I'm Zephyrus, an artist who loves bringing characters to life through illustration. I'm still on my journey to improve, so your feedback is always appreciated—it helps me grow and create even better artwork! I'm currently open for drawing requests, and I'd love to create something just for you!
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Pairing David!Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Summary You knew better than to tease your husband when he was at work. (Lingerie)
Tags 18+, mdni, smut, masturbation (f), sexting, piv, a teeny bit rough sex, standing doggy, Ragebaited!Clark CrashOutClark, Mutual horniness, Menace!Reader
WC 3.8k
Galentine's #9 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Clark didn’t lose his temper easily.
Did he get frustrated? Yes. Flustered? Often. Quietly, almost politely indignant? Always. But true, jaw-clenched, restraint-fracturing anger? That was rare.
Kindness was his default. Patience, muscle memory. Self-control came as easily to him as breathing, as sunlight, as knowing the weight of the world and choosing not to let it crush anyone else.
Which was exactly why it was so satisfying to take it apart.
You see, there were a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent absolutely heated. Just a few. And you? You were at the top of the list.
Specifically: you in red-laced lingerie.
You knew the pressure points by now. You’d studied them—committed them to muscle memory. Knew exactly which seams to tug, which smiles to flash, which casual poses made his breath catch just behind his ribs. Knew how to bait a man who could bench press a building, but who still lost every last ounce of composure when you spread your thighs and looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
.
It started small. Always did. You were so generous offering the strongest metahuman the illusion of a fair fight, giving him a few soft warnings before you pulled the pin.
A message waited for him on the bathroom mirror, scrawled in your red lipstick right across the glass, the curve of each letter playful and practiced. Beside it: a perfect kiss-mark, glossy and shameless.
Have a good day at work, babe.
I love you!
A pair of your panties, red mesh, tiny silk hearts stitched along the waistband, was "accidentally" left half‑folded in the sock drawer he opened every morning without fail. You knew that he knew you better than that. You didn’t leave things out by accident.
None of these breadcrumbs were enough for him to fully wake you as he leaned in to say goodbye before work, but it was enough to make him kiss your lips longer than usual. Slow. Lingering. Like a man already bracing himself for war.
You had an inkling that he barely made it out the door.
.
The first photo went out at 9:14 a.m.
Nothing obscene, just enough. You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, Clark’s flannel unbuttoned and hanging loose from your shoulders, sleeves falling just past your wrists, the red straps of your lingerie cutting neat, precise lines across your skin like you were gift-wrapped: bare legs, bare throat, morning light slipping in through the window, and the corner of your smile just visible in the reflection.
You could picture it perfectly: him at his desk like the perfect employee he always was, blissfully typing away on his keyboard, coffee halfway to his mouth. You could see the exact second his phone lit up. The pause. The way his fingers stilled. His eyes flicking downward. The quiet inhale. The shift in posture. His glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose.
You knew the timing. Knew his tells.
The reply came two minutes later.
Clark:
Good morning, my love
You're being unfair right now. Beautiful, but unfair.
Have a good day!
You smiled. He was always so damn sweet.
At 10:36 a.m., the second photo followed.
Same set. Different angle. The flannel was gone now, leaving nothing between you and the mirror but skin and red lace, cut high on the hips and dipping low between your breasts, the sheer mesh hugging your ribs in a way you knew made his mouth go dry. The satin bow sat tidy at the center of your sternum, a little too innocent for what you intended, tied just tight enough to make him wonder if he’d get it undone with his hands or his teeth.
Your thighs were parted, just a little. This time, you added a caption that gave him no room to breathe:
You:
Thinking about how long it’s gonna take you to get this off me.
I knotted this pretty tight.
His response came faster than you anticipated.
Clark:
Sweetheart, you look incredible, but I’m at work?!
You sent back a heart, and nothing more. Let him sit with it.
At 11:12 a.m., you sent a brief a video this time. Switched it up, because why not?
Silent, unfiltered, back turned to the mirror. Your ass in motion, hips swaying slow. The straps were so thin they might as well have been floss, cutting over your ass as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. One leg bent. Head cropped. Nothing but ass and lace and implication.
He left you on read this time.
Which was telling. Because Clark always responded. Even if just with a heart emoji or a flustered "you’re trouble." If he didn’t? It meant he couldn’t. It meant his hand was clenched so tight around his phone he couldn’t trust himself to type. Meant he’d flushed from throat to cheekbone and ducked into the Planet stairwell to cool off. Or he’d taken a lap around the roof. Around the city. Maybe around the atmosphere.
By 12:17 p.m., his reply finally came, and it was obvious he was unraveling.
The texts were shorter. Less punctuation. The fact that he stopped trying to scold you, and started asking questions instead? Ha!
Clark:
did you buy that
just for today
how long have you been wearing that
You answered with audio.
"Since you left," you murmured, soft, breathy, and barely above a whisper. "Been thinking about you all morning Clark. Been missing you."
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then nothing.
The next few hours were a study in escalation.
A photo of you kneeling on the mattress, back arched, ass up, cleavage spilling down beneath the delicate straps of the set.
A close-up of your fingers grazing your inner thigh, dragging slow, gliding higher, just high enough to hint without showing.
Another voice note, this one needier. A soft, whispered "Clark" said with just enough air, just enough ache, that you could practically feel him falling apart in real time.
By 4:07 p.m., the damn broke. Your poor Clark was done pretending he was okay.
Clark:
tryn to focus
ur making so difficlit
DIFFICULT
Please tell me you're waiting for me, honey. Just one more hour.
It wasn't often he truly begged, but that last message was so damn close.
And you, his sweetheart, menace, wife, North Star, had the nerve to read it and not reply.
You waited until 5:02 p.m., letting that last message sit and ache, let Clark stew in it as you took your time setting up what you already knew would end his entire day.
The Kill Shot took longer to record than the others.
You were reclined against the headboard, pillows shoved behind your back, thighs spread wide and unapologetic, red lace pushed damp and dark between them from hours of teasing that had left you tender and buzzing. The phone was propped at the end of the bed, poetically against a careless stack of Clark’s unironed dress shirts.
"See what you do to me, Clark," you sighed softly when you hit record, your hand drifting down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the red lace. You hissed quietly when you touched your already swollen, already too sensitive clit, hips rocking without permission. "I’m so wet, baby. Soaked. All day. Just from teasing you."
Your ring finger circled your clit slowly, deliberately, letting the slick and sound gather. A raspy moan slipped out of you as your back pressed harder into the pillows.
"Hope you’re not mad," you added, breath hitching, almost laughing through it.
You slid one finger inside yourself, then another, the stretch making you gasp as your thighs trembled. Your head tipped back, chest lifting as you tried to make it feel right.
"It’s not the same," you whined, frustration threading your voice honestly now. "It never is without you."
You lifted your free hand into frame then, holding up the bright blue, ridged Superman vibrator. Absurd. Thrilling. Purchased originally as a joke, now deployed with intent.
"I even tried this," you lamented.
When you turned it on, the low buzz filled the room, vibrating straight up your spine. You pressed it to your clit and jolted hard, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerked helplessly.
"Oh—oh God—" You sucked in a breath, fingers curling inside yourself. "It doesn’t—fuck—it still doesn’t touch me like you do."
You dragged it away almost immediately, breath ragged, shaking your head like you were offended by it.
Your fingers thrusted as deep as you could, scissoring, stretching, searching. Ultimately failing.
"They’re not big enough," you babbled, voice going soft and needy now, slick sounds growing louder as you rocked against your hand. "They don’t reach like yours. They don’t—God, Clark, they don’t feel like you."
You brought the vibrator back, pressing it against your clit again while your fingers worked inside you, the buzz climbing as your body arched and your knees drew up, lace biting into your hips. A shaky laugh fell from your mouth, half‑wrecked, half‑desperate.
"This isn’t fair," you whined as you lifted your head, eyes flicking to the camera now, unfocused but locked on him all the same. "You always make it feel so good. Your hands… your mouth…"
You writhed openly, unashamed, thighs trembling, red lace soaked through as you chased something you knew you wouldn’t quite reach.
"It’s not your thickness," you breathed. "Not your heat."
Your fingers slipped out, then back in, curling deeper this time, trying to find that spot he always hit so effortlessly, like your body had been built for his hands alone.
"I need you, Clark," you panted, eyes fluttering. "Need your fingers and your mouth between my legs. Need you telling me to relax—telling me how pretty I look when I fall apart for you."
The vibrator buzzed louder, dragged teasingly once, twice—and then you pulled it away again, breath shuddering.
"And your cock," you added, voice breaking into a whine. "I need you to show me how it’s supposed to feel. Need you to stretch me the way you always do. Need my husband to fill me up because this—"
You gestured helplessly between your thighs, fingers slick and shining, breath uneven. "This isn’t enough. It’s never enough without you."
You lifted your gaze to the camera one last time—wrecked, honest, ruined by want.
"Come home soon, Clark," you whispered, biting your lip.
And then you stopped. Didn’t finish. Wouldn’t dare.
You ended the recording with your chest still heaving and thighs still shaking. You redressed slowly, washed your hands and the toy with care, and hit 'send' as you went to start dinner.
As if nothing at all was about to explode.
.
Twenty minutes later, the apartment was drenched in the scent of garlic and thyme, steam curling from the pot like a love letter in vapor.
Clark's favorite, beef bourguignon, simmered low and rich on the stove, sweet and buttery and slow. You made it only on special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, nights you wore lingerie beneath an apron and didn’t pretend otherwise.
You stood barefoot, thighs still trembling faintly from earlier, the red lace set damp beneath one of his softest, most lived-in aprons with Kansas Corn Festival logo faded on the front and the fraying strings you always tied in a neat bow at your lower back.
Your lip gloss was fresh. Your hair was a little too tousled, a little too knowingly mussed. You looked like you’d been fucked senseless and then pulled halfway back from the edge. Which was, of course, exactly the truth. Just not by him. Yet.
You stirred the pot once more, slow and thoughtful, then licked the spoon just as a sonic boom tore across the skyline.
The windows rattled.
You didn’t even flinch.
The burner clicked off, and you turned just in time to hear the familiar thud on the balcony. Something weighty and male and exasperated had landed with purpose.
Clark Kent, god among men, paragon of restraint, and utterly fucking done with you, stood just outside, flushed from throat to hairline, chest rising and falling like he was seconds from combusting.
He opened the balcony door too hard. Shut it harder.
You didn’t flinch. You smiled instead.
"Hi, baby!" you greeted sweetly, licking the last of the spoon and setting it down like nothing was melting between your legs. "How was work?"
Clark mouth opened. A strangled sound came out. Nothing formed. He looked like a man who had rehearsed a speech the entire flight over, one with bullet points and moral high ground, and lost all of it the second he saw your bare thighs and dazzling smile.
