kirishima disappears within the purple haze.
bakugou knows he could be paranoid but he can feel people staring at him. it’s unlike the usual stare he gets as a hero, fans impressed with his quirk, who have been following him for years and are excited to see him in the flesh. instead the stares he’s getting now, as he wanders through this faux house gathering are charged.
people are eying him like fresh meat, as if they can feel that this is his first time being naked in a public space. his anxiety smells good, only brewing arousal in these people.
a man ogles his arms like they’re chunks of chocolate. a woman stares straight at his cock and smiles when it twitches. he’s about to beg a security guard who stands in a suit at the door for his jacket until he remembers why he’s here.
to find his stupid fuckin’ friend who’s drunk himself in a sad stupor. nobody else here seems to be on that wave. chatting like they’re at a casual houseparty but lacking all their clothes.
bakugou circles one room, ignoring the whispers of two women sitting cross legged on the carpet. one is leaning on her hand behind her back, breasts out and perked.
“hey handsome,” she says and bakugou can only bring himself to nod.
he scatters into the next room. people making out on a sofa. a group of five are playing spin the bottle around the table. a woman with blonde hair is in heaven, moaning with her head flung back as everyone watches on. a few men touch themselves to it but pull away when another man springs from under the table, wiping his mouth.
“fuck, i’ve been wanting to do that!”
“spin the goddamn bottle, i wanna try!”
one of the guys notices him looking, “oi! wanna play? i think you're my friend’s type.”
bakugou doesn’t even bother to reply, glancing away with the snap of his head. one step forward and he bumps into a body.
soft and shorter than him. skin on skin, his hand brushing against a breast as he stabilises himself and clutches on your arm so you don’t fall in the process.
bakugou has to blink a few times to get his vision straight. just so he can be sure what he’s seeing is correct.
bakugou’s not sure what word to describe you but the first word that comes to mind is glittery. you’ve got a light glitter across your perfect chest, your arms, your— he stops once he sees a tuft of hair below your stomach. heat rises to his cheeks faster than ever before and he knows, he fucking feels the rush of blood to his cock.
you’re so fucking pretty.
“you’ve got glitter on me,” is the first thing he says but makes no move to wipe it off. instead he looks at that spot where your neck meets your shoulder, how smooth it looks. then, the plain gold hooped earrings in your ears and your shiny watery eyes. nothing about you is symmetrical, not the shape of your eyebrows or your breasts. your lips are luscious, clearly moisturised and he wonders if you’ve kissed anyone tonight.
bakugou katsuki has never met anyone naked for the first time. especially not the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid his eyes on. nothing could have prepared him for this. nothing kirishima prepped him about in the car, definitely nothing in his hero education.
you giggle, butter smooth, hands at your waist and your head cocked to the side like you’re analysing.
“gives something for people to remember me by,” you grin, your teeth are not perfect but your smile is so insanely adorable. bakugou steps forward. “it’s also a hack for any married men. their wives get to find out what they’re doing in the evenings.”
bakugou’s brows rise. “that’s smart.”
“yeah, it happens more than you think.”
bakugou inhales. it’s a little shaky when he takes in your citrus perfume and the mint that feels like it’s being pumped in the air. you must be able to tell how on edge he is right now, overwhelmed and even more so now with your presence. he’s grateful you don’t look past his adonis belt, because then you’d understand exactly how he’s feeling.
“can i touch you? you’re so built. i’ve never seen anyone who looks like you,” you murmur, transfixed by his body. your eyes dart across his pectorals, his brown nipples and then his abdomen. bakugou can’t distinguish whether it’s interest in a biological way or sexually. especially when you stare at the soft tissue pink scar right in the centre of his chest.
bakugou swallows a gulp of his spit. he’s supposed to be finding… they must be pumping pheromones in the air because somehow he’s willing to get on his knees in front of everyone and stuff his head between your legs.
“fuck,” he sniffs abruptly, “y-yeah, you can.”
the little “yay!” that tumbles through you surprises him, creates a whole new folder in his head of how you’re endearing. right beside how sexy you look.
you flatten both your palms on his pectorals first, causing bakugou to inhale sharply. his chest is falling and rising hastily just from that, from you being fucking pretty and naked and interested in him. you squeeze, lips in an o shape in shock.
“they’re softer than i thought. wow, you’re beautiful,” you say with a smile, thumbs brushing over his nipples. bakugou is forced to grip a bookshelf beside him. “you must be in the gym everyday.”
“n-not exactly,” he manages as your finger strokes the smooth scar on his chest, then the two darker brown fleshy scars at his side. they don’t hurt him anymore, haven’t hurt him for years but somehow you touching them so inquisitively has sparks flying through them. “i’m a…”
does he say his job? can you guess?