"You—" he tried, pointing one finger squarely at your chest, not moving.
You tilted your head. "Moi?"
"Honey," he began, dragging a hand down his face, voice pitched somewhere between desperation and disbelief. "One: hi. Work was fine. Two: dinner smells delicious. Three: what you pulled today? That was beyond cruel."
You leaned back slowly, bumping your side against the edge of the kitchen island with a little bounce. He followed without thinking. Close enough to trap. Close enough to breathe you in.
"You liked it," you sang, tugging at one of his belt loops.
"No, I loved it," he ground out, hands already on your waist, gripping just tight enough to send a shiver up your spine. "That’s not the point."
"Oh?" you asked, lashes low, lips pouty. "What’s the point then?"
He huffed. Actually huffed. Then, defeated, he pulled off his glasses and set them carefully on the counter beside you. Pinched the bridge of his nose like he could still slow this trainwreck down with rational thought.
"The point is—" he tried again, swallowing, visibly recalibrating. "I have been trying to be good all day."
"So have I. Guess we both failed."
Clark exhaled, running a hand through his already-ruined hair. Pushed it back only for it to fall limply forward again.
"Sweetheart," he hissed, blue eyes sharp now. "I had to sit in a meeting with Perry after I listened to you moan my name. You—" He pointed again, but his hand dropped halfway, like touching you would end this too fast. "You sent me audio. While I was on lunch with Jimmy. I could barely look him in the eye."
"That sounds like a you problem," you murmured, one leg brushing between his.
His hands tightened on your hips. You gasped.
"And then," he said, lower now, voice going dangerous, "you sent me a video of you—Gosh—spread out across our bed, touching yourself with that silly little toy—"
You shrugged, too pleased with yourself to be sorry.
"Superman didn’t save me this time."
His laugh was broken. Unhinged, like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that. He stepped until the kitchen counter pressed cold against your spine as he crowded into your space, chest brushing yours, arms braced on either side of you like a cage made of heat and muscle and something wild beneath the surface.
There was nowhere to go—not that you’d ever want to—his presence wrapping around you like steam, wrapping around your waist, sliding down your thighs.His breath kissed the curve of your cheek, then your jaw, then lower, his mouth dragging down your throat like he needed to taste how hard your pulse was pounding for him.
"You have any idea what you did to me?" he rasped.
"You say that like it’s not your favorite thing about me."
A strangled moan escaped him as he leaned closer, forehead touching yours. His cock was already stiff and twitching, the thick press of it unmistakable against your stomach even though layers of slacks and lace. You gasped, fingers tightening in the soft cotton at his elbows just to stay upright.
"Every second of your video," he growled. "Saying your fingers not being enough—" A long breath. "How empty you still felt. Using the toy."
You shivered. The air between you went heavy.
"Clark—" you warned, already trembling.
"I haven’t even said hello properly," he muttered darkly.
Without warning, he kissed you like a man who’d just run halfway around the world and needed you to catch him. No restraint. No finesse. Just tongue and heat and need, his mouth slanting over yours in wild, open-mouthed hunger, one hand sinking into your toussled hair, the other pressing low on your spine until your bodies aligned, hips flush, your thighs parting on instinct.
You whimpered into it, clawing at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the rush of him finally, finally being here. Being on you.
"Been waiting for this," he whispered, mouth trailing along your jaw, your neck, nipping at the places he knew would make you gasp. Losing my mind since the first photo."
His hand spread low on your ass, tugging you harder against the thick ridge in his slacks. It ground into your clit with every breath, every shift of his hips, and made your knees buckle, a cry caught in your throat as your body begged for more friction, more weight, more.
That heady, perfect mix of power and affection and worship and want coursed through you.
"You’re unreal," he panted between kisses. "You were made to drive me insane, huh?"
A quiet laugh caught in your throat, lips brushing his jaw.
"What’s unreal is this bow," you hummed, tapping your chest, where the ribbon peeked just above the apron’s neckline. "Knotted it way too tight. Think you can get it off, baby?"
His eyes darkened, gaze zeroing in on the apron tied at your back. That innocent cotton thing cinched tight around your waist like some symbol of sweet domesticity. A disguise. A mockery.
He wouldn't take the bait. Not this time.
"No," he said firmly. "Not yet. You’re gonna stay in that pretty little set, sweetheart. The one you spent all day tormenting me in."
You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his voice.
Clark’s gaze dropped to the apron. That innocent cotton thing, cinched around your waist like a mockery of domesticity, as if it hadn’t been hiding the filthiest tease he’d ever seen in his life.
"Though this?" he muttered, fingers curling into the bow behind you, "Is a problem."
Before you could answer, he tugged sharp and hard, and the apron came loose, slipping off your shoulders and crumpling to the floor.
The sight of you underneath?
His breath left him in one long, shattered exhale.
The red fabric shimmered under the kitchen light, clinging damp to your chest, your hips, your thighs, every inch of you hot and glowing and desperate for him. He stared for a long moment, jaw tense, hands twitching at his sides like he was debating whether to worship you or simply scream and combust.
In one fluid, impossible motion, he spun you around to face the counter. Your hands flew out, bracing against the cool granite with a yelp. His body pressed against your back, the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, digging into the cleft of your ass through the lace.
"This," he hissed in your ear, one large hand splaying across your stomach, holding you firm against him. "This red lace. It’s been haunting me all day. A glimpse here. A shadow there." His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the intricate pattern over your breast, teasingly tugging on your bow, then sliding down your ribs. "It’s all I could see."
"Clark," you moaned, voice cracking with lust.
"Payback," he whispered, his hands now on your hips, yanking the damp panties down your thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the blistering heat of his palm as he cupped you from behind.
"Still wet?" he leaned over you, mouth to your ear as he buried his fingers in your soaking, messy cunt slowly. "Still aching for me, hon?"
"Y-yeah, been a-all day," you choked out, thighs knocking against the kitchen cabinets with each twitch. "Since the first photo. Since I woke up and ruined my lipstick for you. It's all for you."
A rough sound tore from his throat. Unfastening his belt with a desperate frantic flick, he pushed his slacks and briefs low enough to free himself. The hot weight of his cock pressed against your bare ass, solid and heavy and so real
"See what you do to me, sweetheart?" he growled, echoing the opening line you’d whispered into your last video as he teased the swollen, pre-cum slick head between your puffy folds.
You whimpered, barely able to breathe as the head caught on your clit the same time his teeth nipped the edge of your earlobe.
"F-fuck! That—oh god, that feels—Clark—please, I need it—need you—"
"I know," he whispered, kissing behind your ear. "I’ve got you."
With one powerful, driving thrust that silenced you, he buried himself inside inch by glorious inch.
Your eyes rolled back, feeling every ridge, every vein, every pulsing heat and maddening pressure.
The air left your lungs in a punched-out cry. He filled you, stretched you, exactly as you’d whined about. The difference was profound, overwhelming. It was his heat, his thickness, the perfect, devastating fit of him being enveloped by your quivering, gummy walls.
You felt impossibly full, stretched to a sweet, burning limit, and any remaining coherent thought was knocked clean out of your head.
"G-gosh," he groaned, feeling a new wave of slick coat his length. "You’re so–so tight like this, beautiful. Still fluttering around me—"
You answered by clenching tight, rocking into him slowly. "S-stay right there—just—stay."
He kissed your shoulder, the top of your spine, the back of your neck, mouth open and reverent.
Clark set an increasingly deep, relentless rhythm, pounding you hard up against the kitchen counter. Each drive of his hips slammed you into the cool granite edge, a counterpoint of pleasure and slight pain that made your vision blur.
His hands gripped your hips, surely leaving faint bruises, holding you in place for his taking. The sounds were filthy—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, your ragged cries, his guttural groans near your ear.
"You like that?" he gritted out, pressing hot kisses on your neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You like making me lose it? Making me fly home like a madman?"
"Y-yes! Yes!" you cried, words slurred, hips bucking back into his as your fingers scrambled uselessly over the cool countertop, dinner long forgotten. "Wanted this—wanted you—"
He grunted, one hand slipping down to rub your clit as his thrusts turned punishing, precise. Your body jolted with every snap of his hips, legs shaking, pleasure rising so fast it blurred everything else.
All the while, Clark kissed you, really kissed you, with one hand on your throat as he pulled your face back to his, tongue sliding into your mouth, your moans swallowed between breathless gasps and cracked, whispered I love you's and You drive me crazy's.
Okay, so you ragebaited Clark: masterfully, deliberately, without shame and without mercy.
And now?
Now you were going to spend the rest of the night helping him cool off, one deep, punishing thrust at a time, your body bent beneath his as he finally gave in to everything you’d spent the day dragging out of him.
There are only a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent come undone.
Only a few things that could burn through all that patience and kindness and quiet self-control.
And you in red-laced lingerie had always done it best.
.
Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!
pairing: brother's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader, AU setting
summary: It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with minor plot, childhood frenemies to lovers, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, dacryphilia, mean bucky, size kink, brat taming, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, jealousy, use of petnames (sweetheart, baby, angel etc.), reader described having hair bucky can twirl and as being smaller than bucky, no use of y/n, lots of cursing, bucky convinces reader to let him hit it raw (idk if that's a warning lol), moodboard pics do not depict reader
word count: 11.1k
a/n: idk if this is deranged in a hot way or just deranged but i hope you enjoy lmao. bucky is very mean in this and invades reader's privacy so stay away if that's not your thing!!
The abrasive, thrumming buzz of the lawnmower lets you know he’s back. You stop tapping on your phone, pausing for just a moment while you try to resist the urge. You fail. You pull up to your knees and peer out the window beside your bed.
Bucky is in your back garden, driving forward the shabby rusted lawnmower that lives in your shed. The one that has likely never been used by anyone but him. He’s not shirtless like he sometimes is - he’s in a black t-shirt - but you swear you can make out the muscles of his strong back even from this distance. The way they clench and tense with mild exertion. A heat settles low and deep in your stomach.
He’s waving before you realise you’ve been caught. You roll your eyes - exaggerate it a bit so you know he can see - and slump down on your bed again when he gives you a slanted smile.
The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.
You can’t keep doing this to yourself.
Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.
Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.
Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.
On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.
Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t.
You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.
Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.
It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.
And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.
It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.
You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.
What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.
You never looked at him the same.
It’s not for lack of trying.
God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes.
Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.
But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today.
And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.
At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.
You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.
The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.
You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up.
Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.
You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.
He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either.
You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.
He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard.
He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull.
His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.
You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.
He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.
He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.
He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good.
He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.
He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.
He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades.
Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.
Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel.
But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend?
Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.
You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.
He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.)
Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.
He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.
He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.
He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room.
The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.
He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.
Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.