“you don’t have to tell me now if you don’t want to. maybe later.”
you draw your fingers across his eight pack, a finger dipping in every curve. he feels firm, hard, undoubtedly strong. like consistency, persistence and pain was needed to look like this. he doesn’t notice you press your thighs together but he does notice how you bite your lip when you finally gaze down at his cock.
leaking, red and prominent against his lower stomach.
“even your dick is pretty. where the hell are you from?” you laugh, “i’m surprised nobody has snatched you up yet.”
he wouldn’t want anyone to talk to him but you.
“i think you’re pretty, too.”
bakugou cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth. how childish running around the sandpit to not catch cooties did that sound?
but again, to his surprise, you coo at him. your hands still haven’t left his body, pressing down on his sides, up to squeeze his shoulders. bakugou feels like he’s on fire, raging from unburied tension. he grits his teeth because he thinks he could come from you just touching his upper body, staring at him with your little smile.
“that’s so cute. thank you,” you reply honestly and bakugou gives a soldier like nod, “is this your first time here? you’ve got the first time nerves.”
“‘m not nervous,” but all the blood from his head is rushing right down to his crotch. you're massaging his shoulders now and bakugou is sure he’s about to loose stability in his knees.
“okay,” you don’t argue, “but it’s your first time?”
he wants to say he’s not a fucking virgin but he knows that’s not what you mean and it does feel like his first time all over again. definitely reminiscent of his first time watching pornography back in his room as a teen. over interested, horny but refusing to touch himself yet.
“yeah. my friends are here somewhere.”
it’s as if you’re magnetic, unable to take your hands off him. now they’re on his biceps, squeezing every couple seconds like you’re checking he’s still there.
“oh i know what that’s like. my first time here, i found my friend sucking this guy off less than half an hour in. she wasn’t even on anything.”
bakugou blinks, standing there dumbly like a mannequin that needs to be clothed. his cock aches.
“are you on anythin’?”
you shake your head, “no! my usual guy who i get stuff from isn’t here today, so just a few shots earlier.”
usual guy. this isn’t the place for him to feel jealous, it’s not, but he wonders if there’s anything you’d like him to give you. anything.
two girls and a guy walk past you and him, first acknowledging you with a little wave and giving him those same hungry eyes as everyone before. with his attention away from you, he realises how many people aren’t only staring at him but you. were people getting off on you touching him? there's a girl and guy on the sofa clearly talking about you, did they want you too? one of the men around the spin the bottle round table has an envious look in his eye and bakugou wasn’t sure if it was towards him or you. he shifts his body so that guy wouldn’t be able to see you.
“what’s your name?” bakugou asks. though he eyes your wrist.
a red stamped 47.
“yn,” bakugou’s not sure if you’re telling the truth. “you can touch me too if you want. i’d like it if you did.”
he didn’t come here to talk to women, he didn’t come here to fondle women, even if they’d like him to do so. kirishima has probably found kaminari right? they’re both grown ass men and kirishima has been here before. it’s fine.
you can sense the carousel of revolving thoughts in his head. so slowly, as if he’s a sensitive kitten that will run away at any loud noise, you remove your hands from his body and wrap them around his wrists. you drag his hands half an inch away from your chest. “it’s okay, i promise.”
there’s the space for him to decline, your grip loose so he can pull away. but he wants too, he just probably shouldn’t be.
“f-fuck,” he whispers, pressing his hands on your clavicle. you’re real, alive and letting him touch you. “if i touch you anymore, i will come and i can’t fuckin’ come like this.”
you frown playfully, a little laugh, “why not?”
bakugou stills, “what d’you mean? shit’s embarrassing, i need you to come first—,”
your hands are back on his wrists, sliding his palms down to the fat of your breasts. his hands are massive, able to grab both in a single hand. you exhale softly as if you just took a hit of endorphins.
“what’s your name?”
“katsuki.”
he doesn’t even have in him to lie.
“nothing is embarrassing here, katsuki. maybe if you fall flat on your face. that still applies.”
he squeezes your breasts, tender incase he hurts you. it only makes you step in closer to him, your arms wrapping around his neck. “you’ve got such warm hands.”
bakugou’s thankful you’re cautious to not press your body into his cock. “i’ve never seen a woman like you.”
your eyes are fluttered shut once he starts to massage, glitter from your body transferring onto his palms. it’s all over his body too, like you both are born from the same star.
“i wanna take you home and squeeze you. you’re so adorable.” you whine, opening your eyes to give him a pout.
he doesn’t get this reaction from women, usually he’s the one in charge throwing them on a bed, kissing them first. he’s definitely never been called adorable or cute but you’ve got him tied around your finger, pressing for more attention.
“you guys look gorgeous together, by the way,” a rather pretty man says in passing and your smile beams.
“thank you, honey!”
then your attention is back on bakugou like you knew he was crumbling without you.
“you can pinch them if you want.” you offer, taking your fingers through the hair on his nape.
bakugou looks at his hands on your breasts. his hands are ugly he thinks. always too sweaty, scarred all over though he always keeps his nails clean and cut. they drown your body, your flesh spilling between each of his fingers.
“you’re so…,” he’s out of words to describe how angelic you are, rolling your perked nipple with the pad of his thumb. you’re so reactive, bubbles of light delighted exhales. when he pinches your left bud you moan and bakugou is forced to squeeze the base of his cock.
you laugh at the flush of red in his cheeks, his jaw sharp as he grits down. he’s taking heavy controlled breaths, looking up at the ceiling to calm himself down.
this man, katsuki, is stupidly gorgeous. walking around this event like he’s so unaware of himself. it’s what drew you to him. you’ve figured out pretty quickly that he’s ridden with anxiety, pent up with arousal and is so determined to not release.
“i’m sorry, katsuki. it’s not because of me is it?” your hand flies to your mouth, but the giggles spill out.
he should be embarrassed at your laugh at his clear inability to control himself over your naked body and touching your breasts. about to nut in a room full of people over some half-baked fondling. but he isn’t, it feels like you’re both in this together.
“‘course it’s ’cause of you. i just need to—,” he runs his hand up and down his shaft twice, before letting go. he blinks at you, your pointed nipples, your confident smirk. he wonders how you'd smell if he dipped between your legs. “i’m good now.”
as good as he can be in this situation. he’s fucked.
you give him an understanding nod, biting down your smile. “if you want, we can sit down. talk a little?”
you’re like a fairy. not those dainty petite ones out of those fairytales but a real, glowing one with your palm out for him to take. you almost feel like a figment of his imagination, like he’s suffering from object permanence if he isn’t touching you. he can’t tell if you’re laughing at him just a little bit, he’s not sure if he cares. he’s out of his depth here, getting whiplash with his limits adjusting by the second.
there’s no chance he’s having sex with anyone in public. he’d do anything you ask him to and you don’t even have to say please.
bakugou slides his palm into your smaller one and allows himself to gaze down your back as you drag him away somewhere. your back is smooth, curved and he imagines kissing down your spine. your ass, he glances away, then he looks back. two round globes that ripple with every step you make. he wants to see his fingers gripping your flesh, how it shakes when he slaps a cheek.
he glances at your face to find you smirking at the fact he was so clearly checking you out.
“s-sorry, it’s—,”
“you can look at me, katsuki. we’re all naked here.”
you stop him in front of an empty maroon leather sofa though there’s still other people in the room. a group of four playing a card game on a blanket. a compulsory couple making out on another sofa, always someone making out somewhere. he should be used to it now but beside that couple there’s a man with a man and a woman kneeling on the floor licking his dick.
bakugou rips his eyes away from the scene when you drop yourself into the sofa, sitting sideways with your legs curled. you perch your arm on the back of the sofa, head resting in your palm. you tap the space beside you.
“sit, gorgeous.”
he does because he can see your pussy when he stands. was there a shine there? is it because of him? bakugou flops down, apologising abruptly when the weight of him causes your side of the sofa to bounce.
“it’s okay, you’re a big guy after all,” you say, snuggling up close to him. your hand is back on his chest but he notices your eyes widen.
“what?”
your finger swipes at the precome that’s brushed at his abs from how slouched he’s sitting. you’re quick, eager, like you’ve been caught with your fingers in the peanut butter jar.
bakugou’s never been so hard in his life, his head is a bulging red though the colour dimmed down under the purple lights. he flings his head back on the chair but his hand finds your thigh. squeezes.
“you’re killin’ me. i didn’t expect this when i came here. i was supposed to be in and out.”
“that’s honest. you didn’t expect to be turned on in a room full of naked people.” there’s a moan in the background, a couple. “or you didn’t expect to find me?”
bakugou opens his eyes to look at you, you’re clearly more presentable than he is right now. his eyes are watery, pupils blown out like just taken something and he already looks like he’s been run through tonight. fucked in all types of ways. his lips are parted, staring at your smiling ones.
“you. i don’t even know what to say to you.”
he doesn’t know what’s appropriate in this context. with people fucking and sucking all around him, how honest can he be?
a gasp gets stuck in bakugou’s windpipe when your hand cradles his cheek, thumb brushing the blushed apple right under his eye. the movement presses your breasts together, has bakugou once again wondering how the hell you’re real right now.