This is your diary.
The first entry is from three weeks ago.
22 May
I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.
I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.
Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.
23 May
My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.
He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.
Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.
23 May
Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again.
Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that.
He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.
24 May
I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.
The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.
25 May
This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.
26 May
Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.
Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too.
Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.
28 May
Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-
“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.
Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.
He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it.
You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.
14 June
He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-
He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.
-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.
Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.
You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.
And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.
Except it’s not there.
You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.
You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it.
You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.
Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.
You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.
Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.
He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.
“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.
“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.
He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”
You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.
“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.
“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t.
“I’m not buggy.”
“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”
“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”
He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”
Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”
“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.
“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”
“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”
“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.
“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”
“I meant, like, after that.”
“After I finished the lawn?”
You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.
“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”
Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”
“Long shower,” he says.
“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.
“The hell is an everything shower?”
“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”
His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.
“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”
His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”
Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause.
“So what are you reading at the mo-”
“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.
“Why is that?” you ask.
“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”
“I’m not like that.”
“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”
You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead.
“I was sixteen-”
“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”
You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”
“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”
You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight.
“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.
“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.
“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.
“I didn’t think you liked reading.”
“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise.
“What are you reading?”
Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.
“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”
You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.
Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”
He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”
“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”
He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.
You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.
But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.
Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him.
You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful.
“Where did you get that?” you bark.
“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”
“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”
Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch.
“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”
You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.
“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.
“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”
Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.
“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”
He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.
“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”
He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.
“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”
Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.
He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”
He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.
“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”
You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.
“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.”
Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.
“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.
Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.
You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined.
If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?
He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.
“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”
“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.
You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”
Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.
He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.
Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.
A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.
“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you.
“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”
You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.
“Since when?”
“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.
“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.
“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.
He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.
“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.
“Isn’t that when we first-”
“Yes.”
The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.
“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”
He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.
“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”
You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.
He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”
You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.
“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”
The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.
None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?
He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.
“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”
You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.
“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”
“For how long?” he demands.
“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.
“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”
Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal.
“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.
“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”
“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.
“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”
There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.
Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.
When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.
He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.
You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.
He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.
It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?”
Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?
“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.
“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”
Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.
You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.
“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”
He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”
You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.
He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.
“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”
You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.
Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”
Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”
“Wha- yes?”
“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”
“What were you doing in my-”
“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”
You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.
“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”
He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.
“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”
You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.
His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.
“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this.
He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”
“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”
He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”
Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.
“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”
Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.
He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”
It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.
“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.
Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control.
“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”
The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.
“Turn around,” he bites out.
With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.
You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.
When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.
“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.
“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.
He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”
You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.
“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”
“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”
Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”
“Let me help you out.”
His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.
“Read.”
Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious.
One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.
Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.
“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-
Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.
“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”
You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.
“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”
You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.
“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”
You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.
“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”
With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.
A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.
You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.
You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.
Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.
Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.
“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.
“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.
You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.
“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically.
He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”
You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.
“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”
“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”
“You still are. Sometimes.”
He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”
You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago.
“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”
It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.
You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”
You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.
Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”
a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao
PAIRING: best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader
SUMMARY: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; best friend!bucky; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference (I just love beefy men so much ❤️🩹); light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; kind of guided masturbation; slight degradation; brief use of pussy pronouns; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; spitting; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie.
WORD COUNT: 14k
A/N: this one-shot is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I'm so happy it's finally up again, it's just so important to me. I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip. hope you’ll enjoy 💛 ps: I apologize to all the interstellar fans for eventual mistakes, I've never seen it but I needed something to match bucky's love for physics and space.
Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted.
Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes are screaming do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.
Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend’s body has been betraying him for a while: knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.
Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.
Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.
The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park—technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes—to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor.
The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.
When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.
The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”
“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought.
“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.
Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere."
You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”
He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.
“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.
“Mh-mh.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”
Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms.
“You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”
You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.”
“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”
You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”
He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”
“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.
“Still... she looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.
“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”
“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.
“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”
“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… just wanted to get a head start.”
He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”
You sigh. “Buck—”
“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”
You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame.
Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”
You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes—yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again in your presence. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.
He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile.
You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams.
Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint.
Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning.
Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice—the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another.
Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech: the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work.
Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You also walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you.
Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along.
Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… you smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing.
Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.
But sometimes… sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done.
You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.
And Bucky wants—selfishly, desperately—to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.
With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.
With him, you don’t need to think ahead.
He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.
You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to.
He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It calls for you. It rattles through him like something alive that needs to breath.
Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder.
Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up.
Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.
He only knows there’s never been an end.
Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.
You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him—and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.
Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.
You have never kissed him on the lips, though.
Bucky thinks about that more than he should.
He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.
He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.
He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.
Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.
He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.
Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.
And sometimes... it’s just unbearable.
You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It’s just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little grin of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.
The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.
Bucky has imagined telling you.
It never gets far.
In his head, the words sound steady, confident.
But you’d blink, go quiet… look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.
So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses—Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.
From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace.
Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie—you are the only one allowed to do that.
You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.
So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes.
But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs. It sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class. It blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.
He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you’re both left wheezing.
With him, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it. Because Bucky has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.
Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.
But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.
Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile into the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.
“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.
“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”
Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.”
Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.
“James seriously, I have to finish—”
“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter.
“You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”
You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.
“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”
Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.
“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.
And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.
Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”
“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his tender attention.
“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… irresistible when you let yourself go.”
“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.
You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way.
“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”
You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”
“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”
“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.
“They look at you.”
“They look at everyone.”
“Not like they look at you, baby.”
There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.
“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the night. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m a concerned citizen.”
You lift your head just enough to squint at him.
“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.
You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mh. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.”
You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway.
“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.
You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.
He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head.
“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good—too good.”
Your fingers tighten in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer.
You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this—he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.
Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.
“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, mh?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”
You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.
“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.
“Careful.” You snicker.
“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”
“You almost tripped over the air.”
“Well, the air started it.”
He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual.
“There,” he hums. “Contained.”
His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”
You go rigid at that. “James.”
“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.
“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“It’s almost three hours long.”
“It’s cinema.”
“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky.”
He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”
“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”
“You loved it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”
He gasps softly. “How dare you!”
You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”
At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.
“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you’ve already watched, and rated, with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”
“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes—”
“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.
“Fine, baby.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”
“You cried during the docking scene.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s just... well done.”
After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so you can see as well, then shifts again so your body is draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.
“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.
“Mh.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”
“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.
Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.
When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.
“Still cold?”
“No.”
He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You shivered.”
“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.
You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs—soft and low—then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”
Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can’t help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds.
He lets it go on longer than he should.
His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.
“What is it?”
“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.
“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”
At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud.
“I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”
His jaw tightens.
“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You’ve already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”
“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”
Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.
“I can help you.”
The words leave him before he can fully consider them.
You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Why—”
“You have your own stuff to do—”
Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant, I can help you not think about it.”
You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”
That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin.
His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and warm, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the cruelest of dreams. Your mouth on his, your skin bare. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sun split through the curtains and hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He quietly jerked off in the shower, ears red and stomach flipping with shame as he only saw you behind his closed eyelids, but the ache is always there. It never goes away.
His eyes close briefly.
This is not the time.
But the words sit at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.
“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something stimulating enough that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”
“Like what?”
His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can’t believe he’s really going to say it.
He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… sex?”
It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and tossed it between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.
You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback.
“I didn’t mean it like—” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a...” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”
You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.
“I just meant,” he tries again, cautious now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re—We’ve always been—I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”
You tilt your head. “What?”
“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… us.”
The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.
Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.
“It’s been a long time.” You quietly admit.
He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.
“What?”
You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.
“Since... the last time I had sex.”
His stomach drops.
“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.
You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”
The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.
His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”
You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.
Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... years ago.”
You swallow. “I know.”
“You haven’t—” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.
You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.
His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent so many nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.
But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.
“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… sex would help.”
He swallows, nodding sharply. “It might.”
You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”
It’s not a question.
Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”
There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.
“Recently?” You perk up.
He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”
You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.
“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or—or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”
Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.
“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.
“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”
“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.
“You are everything to me too.”
The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes—too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit—catch that instantly.
“Should we do it?” You ask, almost daring.
Bucky hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer just for one night.
“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just...” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”
Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.
Just a clean slate of neutrality.
The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.
Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.
“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Even the name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now.
She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently.
She’s contemplating if this will change things between you two.
She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it.
She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.
Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I’m—”
“James.”
He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.
“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it—”
His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.
You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.
Your sigh sounds like it’s been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”
His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.
“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”
You hold his gaze. “And then?”
“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”
You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.
“I won’t hate it.”
That confidence nearly unravels him.
“So… can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.
At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. The feeling of his thumb gently brushing along your jaw makes you shiver, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment into his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.
You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that simple motion nearly stops his heart.
Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact—a question posed in motion. It’s the most tender of kisses, meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest.
Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.
His other hand hesitantly reaches your waist, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.
Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, still careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust. And your hair is caught through his fingers as he tilts your head slightly, to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this—this closeness, this softness—is real.
Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.
Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing.
“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Can I... Can I kiss you again, angel?”
Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. The way he tilts his head is automatic, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours, trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding himself together at the thought of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs.
His hands finally gather the courage to move, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.
“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.
“I’m—” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... to come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.”
Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your stomach flutter. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”
“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question.
“What do you do when you’re alone, baby?”
“I have… toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.
“Show me.”
“You—You want to watch me while I…?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.
His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”
“But—”
Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t, elicits a boyish laugh out of him.
“Then let me help you.”
There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.
“Where are they?”
“Um, second drawer of the nightstand.”
Once the box is opened, Bucky’s mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow.
His brain stops. Just… fully refuses to work.
It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach.
A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too...
Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.
But it’s yours.
And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his—
And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… disrespectful.
“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?”
“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if embarrassed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.
“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves just slightly.
You nod, certain but coyly.
Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth first.
“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.
He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.
“What about here, mh?”
You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.
His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.
“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.
Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.
“Here?”
You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw.
“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”
That only makes it worse.
You shake your head slightly, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond.
“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want me to hear your sweet sounds?”
He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.
“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.
Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.
“Mh, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, and Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.
“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.
“Careful, doll.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… in a way you won’t forget.”
Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.
“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.
“And here?”
A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.
“And what about here, angel?”
Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.
His lips... kissing your clothed pussy.
Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.
“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.
“The toys.”
“It—It depends if—” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood—Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.
“Mh?” He barely acknowledges you.
“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.
“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.
Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks instantly heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile, kissing you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager dance.
“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”
Oh.
You feel your eyes widen, jaw going slack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets and never come out. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your nub. Your slick seeps through, turning the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.
Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs.
“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky’s head shoots up, hands clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You then wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent room.
You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at the faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you consider the sensation for a short moment, before pressing the button again.