“tell me what you’re thinking. your first thought.”
he feels as if he’s about to start salivating. he can see every one of your eyelashes, curled up and batting against your cheeks with every blink. your eyes are caring, looking at him softly like you know he needs to be looked after here, a little push of confidence. bakugou’s never been treated like this in his life.
“i wanna eat you out. feel you come on my tongue. so fuckin’ bad, i feel like i’m going insane.”
he notices your thighs press together now, how your body shivers, how you snuggle closer to him with your breasts against his bicep.
“hearing you say that is going to make me drip onto this sofa.” your voice is like silk, weaving in one ear and out the other.
bakugou’s hand slides from your thigh to your ass, pinching you roughly, arousal uncontrolled.
“i was thinkin’ how the fuck is everyone able to just fuck in public here and now i’m close to beggin’ you to let me. just a taste.” he can barely pronounce a consonant, all his words slurring together, drunk on everything you are.
“you sure you want to? you don’t have to,” but you’re just taunting him. you can see how much he wants to, if not in his eyes but in his raging cock slapped against his chest. you stretch a bare leg across his lap and this large, beautiful man moans for you.
this is probably your favourite type. hot and ready after some touching. wanting to please you just from the sight of you alone. definitely helps that he’s built like a god and looks as if he can back up whatever he puts down.
“please let me,” he groans and you watch as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “i’ll do it here, let me do it here for you.”
you don't say a word, laying back on the sofa and slowly opening your legs.
bakugou feels like he’s about to shut down. your shine catches the light, gloss covering your lips, trickling down to between your ass. you’re pretty everywhere and he can smell how much you need a release. his heart raps against his chest like he just finished a sprint and he grabs the base of his cock whilst gritting his teeth.
“fuck, sorry. i’m tryin’ so hard not to bust. i fuckin’ can’t.” he’s blubbering away, unable to take his eyes from between your legs. you’re so fucking pretty. “so perfect. where the fuck have you been all my life?”
you’re laughing again, propping up your head at the arm rest as bakugou adjusts his body to have his head between your thighs. you ruffle his hair, tugging it lightly before letting go.
“you’re so adorable. i knew you’d be good for me.”
that has bakugou dragging his eyes away from your pussy to your face. “i’m good for you?”
he isn’t the submissive one in sex, in his life. he takes control of everything, he’s the one telling others where to go and what to do and… here he isn’t. here he’s waiting for your next word and there’s a couple people watching it happen. fuck, more people are in the room now. sitting on other sofas, staring at him staring at you like you created the stars in the sky.
“yes katsuki, so good. you said you wanted me, have a taste.”
the permission has him purring like a new shiny engine, both his thumbs spreading you apart and bakugou feels rewarded. thick sweetness pouring from your hole and he’s quick to lap it up so it doesn’t get on the sofa. he can’t waste any of you, how disrespectful that would be. your exhales are bubbling with every lick bakugou makes, firstly careful like he’s testing the waters before he dives in.
he grips your thighs like a man starved, the first piece of meat he’s seen in days. then he starts to rock his face into you. messy like nobody taught the man any manners. licks stripes across you so everything’s contained, moans sending vibrations through you because you taste even better than he could imagine. a sweet tang, that has him rolling his eyes to the back of his head.
bakugou is so consumed by you, by taste, scent and sight, that he forgets about his own hard cock and the crowd that has formed.
“can i touch you—,” it’s another voice, one said to your katsuki but he’s busy.
“don’t touch him,” you bite, grinding your hips up into his mouth, back arching when he suctions his plush lips over your clit, “fuck, katsuki! you’re doing so well, baby. you’re going to make me come.”
bakugou’s too engrossed, focused on your sounds and words to guide him, to ensure he’s doing the best he can. but you notice, you notice the jealous eyes, the aroused ones, even the curious ones in the corner. there’s even word spreading round to other rooms of what’s happening, of this sexy newcomer that has his head between your thighs.
“she’s so hot, she’s never let me do that.”
“who is he… who are they? d’you think they’d want me as a third?”
“i’m getting hard again just watching this.”
everything here is lewd, this is a protected place for your wildest fantasies to come true. the attention only encourages your orgasm, the teary red eyes of this stranger dragging you to the edge.
“need you to come on my face,” he grunts like a raging beast, lifting up on his knees to push yours by your head.
he needs a better position, one to get right inside of you, have your orgasm stretch as long as possible.
you mewl at the burn in your thighs, but it’s welcomed as his wet prodding tongue circles your clit again and again before sucking harshly. he’s created his own rhythm. a paw clutches at your breast as he grunts, ruby eyes staring at you for a reaction.