“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit.
“Can I—” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could come right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always.
“Ah—yes, yes please!” Your eyes fall shut.
“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift unconsciously. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, darkened eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.
“Open your eyes, baby. Let me look at you, c’mon.”
The command is soft but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him.
“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can swallow it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions.
Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist in attempt to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindly into the pleasure.
“Feels so good, right?”
Your eyes drift over his face, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the perfect line of his nose, the smug curve of his smile, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly beautiful. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking open, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, when the pull in your chest finally bursts and you can only surrender to its force.
“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting.
“Say it again. My name.” His voice is suddenly deeper, you can see his throat bobbing.
“Bucky.” You moan, raw and louder this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames.
“Good girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.
Yes, a good girl. His.
“Wanna hear you say my name like that all the time.” He groans. “Why don’t you show me how good she can take this little toy of yours?”
You twitch, aching with the desperate need to put the dildo back, to indulge in the cruel vibrations until you fall over the edge. Yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding it inside your soaking core.
“Shit.”
You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.”
“I’m right here, okay?” He grits out, exhaling harshly as his gaze traces your body. “C’mon baby, put on a show for me.”
Thrusting harder, your eyes roll back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation.
“Good girl.”
All of a sudden, Bucky’s hands, warm and so familiar yet new as they explore your bare sides, glide under your sweater, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.
“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he looks in your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down.
His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, then moving down to leave soft pecks on the swell of your breasts that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs brush your nipples so gently, indulging in every little gasp, but it’s not long before his lips close around a hard peak, both nipples receiving sweet suckles that gradually turn meaner.
“Why were you hiding these pretty tits from me, doll mh?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up.
“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw. His fingers keep your mouth open, only for a globe of his spit to land your tongue.
“Swallow.”
Gasping, you quickly follow his order, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. It only makes your core throb painfully.
“Beautiful.”
“Bucky please.”
“Please what? Need words, angel.”
Your mouth opens and closes pathetically a few times, before you can string a proper sentence together. “I want—fuck—I need you.” You eventually whimper out.
The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your stomach. “Good girl. Wanna see you come once around it, watch you moan and gush as you beg for me to touch you. And then I’ll make you leak for days.” His lips attach to your neck and collarbone, his rough words muffled by your soft skin.
You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, docile to his orders and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you.
Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs twitching impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That’s it. It’s been so long since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my princess needs me to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”
“Only you, Bucky. Only you can do it.” You whisper.
His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”
Nodding enthusiastically, the sound clawing out of your throat is pitiful. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, this feels like a cruel punishment. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.
“Bucky.” You wail, squeezing his wrist.
He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress at the warmth of his skin, yet your chin wobbles pathetically. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”
“I need—can I touch it, please?”
Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk, the urgent worry disappearing at once. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit?”
“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I—I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
His eyes widen, Adam’s apple bobbing. His whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”
You quickly slap your hand against your pussy, glancing up at him to find him licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into its coveted prey.
“Sweet girl, you like being rough with your pretty pussy?”
At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.
“Then slap it for me.”
You swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp smack. The shock of the impact makes your body jolt, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.
“Fuck!” Your pussy is so tender, yet the slap only spurs you closer to the edge.
“Again.”
You smack your flesh harder, gasping at the delicious sting. Alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks, you are not sure you’ll be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you around.
“Just like that, don’t stop.” Humming thoughtfully—his cock hot and painfully hard, still trapped in the confines of his underwear—Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery.
“You’re doing so well for me. One day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pussy, I promise.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His fingers smush your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?”
“Please.”
“So fucking sweet.” He growls. “Go on.”
Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “’M so close.”
Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “Beautiful… so, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”
You nod enthusiastically.
“Yeah, I know you do.” He coos. “C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”
“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you bring the toy back on your clit, the knot in your belly ready to snap violently. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors hearing you.
“Fuck! I’m coming—Bucky!”
“Let go, doll. You have been such a good girl for me. Make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”
The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps. You are at your pleasure’s mercy, your thighs trembling and your aching pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.
“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect, so good for me. Love you so damn much, angel.”
The toy ends up dumped somewhere on the bed as your entire focus shifts on your breathing, your head flopping back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.
Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers leisurely running from your clit down to your entrance.
Your reaction is immediate as your body lurches. “Bucky.”
He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your core, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
As Bucky lazily flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, your body suddenly feels like it is going to implode. A strangled gasp falls from your lips when he slips a finger in, his mouth moving to thoroughly savor every drop of arousal from your previous release on your inner things.
Bucky decides then to busy himself with your clit again, and your body stiffens.
“Bucky! Sensitive!” You choke out, a hand shooting down to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.
“‘S okay, I’ve got you, sweet girl.” With a mumble, he slips another finger in, making you cry out.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare, your scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving him wild. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
Your mind and body are both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers stretching you so deliciously.
His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like a beast, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single brush of the mattress against his cock.
He pulls away with a wet squelch, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “Make a mess on my face” He rumbles, chest heaving. “Wanna taste you every day on my tongue.” His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds.
His fingers strategically curl up, massaging that sweet spot of yours, leaving you teetering on the edge of sublime release. His arms shake with pent-up desire, still, Bucky makes sure to take his time with your trembling body.
“I’m gonna—fuck, please please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts.
“Give it to me, doll. Use me.”
You obey, literally humping his face. “‘M gonna come.” You sob, hips frantically driving into his face. “Jamie!” His tongue abuses the poor nub while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth, soaking his stubble.
“Breathe, angel.” Slowly retracting his fingers, his eyes study your face, your inner thighs burning raw from the way he rubbed his facial hair all over your core. He brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.
“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.
“One more.” Bucky kisses you.
“What?” You squeak out, still dazed yet blinking at him more awake than ever.
“One more, baby.” He implores, his hand soothing along the curve of your hip as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”
Before your lips can part around an incredulous laugh, a weight settles between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as his length is gradually coated in your slick.
Thick, long, with veins running along the flushed skin.
“Shit.” He grits out, mouth watering at the sight of the mess you are making on his cock.
“I’m gonna come inside you, sweetheart. Ask me for it, ask me for my cum.”
“Please, Bucky.” You swallow back a whine, nails digging into his skin. “Make me yours.”
He shushes your blabbering gently, cupping your cheek. “Look at me.” He orders, your vision blurry from all the unshed tears. “I’m here, pretty girl. Just a little more patience and we’ll watch it leak out of you because it’s too much for you to keep inside.” The reverence in his blue eyes makes you shiver as he takes in your pleading gaze. The way his thumb traces your lower lip, so tenderly and hypnotizing, has him unconsciously leaning forward, until your mouths join in a slow dance.
Your name comes out of his mouth in a low murmur against your lips. “Thank you for letting me have you like this.”
You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and staring down at you as if you are the missing piece of himself he was searching for all along, you can’t ignore it anymore.
“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down for another kiss—hard and desperate and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.
With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, brought to his knees by three simple words.
“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. I can’t pretend anymore now that I know what it feels like to have you in my arms, knowing that you’re mine...” Bucky swallows, eyes falling down on your chest before tentatively lifting up to meet yours.
You have never seen him like this. Hesitant. Never around you.
“You are mine, right?”
“Always have.” You breathe out, and with a broken groan, he takes your face in his hands, kissing any part he can reach: from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, latching onto a nipple. Moaning, you indulge in his warm tongue taking care of both nubs as his length slowly humps your wet folds.
“You feel it, angel? This is what you do to me.” He murmurs, humming at your nod. “Such a good girl.”
“Your good girl.”
That earns you a feral kiss. “I have to be inside you.” Bucky pants as your lips messily meet once again. “Now. I can’t take it anymore, need to feel you—Christ.” You break with a sharp cry when his tip encounters some resistance as it finally breeches your hole.
“Slowly sweetheart, look at her opening up so beautifully for me, you—” Bucky abruptly grunts as you clench incredibly tight. Maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat. “You need to relax for me, or else I’m gonna finish embarrassingly fast, angel.” A strained chuckle bleeds through his gritted teeth.
“Can’t. You’re so big.” You squeal mindlessly, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.
“I know.” His lips briefly press to your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so well. God, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the tip inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands clinging onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.
“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling so sensitive you feel like you are going to burst into flames.
Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then bends your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, satisfied as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle making your eyes cross.
“Oh shit! Bucky!” Your nails leave crescent marks into his skin, toes curling.
He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in the way your eyes squeeze shut, or how your hole snuggles his cock deeper when his tip brushes just right against your walls. At some point, his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to flick and rub your puffy clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clench again.
“There she is.” He growls. “Fuck, it feels so good.” His thrusts turn animalistic.
“I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy.”
The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision. His muscled arms keep you safe and still for him to play with, his chest pressed against your bouncing breasts so your sensitive nipples are rubbed raw.
“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” His voice breaks when your pussy tightens.
It’s too much—his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering about whatever pops into his head.
And you? You can just take it. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close, legs shaky and hips trying to rock back into his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body freezes, before pleasure ripples through you like pure electricity. Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the clear liquid squirting out of you and making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.
You squirm uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock.
“Jesus Christ, fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Wish I could keep you here and make you squirt on my cock every day for the rest of my life. You’re gonna make me come so hard.” He pants, voice bordering on a snarl and features scrunched up. “’S coming, take it all, doll—fuck!”
His cum spurts on your walls to claim you fully, cock throbbing, making him groan in utter relief. At some point, some spills out and down his thick length, mixing with your creamy mess on the bed and on your ass. You decide to not acknowledge it, too embarrassed by what you have done.
Bucky ends up collapsing over you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for so long.
You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet—and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax—so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewls when he finally reaches your mouth.
Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.
“Hey.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse.
Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try to answer, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”
You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.
“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”
A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel you trembling with the last threads of adrenaline leaving you. He holds you tighter, hums a random, almost inaudible melody against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks.
It feels like an eternity passes before Bucky finally cradles your face in his hands, looking a little more lucid.
“We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.
“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”
Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble.
Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall—tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars at night, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, small touches, and secrets suddenly all converge in this single moment.
His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest.
“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”
And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred, it's to be expected), angst, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, some plot to get to the smut (posessiveness, some spanking, dirty talk, teasing, praise and degredation kink, dom!Ben, fingering, begging, manhandling, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, oral f!reciving, edging, creampie, big dick ben, overstimulation, body worship, rough sex, just complete debauchery, dumbification, dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦author's note: made myself start drooling with this one. enjoy!✦
You had a secret. And you kept it buried in the deepest, most sacred corner of your heart. Not out of shame.
Out of survival.
It’s best to keep your head down, in a world like this one. Supes patrol the streets, and people who are a little too loud and unhappy get sent to their death. Vought says it’s just to be corrected, but you know. Everyone knows.
They’ve just all learned how to whisper about it.
And you’re braver than you wanted to be. You do more than you should be doing, when the most anyone should be worrying about is waking up in their bed the next morning. But there’s the teenage girl who lives down the hall from you, who got loud about hating Homelander in school, and almost got taken because of it. You helped her get out, and lied to the face of the people who showed up to find her.
You lied with a smile, too.
He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.
And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.
You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.
“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”
You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”
“No, because I’m not a-“
“Fucking pussy.”
You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.
“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.
“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.
“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”
“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.
Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”
“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“
Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.
He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.
But he’s not.
“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”
You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.
He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.
“You have.” You’d breathed.
And you’d really believed it.
But then he’d just… Left.
You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.
There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.
But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.
You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.
“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.
He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.
“You talking to me?”
“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”
The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.
“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”
“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“
“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“
“You said that already.”
You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”
His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.
Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.
In the store, you’d hadn’t been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.
He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.
And he’d laughed.
That night, he’d just laughed.
“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”
“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”
The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.
He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.
“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.
He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.
“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.
He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“
“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”
“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”
You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.
“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.
“Why shouldn’t I.”
“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“
“And why should I trust that?”
He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.
“I swear I won’t.”
“Promises mean nothing.”
“My promises mean something-“
“Not to me, they don’t.”
He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.
The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.
He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.
“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”
And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.
“What the fuck-“
“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”
“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“
“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“
“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“
“I am not going to shoot you-“
“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“
“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.
And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.
But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.
Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.
“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.
Ben had followed.
And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.
Then it had been gone.
Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.
So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.
It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.
And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.
Now, you’re careful.
After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.
Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.
No one could know who you are. What you were to him.
Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.
Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.
Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.
But still.
You’d hoped he would.
“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.
And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.
“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.
“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.
“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“
“You liked Paddington 2-“
“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”
You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.
“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”
And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.
“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.
Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.
“You got no idea.”
And you wish you had.
You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.
If you had, he might still be next to you today.
You broke a cup.
The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.
Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.
I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.
That he had been everything.
You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.
And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.
Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.
It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.
There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.
This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.
No.
This is new.
Which means Ben- He’s alive.
He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.
He left you.
It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.
He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.
You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.
He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.
Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.
And then he left.
Just left.
Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.
But not back with you.
Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.
He didn’t come back.
Ben couldn’t fucking find you.
He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.
Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here.
But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.
He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.
Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.
It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.
Although he had always listened.
But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.
His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.
Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.
He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.
And then you’d smiled at him.
He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.
There were things to be angry about now, though.
You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.
Hollow.
Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.
Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.
If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.
And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.
He just had to find you first.
Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.
All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.
The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.
“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“
“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.
“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“
He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“
“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes. Yes- Sir-“
“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.
He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.
“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”
Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.
“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”
Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”
“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.
Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.
You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.
And Ben had known.
“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.
That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.
Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.
You still worked there. You weren’t gone.
Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.
“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”
Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”
Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.
He had to go find you.
You get home, and you feel like nothing.
It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.
You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.
Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.
You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.
You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.
You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.
This is just always going to hurt.
“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”
You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.
Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.
“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”
You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.
Or you’d just pass right through thin air.
And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.
You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.
Then he left.
And you’re not anyone’s anymore.
Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.
“Ben?” You whisper.
A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.
“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”
He takes a step forward.
You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.
Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.
You shrink away.
“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.
“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“
He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.
You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.
“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.
He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.
Ben sees you. You can see him.
And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…
“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”
Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.
“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”
“You left.”
And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.
“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”
Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.
“I saw you on TV.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“
“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”
The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.
“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“
“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“
“You left.”
“No, I didn’t-“
“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.
It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.
“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“
Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.
Weak.
“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”
Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.
But Ben doesn’t leave.
He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.
His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.
Still calls it yours.
“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”
You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.
“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”
Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.
Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.
“Why should I believe you?”
Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.
Just focused.
“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“
“Swear it?”
Ben nods, and you tilt your head.
“You swore you’d come back.”
“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”
You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.
“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”
Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.
“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.
You don’t flinch. You never have.
“Prove that you are.”
A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.
You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.
“Be- Ben-“
He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.
“Ben-“
“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”
God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.
Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.
He doesn’t even come up for air.
“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“
He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest.
“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”
“I- Ooooh-“
You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.
“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”
“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“
“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”
You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“
“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”
Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.
“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“
“You- Benjamin-“
“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”
The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.
“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”
“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.
Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.
“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”
“Ben-“
“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”
Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.
“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”
“Mmmh.”
“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.
“Ben-“
“Say it.”
“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“
Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.
It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.
“How- How big is your dick?”
He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.
“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”
You pout slightly. “I am being good.”
Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.
“Ben-“
“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“
“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“
You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.
Then you realize.
Shit.
“Ben, I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.
“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“
Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.
“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“
He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.
Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.
“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”
His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.
“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”
You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.
“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“
“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”
“Oh- Okay.”
You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.
“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.
You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“
You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.
“Good girl.”
The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.
He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.
Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.
“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”
Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”
And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.
You still might cry.
Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway.
“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“
“I love you.”
You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.
Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.
You both will.
“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“
You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.
Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.
Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.
“Say it again.” He mutters.
“I love you.”
You offer it easily. It’s his to have.
And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.
It means he’s on a fucking mission.
“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”
You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.
“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”
“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.
It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.
“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”
You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.
“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.
Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.
“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”
You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”
“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.
His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.
“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“
He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.
“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.
He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.
Another warning.
“That’s- Fuck-“
He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.
“More, Ben, more-“
A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.
He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.
Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.
You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.
And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.
Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.
Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.
Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.
Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.
“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.
“Be- Ben-“
“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”
Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.
Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.
And again, Ben stops.
You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.
“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“
He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.
“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“
Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.
But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.
Take it. He’d said.
You don’t think you have a choice.
“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.
The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.
“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”
You glare at him, and he just grins.
“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”
He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.
“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”
Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.
And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.
“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”
You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”
He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.
“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”
You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.
Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.
But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.
“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”
He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.
Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.
“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”
You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”
“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.
“Ben- Oooooh-“
He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.
“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“
You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”
You had a smart, sharp retort.
It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.
Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.
“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.
“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”
You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.
Ben laughs, prowling up over you.
“You’re fucking drooling.”
“You’re pretty.”
“I am not fucking pretty.”
“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”
He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”
“You are a show pony.”
That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.
“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“
You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.
That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.
You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.
Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”
You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.
“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”
A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.
“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”
His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.
“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”
Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.
“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”
You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.
“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”
He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.
“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“
He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.
“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“
Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.
It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.
“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“
You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.
Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.
“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”
You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.
After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.
Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.
You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.
You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.
He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.
“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.
No pants. Unhelpful.
“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”
“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”
“I am not slobbering-“
“Yeah, you fucking are.”
You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.
“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re not my boss-“
“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”
You blink at him.
And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.
“You love me?” You whisper.
He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.
“Of course I do-“
“Say it.”
He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“
“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.
This time, it’s going to work.
“Please?” You add.
Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.
You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.
“I love you.” He grunts.
You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.
Meant to remind you that you have time.
“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.
“You’re real lucky-“
“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.
He always lets you. Because he loves you.
“I am.”
✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: You sit with a cup of tea, its warmth thawing your hands, but the amber liquid turns to crimson in your mind, dragging you back to Sister Beatrice’s death. The suffocating air, the blade, and the phantom scent of iron overwhelm you, leaving you shaken and terrified.
warnings/tags: dean winchester x fem!reader, sam winchester x fem!reader, castiel x fem!reader, Visceral, waking nightmares involving phantom gore, Intense psychic distress, auditory static, Vivid descriptions of phantom blood spilling and a depiction of a severe throat wound, panic attack, screaming, deception, loss of trust, emotional hurt, suffocating fear, doubt, hysteria, angst
wc: 5.9k
author's note: Let the drama begin o(><；)oo
Chapter 3 - Fractured Silence
The steam from the herbal tea rises in lazy, twisting ribbons, dissipating into the shadows of the high stone ceiling. The warmth of the mug has finally begun to bleed into your fingers, thawing the icy numbness that had gripped your hands since the greenhouse.
You stare down at the amber liquid for a long time, the silence stretching between the three of you. It isn’t a tense silence anymore, but a heavy, patient one.
But as you look at the swirling surface of the tea, the amber color suddenly seems to darken, morphing in your mind's eye into a deep, glossy crimson.
A sudden, violent wave of remembrance crashes over you, pulling you right back to that blood-slicked corridor. Your heart gives a painful thud against your ribs as you helplessly reminisce on what happened to Sister Beatrice. You remember the absolute, paralyzing stillness of the air. You remember the way the light had caught the edge of the blade, the horrific slit of the fabric and flesh, and the awful, rushing sound of a life pouring out onto the cold stone. In your mind, you are standing there all over again, staring into her wide, lifeless eyes as they stared back at you, trapped in that eternal look of unadulterated shock. The phantom scent of iron and sulfur burns the back of your throat so sharply you nearly choke on your own saliva.
You violently blink, forcing yourself back into the present, your chest heaving as you break the illusion.
Sam remains kneeling in front of you, his hazel eyes steady and infinitely patient, while Dean stays perched on the edge of the desk, a silent, watchful sentinel. Both of them notice the sudden, sharp hitch in your breath.
Finally, you swallow hard, forcing your throat to work. When you speak, your voice is a little hoarse, rough around the edges from the screaming, but it still carries that inherently soft, melodic cadence that belongs uniquely to you.
"I... I don't know what happened," you whisper, your voice barely louder than the rustle of the wind outside the rectory window.
Both brothers instantly shift, leaning in closer, giving you their undivided attention.
You take a shaky breath, your gray eyes flickering up to look at Sam, then drifting over to Dean. "It felt... so weird. I can't entirely explain what I just experienced. One moment I was just trimming the roses, and the next... the air just turned to lead. It was like the oxygen was pulled right out of the room."
You squeeze the ceramic mug a little tighter to keep your hands from starting up their violent shaking again. "My legs just gave out. And there was this... this crushing weight in my mind. It didn't feel like a physical sickness. It felt like a dark cloud was pressing down on my soul, trying to squeeze the life out of me. I felt so incredibly weak... and so terrified."
You leave out the part about the raspy, overlapping voices scraping against the inside of your skull. It feels too crazy, too deeply violating to put into words, and a part of you is desperately trying to convince yourself that the whispers were just a hallucination brought on by the sudden lack of air and the lingering shock of finding Beatrice.
"I've felt a chill in the cathedral before," you continue softly, your eyes welling with a fresh, fragile glaze of tears that you quickly blink away. "A passing shadow here and there over the years. But never anything like that. It felt malicious. Like it was standing right over me, watching me suffer."