“we’ve got ourselves fans, katsuki,” you whisper to him and he can tell you are close, eyes fluttering, almost completely gone.
he slips two fingers into you and pre from his cock leaks onto his chest at how wet you are. now, bakugou finally pays attention to all the eyes in the room with his mouth slick with you. the couple that were making out have pulled apart to stare at you. there’s a man running his fist up and down himself. there’s groups of people just watching, more coming in as his fingers pump in and out of you.
how the fuck has he gotten here? a new flush of heat floods him, pride at everyone seeing how well he treats you. that you’re moaning and wailing for him.
“you like everyone watchin’ you, huh? you want everyone to see how pretty you look when you come?”
you look delirious, biting down on your lip as you nod, trying to lock your knee around his neck to bring him back to you.
“yes. i want everyone to see me come because of you.”
he doesn’t understand a thing about right now, just that he needs to take you there.
so he does, loud squelches of his fingers curling along your walls and his lips sucking your clit like he needs it for his survival. your orgasm rocks through you, bursts of come seeping from your hole and bakugou tries his best to keep it in his fingers, clicking around them and grunting when some spills.
your body vibrates, legs tensing in the air as sweat gathers at your temples. you’re murmuring swears with whines and your grip on his head gets stronger to keep him there through your orgasm.
there’s multiple other moans through the room, conversation about you and katsuki but it’s gone mute as white flashes your vision. once bakugou’s sure he’s lapped you all up, sucked you completely off his fingers, he kisses your stomach lightly, fixated on the empty pulsing between your legs.
“you good? wasn’t too much?” he asks you as your chest falls and rises.
you can barely manage to lift yourself up so you take his hand, “loved it. i knew you’d be good with your mouth.”
you still notice the urgency in his eyes so you look over at his cock, about to reach for it.
“you both are hot. mind if i join?” a man with dark hair, toned.
“no. fuck off,” bakugou snarls, lifting you up so you’re wrapped under an arm, tucked to his side. “you’re lucky we’re lettin’ you even watch.”
your smile blooms, awarding bakugou with kisses along his shoulder, a soft bite where his neck meets. “it’s your turn now, katsuki. need to take care of you before you pass out on me.”
you’re both sitting so intimately. you look exhausted after your orgasm and your skin is tacky with sweat against his. yet he holds you tight, skin to skin, your arms circling his neck.
“you don’t have to. i can sort this at home,” he doesn’t know why he says this. is he being polite? he’s now aware of the eyes around him. some people have dispersed since he stopped eating you out. others now just littered around the room.
“no,” you whine, a kiss on his jaw. he’s yet to kiss your lips. “i want to make you come. want to say thank you.”
your face is a few inches from his, hanging onto him like a koala. he’s committing this all to memory, the red printed 47 on your wrist. how your eyes are glassy like you owe him more than just an orgasm. how you gripped his hair once you noticed how many people were watching.
“can i kiss you?” his fingers run down your sides.
“so cute,” you whisper against his lips, sliding onto his open mouth and thrusting your tongue inside.
the kiss is amazing, sexy. has your hips moving against his side without warning. you can feel his boost of confidence as he sucks on your tongue, tilting his head to get deeper down your throat. he bites down on your bottom lip, hating to be away from you for a second before his lips land on you again. he tastes like you and something sweet and it’s all effortless as he begins to push you back down onto the sofa, thick forearms by your head so he can begin to grind between your sensitive legs.
bakugou doesn’t last long at all, he knows he wouldn’t be able to. as your legs wrap around his waist, all he wants is a pussy job. to feel you wet and soaked around his cock. but three thrusts from you with your tongue in his mouth and bakugou bursts all over your chest. his groan is incredible, has you clinging onto him in necessity.
it’s one jolt of come, then his face goes slack, grunts of “fuck, couldn’t stop myself.” hating how he couldn’t go on for longer, even though he’s been burning since he saw you.
“it’s okay baby, it’s all for me. i love that it’s all for me,” you say to him, working him through his weak thrusts as he’s unable to even kiss you, just transferring his hot breath into your mouth. another jolt and his seed pours. “you’re so sexy. i’ve missed you.”
that makes bakugou laugh, his come gathering in your tummy button, under your breasts and through the hair on your mound. “i’ve fuckin’ missed you too. where have you been?”
bakugou’s barely conscious as he lays beside you out of breath and out of any will to move.
“sorry, i know i’ve made a mess—,”
you tut, but you only mean it sweetly when he glances over at you, “stop apologising. there’s wipes and tissues under the chair.”