Sam listens intently, his brow furrowing as he processes your words. His hunter’s mind is putting the pieces together—the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure, the localized weakness, the thick stench of sulfur that vanished into thin air. It was a demonic manifestation, a heavy spiritual oppression, but the fact that it didn't physically harm you or possess you right then and there means it was playing a much more psychological, predatory game.
"You're doing great, Liliana," Sam says, his deep voice carrying a soothing, grounding resonance. He reaches out, his large hand hovering just an inch over yours, offering comfort without forcing you into physical contact. "You don't have to explain it perfectly. We know it was terrifying, and we know you didn't imagine it."
Dean lets out a slow, heavy breath, his eyes locked on your pale, freckled face. The fury in his chest is simmering into a cold, hard resolve. He doesn't like the supernatural messing with things that are innocent, and looking at you right now—without your veil, your blonde curls tangled, your voice cracked and small—he has never seen anyone look more innocent.
"It's a classic bully tactic," Dean says, his tone dropping into a low, protective growl as he leans forward from the desk. "It wanted to scare you. It wanted to make you feel helpless in your own home. But you're not helpless anymore, angel. It made a mistake coming after you while we're in town."
You look up at Dean, the raw sincerity in his green eyes catching your breath for a fraction of a second. A small, shaky nod escapes you, and for the first time since you collapsed in the dirt, the tight knot of terror in your chest loosens just a little bit more.
You freeze, your tea mug halting halfway to your lips. You look up from the floor, your wide, winter-gray eyes shifting from Sam’s earnest face straight to Dean.
Then you look at them fully, the fragile fog of your shock momentarily clearing. Your mind, sharp from years of translating complex logic and ancient texts, immediately zeros in on the strange words that just slipped out of the older brother's mouth.
“A classic bully tactic.” “It made a mistake coming after you.”
"A... bully tactic?" you repeat, your voice incredibly soft, trembling with a sudden, new kind of confusion. You lower the mug back to your lap, your gaze intensifying as you stare at Dean. "What do you mean by that? How can a... a sickness or a lack of air be a bully tactic? And what do you mean it made a mistake coming after me?"
Dean freezes. His green eyes widen slightly, his jaw tightening as he realizes he just let his hunter vocabulary slip in front of a civilian. He glances sharply at Sam, a silent 'crap, I messed up' passing between them in a split second.
Sam lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, rubbing a massive hand over his face. He looks back up at you, his hazel eyes completely devoid of the professional, polished FBI demeanor he had worn yesterday.
"Dean," Sam murmurs quietly, his voice heavy with a grim resignation. "We have to tell her. We can't keep her in the dark after what just happened in that greenhouse. Not anymore."
"Tell me what?" you whisper. A sudden, cold prickle of dread returns to your chest, different from the demonic oppression from before, but deeply unsettling. Your eyes look between the two towering men. "What are you hiding from me?"
Dean shifts off the edge of the desk, stepping closer until he is kneeling right beside Sam, bringing himself down to your level. The cocky, charming mask is entirely gone.
"Liliana... look," Dean begins, his voice dropping into a raw, gravelly sincerity. "We aren't FBI agents. Our badges? The suits yesterday? They're fake. Our names are Sam and Dean Winchester."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You flinch back into the cushions of the armchair, your breath catching in your throat. "You... you lied to me? You lied to Father Reyes? To the local police?"
A sharp spike of hurt cuts through you, mixing violently with the residual terror in your veins. Yesterday, you had looked at these men like a lifeline. You had felt a deep, genuine wave of gratitude when they carried your groceries, and your cheeks had burned when the sisters teased you about them. To find out it was all a fabricated performance makes a sudden, icy wall of doubt rise up between you and them.
"Why?" your voice cracks, a single tear escaping your lashes, making your pale skin look even more fragile. "Why would you do that? If you aren't the police, then who are you? Why are you really here?"
"We're hunters," Sam says quickly, his hands opening in a placating, non-threatening gesture, his eyes pleading with you to understand. "We don't work for the government, Liliana. We hunt things. Things that go bump in the night. The stuff from the dark that people think are just myths or fairy tales."
"Hunters?" you whisper, your brain entirely unable to comprehend what is happening. "Like... animals?"
"No, angel," Dean cuts in gently, his green eyes boring into yours with absolute, fierce intensity. "We hunt monsters. And that smell you noticed? That sulfur? That's not a plumbing issue. It's the physical manifestation of a demon. A literal demon from Hell is inside your cathedral, Liliana. It killed Sister Beatrice, it’s been killing people in this town for months, and just now in the greenhouse... it was standing right over you."
You stare at them, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. A demon. Literal monsters. Fake badges. The sheer absurdity of it, paired with the horrific truth of what you had just felt in the greenhouse, makes your head spin. You look at Sam's calloused hands, then at Dean's honest, burning gaze. Part of you wants to scream for Father Reyes and throw them out for lying to you, but another part of you remembers the suffocating, dark weight that had just tried to crush your soul.
"A... a demon?" you whisper, your fingers trembling violently against the ceramic mug as a deep, agonizing doubt clouds your mind. "I... I don't understand..."
The silence in the room stretches until it feels as thick and heavy as the stone walls surrounding you. Your fingers clamp down around the ceramic mug so tightly your knuckles turn completely white, the tea inside sloshing slightly from the steady, rhythmic trembling of your hands.
You look at the two brothers kneeling before you. Yesterday, they were a comforting shield; right now, they feel like dangerous strangers who have brought a terrifying storm right to your doorstep.
"Please," you whisper, your voice cracking, carrying a fragile but fierce edge that surprises even yourself. You look directly into Dean’s green eyes, then shift your gaze to Sam. "Please, do not lie to me anymore. I do not like lying. In the convent, truth is... it is sacred. If you are playing some sort of cruel trick on me, or if you are running from the law... I swear to you, I will scream for Father Reyes and Sister Martha right now. He is just down the hall."
Your chest heaves with a shallow, panicked breath. You are completely overwhelmed. Your brain is trying to process the horrifying, suffocating weight you felt in the greenhouse, the smell of sulfur, and now the absurd, terrifying claim that demons are real—all while dealing with the sharp, stinging hurt that the two men you were beginning to trust had completely fabricated who they were.
But beneath the betrayal, a deeper confusion fractures your mind. You know what you felt in the garden. You know the dark, suffocating malice was real, and your faith has always taught you that spiritual wickedness exists in the world. You can believe a demon—a form less, corrupting presence of evil—was pressing down on your soul.
But what Sam and Dean are talking about feels entirely different, almost monstrously literal. They speak of these entities like they are physical predators to be hunted, tracked, and stabbed with silver blades. It sounds like something out of a horror movie, a twisted fantasy that goes against everything you’ve ever understood about the spiritual warfare of the church. You want to believe them because of the sulfur, because of the raw terror still making your blood run cold, but your mind pushes back violently against the chaotic, violent reality they keep insisting on.
You look at them, your pale gray eyes wide with a mixture of fear and profound skepticism, caught in the terrifying space between a spiritual nightmare you can't deny and a supernatural reality you can't bring yourself to accept.
A heavy wave of doubt clouds your winter-gray eyes. How can you trust anything they say if their very presence here is a lie?
Dean doesn't flinch or pull away from your threat. If anything, his expression grows even more intensely serious, the jaw muscle leaping under his stubble. He slowly holds up his large, calloused hands, palms out, completely open.
"Liliana, look at me," Dean says, his gravelly voice dropping into a desperate, grounding register. "I get it. You have every right to throw us out of here. We lied to get through the front doors, and that is on us. But I swear on my life, I am telling you the absolute truth right now. No more games."
Sam steps in, his deep voice radiating a profound, heavy solemnity that matches the gravity of the room. He reaches slowly into his inner jacket pocket, ensuring his movements are completely visible and non-threatening, and pulls out a small, worn leather pouch. He opens it, revealing a fine, clear water inside.
"If we wanted to hurt you, or if we were lying about the danger, we wouldn't be trying to protect you," Sam says softly, his hazel eyes pleading for your trust. “The thing that was in the greenhouse with you... it’s a demon. It’s what killed Sister Beatrice. It’s why the air felt like lead."
You stare at the small vial, then back at their faces. The tension in the room is suffocating, balancing on the edge of a knife. You are a quiet, gentle archivist who has spent a decade surrounded by hymns and ancient texts, and now you are trapped in a room with two men claiming to fight the literal forces of Hell.
The heavy wooden door remains shut, sealing the three of you inside a silence that feels increasingly claustrophobic. The air in the old rectory, which had felt so safe and grounding just moments ago, now presses against your chest with a completely different kind of weight.
You stay entirely quiet. Your lips are parted slightly, frozen in the middle of a breath you can’t quite seem to finish.
The information doesn't just sit in the room; it crashes into you. It feels as if a dam inside your mind has suddenly burst, flooding your consciousness with a reality so massive, so terrifying, and so utterly violent that your brain simply refuses to process it. For ten years, your world has been defined by the predictable, soothing rhythms of the church. You understood Latin verbs, the cataloging of centuries-old manuscripts, the quiet scratch of a pen, and the peaceful flicker of altar candles. Your universe was small, structured, and safe.
And now, in the span of a few sentences, these two men have torn that universe to shreds.
Hunters. Fake badges. Monsters. A literal demon.
The words repeat in your head like a frantic, broken chant. Your eyes wide and glazed with a thick layer of unshed tears, you slowly lower your gaze away from them. You cannot look them in the eye right now. The intensity in Dean’s green gaze—the fierce, burning honesty that you had found so comforting just minutes ago—now feels entirely too sharp, too real. And Sam’s deep, pleading hazel eyes hold a heavy, tragic knowledge that frightens you to your very core. To look at them is to accept that the world is a much darker, much more horrific place than you ever feared.
You stare intensely down at the ceramic mug in your lap. The amber liquid has stopped swirling, reflecting the dim, panicked gray of your own eyes. You focus on the tiny, intricate cracks in the porcelain glaze, desperately trying to anchor yourself to something ordinary, but your hands are shaking so much that the tea begins to tremble again, sending small, frantic ripples across the surface.
"A demon..." you breathe out, the word tasting bitter and terrifying on your tongue. Your eyes swell with fresh, stressed tears as the sheer weight of your doubt and fear collides. "Why? Why would something like that come after me? I am just a nun. I translate books..."
"We don't know yet," Dean says, his voice fierce with an unyielding promise as he steps a fraction closer, his gaze locked onto yours. "But we're going to find out. You can hate us for lying, Liliana, and you can call Father Reyes to kick us out. But we aren't leaving this town until we know you're safe. That is the god's honest truth."
A sharp, deep spike of hurt twists in your stomach at his words. It is a quiet, aching sort of betrayal. You think of the walk from the market, the gentle, soft-spoken conversation where you had bared a piece of your soul, telling them about the loss of your parents and why you chose the veil. You think of the warm, flushed embarrassment you had felt at the lunch table just an hour ago, the way the sisters had giggled and teased you about your "federal escorts."
It had all been a lie. A calculated performance to get through the doors.
A single, hot tear finally spills over your lashes, tracking slowly down your pale, flushed cheek and splashing silently into the tea. Your chest gives a small, ragged hitch. You feel so incredibly small sitting in the giant armchair, stripped of your veil, your blonde curls spilling over your shoulders like a shroud of exposed vulnerability. You are trapped between the supernatural terror of the greenhouse and the human deceit sitting right in front of you.
Sam and Dean don’t move. They stay frozen in their kneeling positions, completely boxing you in, their heavy breathing the only sound in the room. They can see the precise moment the doubt and the overwhelming weight of the truth completely break your spirit. The tension between you is like a piano wire stretched to its absolute limit, vibrating with a quiet, agonizing distress.
"Liliana..." Sam says, his deep voice dropping into an octave so low and gentle it sounds like a plea. He wants to reach out, to steady your trembling hands, but he stops himself, sensing the invisible wall you have just built between them.
You don't answer. You keep your eyes locked firmly on your lap, your head bowed, your breath coming in shallow, shaky rattles as you struggle to survive the collapse of the only sanctuary you have left.
The suffocating silence of the rectory stretches until the air itself feels ready to snap. The weight of their lies, combined with the lingering, terrifying echo of the demon's presence, becomes a physical pressure crushing your chest. You can't look at them. You can't bear the fierce, burning intensity in Dean's green eyes, or the heavy, tragic sorrow in Sam's gaze. Everything is too much. The walls of the sanctuary you’ve called home for ten years feel like they are closing in, suffocating you from the inside out.
Your throat feels raw, dry, and tight, locked behind a wall of overwhelming grief and panic. You need them gone. You need the towering, broad-shouldered reminders of violence and deceit out of your sight before you completely unravel.
"Please..."
The word slips from your lips, barely a thread of sound, so quiet and trembling that the brothers have to lean forward to catch it. You keep your eyes locked fiercely on your lap, your knuckles white around the warm ceramic mug.
"Please... get out," you mutter, a single tear cutting a fresh path through the flush on your cheek. "Please just get out of here."
Sam flinches as if he’s been struck, his massive shoulders falling slightly. "Liliana, listen to us," he pleads, his deep voice thick with desperation as he reaches a hand out, only to freeze it in the air between you, agonizingly aware of how fragile you are right now. "We know you're angry, and we know you're terrified. You have every right to be. But we can't leave you alone. If that thing comes back—"
"We're staying right here, angel," Dean cuts in, his gravelly voice hard with a stubborn, unyielding protectiveness. He doesn't move an inch from your side, his boots planted like iron weights. "You don't have to look at us, you don't even have to talk to us, but we are not leaving this room."
The refusal to respect your boundaries, the sheer, overwhelming pressure of their presence, makes something inside your gentle soul completely fracture. For a decade, your life has been defined by quiet obedience, soft prayers, and gentle whispers. You have never raised your voice. You have never held anger in your heart. But the terror of the greenhouse, the visceral memory of Sister Beatrice's slit throat, and the sudden, devastating betrayal of these two men collides inside your chest into a blinding spike of raw panic.
"I said get out!"
The scream tears from your throat, sharp, harsh, and violently loud. It is a tone you have never used in your entire life—a frantic, cracking sound born of pure desperation that rips through the holy quiet of the rectory like a physical blow. The sudden, ugly sharpness of your own voice shocks you, sending a jolt of alarm straight through your veins, but the sheer momentum of your panic carries you forward. You shove your hands out blindly, desperately trying to push the space between you and them, violently pulling away.
In your frantic, shaking movement, your trembling fingers lose their grip entirely. The ceramic mug slips.
Smash!
The heavy cup slams violently onto the hardwood floor right between Sam and Dean's boots, shattering into a dozen jagged pieces. Hot chamomile and lavender tea splatters across the floorboards, the steam rising up into the tense air as the fragments of porcelain skitter across the room.
The loud, violent sound shatters the isolation of the rectory. Both brothers freeze, entirely paralyzed. Dean’s eyes widen, a rare flash of genuine shock registering on his rugged face at the sudden, fierce outburst from a girl who had seemed so unbreakably gentle. Sam actually takes a step back, his face paling, realizing with a crushing sense of guilt that they have driven you to a point of wild, breathless hysteria.
Almost instantly, the heavy oak door is thrown open, and Sister Martha comes rushing back into the room, her eyes wide with alarm, her habit rustling frantically.
"Liliana! Oh, sweet Mary, what happened?!" Martha cries, her gaze darting from the shattered porcelain on the floor up to the two massive, rigid men standing on either side of your chair.
You don't look at them. You refuse to look at them. Shocked by your own scream and entirely overwhelmed, you pull your knees up to your chest, curling yourself into a tight, defensive ball inside the oversized armchair, burying your face against your arms. Your long blonde curls cascade over your face like a curtain, completely shielding you from the world, your shoulders heaving with a quiet, devastating sob as you shake from the residual adrenaline of your anger.
The tension in the room is suffocating, thick with a heavy, aching angst. Dean slowly draws a breath, his face cast in a dark, brooding shadow as he stares down at your crumpled, weeping form, his fists clenching so tightly in his pockets that his knuckles click. He wants to stay, he wants to fight whatever is hurting you, but he can see that right now, they are the monsters in your eyes. They are the ones causing you panic.
Sam stands next to his brother, stepping carefully over the broken glass, his hazel eyes filled with a profound, crushing guilt that makes him look entirely hollowed out. He looks at Sister Martha, who is already rushing to your side, throwing her arms around your trembling shoulders to protect you from them.
"We'll go," Sam says quietly, his voice heavy and broken as he gives your hiding form one last, lingering look.
Without another word, the two brothers turn and walk out of the rectory, their heavy boots dragging against the floor, leaving you alone in the quiet, shattered sanctuary with the only family you have left.
The heavy oak door of the rectory clicks shut with a finality that echoes like a gunshot in the quiet corridor.
Outside, Sam and Dean walk down the long, echoing stone hallway of the cathedral in absolute silence, their jaws set, their strides long and furious. They don't look at the other sisters who watch them pass with anxious, whispering faces. They just push through the massive front doors, stepping out into the biting Montana air, and march straight down the pavement toward the black Chevy Impala.
The moment Dean slams the driver’s side door shut, the fragile dam of their restraint completely shatters.
"Goddammit!" Dean barks, his fist slamming violently against the leather padding of the steering wheel. The impact rattles the dashboard. He throws himself back against the seat, his chest heaving, his face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. "Son of a bitch!"
"Dean, calm down—" Sam starts, his own voice dangerously tight, his hands gripping his knees so hard the fabric of his jeans strains.
"Calm down?! Sam, did you see her?!" Dean snaps, turning his whole body in the seat to glare at his brother, his green eyes blazing. He’s practically shouting now, his voice raw and echoing loudly inside the tight cabin of the car. "She was shaking like a leaf! She was terrified out of her mind, sitting there looking like a broken ghost, and she looked at us like we were the monsters!"
"I saw her, Dean! I was right there!" Sam shoots back, his deep voice rising to match his brother's volume, a rare, frustrated anger flushing his face. "You think I don't feel sick about it? We lied to her, Dean. We wore the suits, we flashed the badges, we let her think she was safe with us, and then a demon almost tears her mind apart and we drop the truth on her like a bomb! How did you think she was going to react?! She felt betrayed ok!"
"We had to tell her the truth!" Dean roars, throwing his hands up in the air. "What were we supposed to do? Let her go back out to the garden so that piece-of-crap demon could finish the job? I am not mad at her, Sam! I’m mad that she’s the one paying the price for this crap! She is a nun, man! She spends her days translating dusty books and praying, she doesn't deserve any of this! She shouldn't even know that Hell exists!"
"I know that!" Sam yells back, the sheer frustration causing him to lean forward, his eyes burning into Dean's. "She doesn't deserve it. None of the people we save deserve it. But she’s at the center of this now, and screaming in the car isn't going to fix the fact that she just threw us out!" The mention of her throwing them out causes a sudden, agonizing silence to drop over the car.
Dean flinches, the shouting dying in his throat. He turns back to look out the windshield, his fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. The raw, sharp memory of your voice—cracking, terrified, and screaming for them to get out—slices through him like a hunting knife. It pained them both more than they cared to admit. They were used to being feared by monsters, used to being hated by authorities, but being feared and hated by someone so entirely innocent, someone they desperately wanted to protect, felt like a heavy, suffocating failure.
"It sucked, okay?" Dean whispers, his voice suddenly dropping from a roar into a rough, gravelly rasp that vibrates with a deep, hidden ache. He stares at the stone steeples of the cathedral in the distance. "When she said that... when she looked at me… to us with those gray eyes completely full of doubt... it sucked, Sam."
Sam lets out a long, ragged breath, his anger draining away, leaving only a profound, crushing exhaustion in its wake. He leans his head back against the window, staring up at the roof of the car.
"Yeah," Sam says softly, his deep voice hollow. "I know. She felt betrayed. She thought we were the good guys, the regular law enforcement, and instead we brought the literal devil to her doorstep. We're on edge because we know how dangerous that demon is, but to her... we're the ones who shattered the peace."
"We can't leave her perimeter, Sam," Dean says, his tone shifting into a cold, dangerous resolve as he twists the key in the ignition. The V8 engine roars to life, a low, aggressive rumble that matches the tension in the air. "I don't care if she hates my guts or you. I don't care if she calls the real FBI on us. We are staying parked right outside those gates. If that sulfur smell son of a bitch comes back even an inch, I am tearing those doors down."
"Agreed," Sam mutters, pulling his laptop onto his knees, his face set in a grim, matching determination. "But for now, we give her the space she asked for. Let Sister Martha calm her down. We just watch from the dark."
Dean shifts the Impala into drive, the tires spinning slightly on the gravel as he pulls the car across the street into the shadows of the tree line. The mood in the car remains taut, suffocatingly tense, both brothers completely consumed by the devastating image of you curled up in that chair, entirely unaware of the lengths they are willing to go to keep your sanctuary standing.
While the Impala sits idling in the cold shadows across the street, its cabin heavy with the suffocating tension of two brothers loading shotguns, drawing devil's traps on trunk linings, and preparing for an absolute war, the world inside the rectory remains frozen in a very different kind of pain.
The shattered pieces of the porcelain cup lie forgotten on the hardwood floor, the spilled lavender tea cooling into a dark stain.