“that was so sexy, if you guys are ever looking for two more—,”
“no!” you and katsuki blurt, “we’re good.”
as the girl walks away, bakugou sighs delightfully, reaching for the pack of wipes to clean up.
“wait, wait,” you say, scooping up his come from your stomach on your finger and stuffing it in your mouth.
bakugou stares with a slacked jaw, reaching over to kiss the corner of your lips as you swallow.
“are you gonna let me see you again? maybe out of here?”
you cock your head to the side as he wipes over your stomach, then your thighs.
you take longer than needed to reply, enough time for bakugou to mumble, “please?”
“what the fuck!? there you are!” kirishima bustles in, stomping over with kaminari behind him still looking heartbroken but now considerably more interested in whatever's just gone down. “no way, kacchan? seriously?”
kirishima’s eyes flicker over you still laying on the sofa as bakugou wipes you down, very obvious about everything that’s happened.
“good for you man,” he says solemnly, slapping his hand on bakugou’s shoulder.
“kacchan?” you ask.
“short for katsuki,” he says into your hair and there’s something inside you that bursts in delight that he trusted you with his actual name.
“this is yn,” he blurts, knocking his head with yours. the fuck is he supposed to do, caught just having sex in a sex club with a beautiful woman by his two friends, “she’s sweet.”
kaminari laughs wetly, “course she is. how did he find someone and i lost someone. the love of my life.”
“sorry about him. still distraught. i found him asleep upstairs—,”
“then i woke up to him sucking off this guy—,”
“shut up,” kirishima whines.
“was it that same guy we saw when we walked in?” bakugou asks and he’s met with a slow nod, that becomes a small smile in remembrance.
the dynamic of katsuki and his friends wasn’t what you expecting. you weren’t sure what you were expecting really, but it wasn’t this. light laughter between them both, all three of them jacked and muscled like they have the same hobbies.
“anyway we’re heading out now, you coming with kacchan? or you wanna stay with yn here?”
bakugou looks to you. he wants to be anywhere you are. maybe do more with you, talk to you. find out what you do for work, your dreams, your family. he wants to touch you in his bedroom, without a crowd.
“i’ll meet you at the cloakroom in fifteen.”
with two waves to you, you look over at bakugou with a pout. “you’re leaving?”
“you can come with me? this isn’t my thing,” he looks around the room, “not at all. but i wanna spend more time with you. maybe outta here?”
it’s the same nervousness from earlier but instead of coming out jumpy, he’s unable to make eye contact, hands unable to leave your thighs.
“okay… i’ll say goodbye to a few people and meet you outside?”
bakugou doesn’t hide his shock at you agreeing. he was expecting push back, this being a once in a lifetime situation where he meets the most beautiful girl of his dreams and never again. but you rise to your feet, taking his hand like you’re helping him up.
on your tiptoes, you kiss his cheek, “i’ll be quick okay?”
he shakes his head, “take your time.”
with kirishima and kaminari clothed an seated at the front of the car, bakugou sighs for the fifth time.
“it’s been ten minutes bro, she said she will come, she’s coming,” kaminari says through the window, his eyes closed. “you won’t be let down. not like i was.”
bakugou stands leaning with his arms crossed against the car, kicking a rock.
“maybe she doesn’t notice you without your dick out,” kirishima laughs, which only makes kaminari laugh too.
“fuck off, we all had our dicks out—,”
“you know you’ve got glitter on your neck?”
“sorry for taking so long, they couldn’t find my clothes!”
you look completely different yet completely the same, under the harsh yellow streetlight compared to the fuzzy purple haze from the club. you look real, beautiful, in reach for him to kiss with a clear head. and clothed, you’re adorable. dressed nothing like the minx that enjoys having an audience when she orgasms.
you’ve got a fluffy striped jumper on and baggy denim blue jeans with your bag over your shoulder. you look like you’re dressed to do a food shop, a student going to university. fuck… he cannot even wrap his head around the fact he came over your chest a mere half an hour ago.
“you look adorable,” he blurts and you give him a grin, stuffing your hand in his face.
“shut up katsuki, that’s my word for you,” though he only grabs your wrist, kissing the faintly stamped 47.
he continues holding it when you peep your head to the open window to his friends. “thanks for dropping me off guys!”
“no problem!”
bakugou opens the back door for you, “d’you wanna come back to mine?”
he asks before you get in and like before, there’s an extra second pause. then, “are you going to tell me what you do for work?”
“he’s a pro hero, we all are,” kaminari groans, his hangover settling in as well as his urge to go home.
your eyes widen, your hand back on his chest like feeling him will reveal the truth. he’s now coated in a plain black tshirt. “oh wow.”
“guys we really can be horny in the car instead of outside. get in.” kirishima says and it’s a quick scramble of you sliding in and then bakugou after.
it’s inevitable, an attempt to be appropriate but straying from it at every corner.
another kiss shared in the backseat between you saying how many siblings you have, bakugou gripping your thigh as he says where he grew up. kaminari sharing an embarrassing tidbit about bakugou growing up and bakugou threatening to snap his neck. then the blonde apologises to you for saying that while kaminari whines in the background.
when kirishima drops you and bakugou outside of his skyrise apartment the only thing you can think to say is, “you’re a really good friend.”
bakugou huffs a laugh, slinging his arm around your shoulders, “not really. i was eatin’ you out when i shoulda been lookin’ for him.”
likes don’t do anything on tumblr! but reblogs, comments and asks mean the world! i delete comments asking for another part. thanks xox
summary. the only thing that didn’t change about sam when he lost his soul was his appetite for you.
pairing. soulless!sam winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount. 906 genre. smut !!
warnings. explicit sexual content, sam is soulless and a fucking beast (canon-typical lack of empathy/consent boundaries are blurry), rough sex, unprotected sex (guys pls dont mimick this), dirty talk (a lot of it, very filthy), degradation, spanking, mild exhibitionism, possessiveness
masterlist˖ ݁♬⋆.˚ now playing ၊၊||၊ evolve by 5 seconds of summer
The motel door hadn’t even clicked shut before Sam was on you.
No hello. No “hey, missed you.” Just his big hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and your back hitting the cheap wallpaper with a thud that knocked the framed desert print crooked. His mouth crashed into yours, hungry, filthy, zero pretense.
This was the new Sam in his natural habitat: zero guilt, zero filter, one hundred percent impulse.
“Been hard since Nebraska,” he muttered against your lips, already grinding the thick line of his cock against your core through two layers of denim. “Three days. Too fucking long.”
You laughed breathlessly, fingers twisting in that stupidly perfect hair. “Most people text.”
“Most people are boring.” He bit your bottom lip, tugged, let it snap back. “You want boring, or you want me to fuck you until you forget Dean’s even in the next room?”
Your body answered before your mouth could. Hips rolling up, thighs clamping around his waist, a shameless moan slipping out when he laughed, low and dark.
“That’s what I thought.”
Jeans gone in record time. His. Yours. Didn’t matter who yanked what. Sam didn’t believe in slow when he was like this; he believed in now. He spun you, bent you over the dresser, and the mirror gave you a front-row seat to six-foot-four of shameless hedonist dragging his tongue up your spine.
“Look at you,” he said, voice rough, meeting your eyes in the reflection. “Already soaked and I’ve barely touched you. Tell me you didn’t spend the whole drive here thinking about my cock.”
You pushed back against him, felt him hot and heavy against your ass. “Maybe I did.”
“Dirty girl.” He slapped your ass once, sharp, perfect sting. “Say it louder.”
“I thought about your cock the whole fucking drive, Sam.”
“Atta girl.”
Two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling just right, and your forehead hit the mirror with a thump. He didn’t ease you into it; he never did anymore. Just crooked his fingers, scissored them, thumb flicking your clit until your legs shook.
“Gonna come already?” he taunted, pumping faster. “We haven’t even started.”
You managed a glare in the mirror. “Then quit teasing and fuck me.”
He grinned, feral, pulled his fingers out, and sucked them clean right where you could watch. “Love when you boss me around. Makes me wanna ruin you.”
He lined up and slammed home in one brutal thrust.
The sound you made was unholy. So was the one he made, head dropping between his shoulder blades, hips snapping like he’d been starving for it. The dresser rattled against the wall hard enough that Dean definitely heard it next door; neither of you cared.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Sam groaned, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Take it. Take every inch like you were fucking made for it.”
You were. God, you were. He filled you so perfectly it hurt in the best way, every stroke dragging against that spot that turned your brain to static. Your palms squeaked against the mirror as you tried to brace yourself, but he wasn’t having it. One hand snaked around, pinned both your wrists above your head, the other sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit.
“Uh-uh. You don’t get to hide. Wanna watch your face when you fall apart on my cock.”
“Sam—”
“Say it. Tell me who this pussy belongs to while I’m balls deep.”
“You,” you gasped. “It’s yours, it’s always fucking yours—”
“Damn right.”
He fucked you harder, relentless, the headboard next door starting to thump in what was absolutely Dean banging it in protest. Sam just laughed, breath hot against your ear.
“Hear that? Big brother’s pissed he’s not getting any. Too bad. This cunt’s mine tonight.”
The dirty talk, the angle, his fingers; everything blurred into white-hot pressure. You came with a cry that probably woke half the motel, clenching around him so tight his rhythm stuttered.
“Jesus—fuck—” He buried himself deep and let go, pulsing inside you, hips jerking through it until he had nothing left to give.
For a second the only sound was both of you panting, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Then he pulled out slow, smirking at the mess he’d made of you, and spun you around for a kiss that was somehow dirtier than the sex.
He tasted like sin and zero regrets.
“Round two in the shower?” he asked, already walking backward, dragging you with him by the wrist. “Wanna eat you out against the tile. Then maybe the hood of the car. Been thinking about bending you over the Impala all week. Dean’ll live.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were already following, legs still shaky. “You’re an animal.”
“Nah, baby.” He kicked the bathroom door shut, flicked the light on, and dropped to his knees in one fluid motion, looking up at you with that cocky, soulless grin that made your knees weak all over again. “I’m just finally having fun.”
And somewhere in the back of your mind, the chorus played on a loop:
I know that I lost all control…
To lo-lo-lo-lo-love you, I got to evolve.
But right now, with Sam Winchester’s tongue tracing filthy promises up your thigh and zero plans to stop until sunrise, evolution could wait.
You had a devil on his knees, and you were gonna let him worship.
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୨୧ — "Rafayel, she needs to actually get clean during bath time," you giggle, watching your three year old daughter laugh in pure delight as her father creates yet another tower of bubbles on her head.
"Awh, but look at her! She's my little sea princess," he protests, his cheeks already flushed from all the excitement. Rafayel sits cross legged on the tubs edge, white sleeves rolled up and hair slightly damp from all the enthusiastic splashing. "Besides, cleanliness is temporary, but the memory of Daddy's magical bath time is forever."
Your daughter claps her tiny hands, sending bubbles flying everywhere, "Daddy! More! More fishies!"
"Oh, you want fishies, my little pearl?" Rafayel's eyes light up with adoration while holding up his hand, "As you wish, then."
Three small flames dance across his palm before transforming into gorgeous luminous blue fish that swim through the air around her head like a makeshift halo.
"Eehehe!!! Pretty fishies!" she squeals, trying to catch them with soapy hands.
"They're Lemurian royal guard fish, just like the ones that protected Daddy when he was little." Rafayel explains while tapping her nose playfully before making exaggerated swimming motions with his hands, "Now their job is to protect little mermaids during bath time, glub glub glub."
You snort, "I swear you're sucha dork-"
"Glub glub glub!" Your daughter parrots back, tiny legs splashing as if she had a little mermaid tail.
With a soft sigh you smile at your two theatrical dorks, "She definitely got your dramatic flair," you tease.
"Our dramatic fair," he corrects smugly, until your daughter splashes him directly in the face.
"GLUB!" she shouts triumphantly.
Rafayel sits there, dripping, purple hair plastered to his forehead, looking absolutely stunned as his mouth falls open, "Did... Did my own daughter just declare war on me?"
"Yeahhh she's definitely got your personality," you grin, handing him a towel.
Rafayel smiles, drying his face and leaning against you, "I think i might need to hire my bodyguard for this."
The luminous fish continue their lazy circles as your daughter babbles at them excitedly.
"Hmm, well, it is a very dangerous situation." You agree, playing along.
"I'd pay her well." He murmurs, his eyes following his daughters antics lovingly.
"Is that right?" You smirk, resting your head on his shoulder.
"Mhm." He nods, reaching over and lacing his fingers with yours, "I'd even give her a bonus." Rafayel tilts his head, his other hand gently guiding your chin up, "and maybe, if she's feeling generous, she could give her client a little bonus too."
His eyes began to glow that mesmerizing blue, his warm breath tickling your lips-
Warm water splashes your faces, making you both pull away, startled.
Rafayel's head whips around as your daughter giggles, his eyes going back to their original color and you bury your face in your husband's shoulder, laughing.
"Mommy's face was w'really red!" She points at you, "like when i get a fever!"
"Oh, she was, was she?" Rafayel smirks, a playful glint in his eyes, "I wonder why…"
"I don't know," you giggle, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks again.
"Hmm, we better make sure mommy doesn't get a fever and cool her off, then. Properly."
… You arch a brow, unsure of where he's going with this until you feel his arms snake around your waist, "Raf, don't you dare-"
Too late.
With a splash, you're plunged into the warm, bubble covered water.
There was no way you were getting your daughter washed anytime soon, and that bonus would also have to wait.