You remain curled tightly in the oversized armchair, your knees pulled flush against your chest, your forehead resting against your arms. Sister Martha’s arms are wrapped securely around your shaking shoulders, her soft murmurs of comfort a constant, desperate rhythm against the quiet room. Soon, the heavy door creaks open again, and the hushed, anxious rustle of fabric signals the arrival of Sister Agnes and Sister Clara.
"Liliana, my sweet child, please tell us what happened," Sister Martha pleads softly, her hand gently stroking your tangled blonde curls. "Did those men do something to you? Did they threaten you? What did they say?"
"Was it an attack, child?" Sister Agnes asks, her aged voice cracking with genuine terror. "Tell us. Father Reyes can call the local sheriff this very instance."
But you can’t tell them.
The words feel like heavy, jagged stones choking your throat. How could you possibly look into the gentle, worried faces of the women who have raised you for ten years and tell them that their sacred sanctuary is failing? How could you tell them that monsters are real, that a literal demon from Hell had been breathing down your neck in the greenhouse, or that the two handsome "agents" they had been playfully teasing you about at lunch were actually heavily armed hunters of the damned?
If you speak the truth, you will destroy their peace forever. You will shatter the safety of the only home you have left.
So, you keep the horrific secret locked deep inside your chest. You just keep crying, your quiet, breathless sobs echoing against the stone walls, the tears soaking through the sleeves of your habit. No matter how much they press, no matter how gently they coax, you offer absolutely nothing but a devastating, heartbroken silence.
Eventually, as the hours crawl by and the midday sun begins to cast long, weary shadows across the floor, your tears finally dry up. But the warmth doesn't return to your face. You become completely, literally quiet—staring blankly into space, your gray eyes hollow and unblinking, your frame entirely rigid.
This profound, sudden muteness scares the sisters far more than your crying ever did. The vibrant, gentle girl who used to hum hymns while translating ancient texts has completely vanished, replaced by a ghost.
"That is enough," Sister Agnes finally says, her voice firm with authority as she ushers the other sisters toward the door. "She is in shock from whatever occurred. No duties today. No archives, no gardens, no altar prep. Liliana, you are going straight to your room, and you are to rest for the rest of the day."
They guide you gently up the narrow stone stairs to your tiny, sparse cell of a bedroom. They tuck a heavy wool blanket around your shoulders, place a fresh glass of water on your nightstand, and softly close the wooden door, leaving you entirely alone in the silence.
The moment the latch clicks shut, the numbness breaks, and a violent wave of complex emotions crashes over you.
You feel deeply, excruciatingly hurt. The stinging betrayal of Sam and Dean’s lie still aches in your chest. They had used your innocence, used your vulnerability, and put on a calculated show just to slip past the church gates. They had made you look like a fool in front of the entire convent.
But as you stare at the stark white wall of your room, an unexpected, heavy blanket of guilt settles over your heart.
The memory of your own voice screaming at them—sharp, panicked, and venomous—vibrates in your ears. You remember the precise way Sam’s massive shoulders had flinched, as if your words had physically struck him. You remember the raw, devastating flash of pain and unyielding protectiveness that had burned in Dean’s green eyes right before he turned to walk out. They hadn't run away. Even when you threw a cup at their feet, even when you screamed at them to leave, they had only looked at you with a profound, crushing sorrow. They had wanted to keep you safe from the dark.
"But they lied," you whisper frantically to the empty room, your fingers knotting into the wool blanket as you try to defend your anger to yourself. "They aren't who they said they were. I can't trust them."
Yet, the guilt refuses to leave.
Desperate to escape the suffocating loop of your own thoughts, you force yourself out of bed. You cannot sit still. Your hands are still slightly clammy, your mind buzzing with a dangerous static. Looking for anything to occupy your restless energy, you grab a cloth and begin to frantically dust the small wooden crucifix on your wall. When that is done, you sit at your small desk, pulling open a heavy Latin Psalter, forcing your eyes to track the ancient, ink-stroked verbs, desperately trying to drown out the memory of the demon's whispers—and the haunted faces of the Winchester brothers waiting out in the cold.
Summary: Behind the heavy glass panes of the cathedral greenhouse, you hear the mundane whispers of everyday life—the sisters’ lighthearted jests trying to hold the darkness at bay. But the peace around you is only a fragile illusion. As the shadows stretch, an invisible, rancid pressure seeps through the cracks of reality, plunging you into a suffocating, blood-soaked waking nightmare that leaves you utterly defenseless.
warnings/tags: dean winchester x fem!reader, sam winchester x fem!reader, castiel x fem!reader, Visceral, waking nightmares involving phantom gore, Intense psychic distress, auditory static, Vivid descriptions of phantom blood spilling over white flora and a depiction of a severe throat wound, Depictions of hyperventilating, throat constriction, and severe emotional distress, Fluff, Lighthearted Teasing (Pre-Angst), Protective Winchesters
wc: 6.8k
author's note: hope you enjoy this part hehe ( •̀ ω •́ )✧
Chapter 2 - Conservatory
The greenhouse at the back of the cathedral grounds is a world away from the cold, intimidating stone of the corridors. Here, the air is thick, warm, and rich with the scent of damp earth and blooming flora. Sunlight pours through the fogged glass panes of the arched ceiling, creating a hazy, golden atmosphere that usually helps settle your racing thoughts.
You stand on a small wooden stepladder, your fingers carefully trimming the stems of the white Easter lilies destined for Sunday’s high altar. You work with a quiet, practiced precision, glad for a task that requires your hands to be steady.
But the peace doesn't last long.
The heavy glass door of the greenhouse clicks open, and Sister Martha bustles inside, carrying the canvas bags of groceries you had abandoned in the courtyard. Her eyes are bright, and there is a frantic, unmistakable energy in her steps. She looks directly at Sister Agnes, who is sitting at a wooden workbench nearby, gently binding a bundle of baby’s breath with twine.
"Agnes, you will not believe what I just witnessed in the courtyard," Martha begins, her voice a hushed, excited stage whisper that carries perfectly across the quiet greenhouse.
You freeze, your shears hovering inches from a lily petal. You can already feel a slow, telltale warmth creeping up your neck.
"What is it, Martha?" Sister Agnes asks, not looking up from her twine, though a small, amused smile tugs at the corner of her aged mouth. "Did the delivery truck arrive early?"
"Worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it," Martha hums, leaning over the workbench. She tilts her head deliberately toward you, though she keeps her voice loud enough for the entire room to hear. "Our Liliana didn't walk back from the market alone. She was flanked. Escorted. By those two federal investigators who were here yesterday."
Sister Agnes finally pauses, her sharp eyes flicking up to look at you, then back to Martha. "The tall one and the blonde one?"
"The very same," Martha gossips, her hands gesturing dramatically. "And let me tell you, they were not acting like government officials. Sam—the giant one—was carrying her grocery bags like they were made of silk, looking down at her like he wanted to shield her from a draft. And the other one? Dean? Oh, mercy." Martha lets out a low, amused whistle. "He was standing so close his leather jacket was practically glued to her shoulder. He looked at her like he’d found a lost lamb and was ready to fight off a pack of wolves just to keep her smiling."
A deep, burning crimson floods your face. Your hands shake, and you accidentally snip a perfectly good leaf, the click of your shears echoing loudly in the greenhouse. You keep your back turned to them, desperately staring at the white petals, praying that if you stay perfectly still, they will stop.
"Is that so?" Sister Agnes chuckles, a soft, raspy sound. She turns her gaze toward your rigid back on the ladder. "Well, can you blame them, Martha? Our Liliana went out today without her veil. I’ve said it for years—that blonde hair of hers is a snare for any man with eyes in his head."
"Exactly!" Martha chimes in, entirely ignoring your agonizing silence as if you aren't even in the room. "The boys in town have been whispering about her for years. Do you remember last summer, Agnes? Those boys from the local college who suddenly started showing up to the 10:00 AM Mass every single Sunday? They weren't there for Father Reyes's homilies, I can tell you that much. They sat in the back pew just waiting for Liliana to walk down the aisle with the collection basket."
"Sister Martha, please," you finally whisper, your voice thick with embarrassment. You keep your head bowed, your long blonde curls swinging forward to hide your beet-red cheeks as you try to focus on a new stem. "They were just being polite. They saw me struggling with the heavy root vegetables."
"Oh, hush, child," Sister Agnes says, her tone softening into a warm, maternal tease. "There is no sin in being beautiful, Liliana. God gave you that snow-pale skin and those winter-gray eyes. It's only natural that a couple of handsome men in sharp suits would notice. Especially when you’re walking around looking like a saint out of an Italian painting."
"I’m just saying," Martha adds, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she arranges the bread in the pantry basket, "if those two 'agents' keep showing up to protect the cathedral, Father Reyes might have to start charging them admission. The blonde one looked like he was ready to swear a holy vow of his own just to stay in the same zip code as you."
You bite your lower lip, your heart fluttering in a strange, chaotic rhythm. You try to tell yourself they are wrong—that Sam and Dean are just hardened investigators trying to solve a brutal murder. But as you look down at your hands, your skin still feels warm from the brief, grounding touch of Dean’s calloused fingers in the courtyard, and you can still see the intense, protective weight in Sam's hazel eyes.
The golden morning light eventually deepens into the thick, honeyed amber of midday. The bell tolls for noon prayer, and soon after, the sisters gather in the cathedral’s refectory for lunch. The room is vast and sparse, filled with the comforting, earthy scent of potato-leek soup and the fresh bread you had helped bring back from the market. Usually, lunch is a quiet affair, a time for soft murmurs or contemplative silence.
Today, however, the universe has decided you have hidden in the shadows for far too long.
You sit at the long, polished oak table, your hands wrapped around a warm ceramic bowl of soup. Your veil is back in place, pinned precisely to hide the blonde curls that had caused such a stir earlier, but the cloth does absolutely nothing to protect you from what happens next.
You are just taking a sip of water when Sister Martha clears her throat, a bright, dangerous twinkle in her eye as she looks down the length of the table at the other four sisters.
"Well, sisters," Martha begins, her voice cutting through the quiet clinking of spoons. "It seems our Liliana had quite the eventful trip to the farmers market this morning. It turns out she doesn't just have the local grocery boys flustered anymore. Now, she has the federal government at her beck and call."
You nearly choke on your water, a sudden, violent heat rushing from the collar of your habit straight to your face. You set your glass down with a tiny, frantic clack. "Sister Martha, please—"
"Oh, don't be modest, child!" Sister Agnes chimes in from across the table, waving a piece of crusty bread with an amused chuckle. She looks at the rest of the table, whose ears have all instantly perked up. "Martha and I saw it with our own eyes. Two tall, broad-shouldered FBI agents in sharp suits, escorting our Liliana back to the courtyard. One of them—the giant one with the long hair—was carrying her groceries like they were sacred artifacts. And the other one, the blonde one with the leather jacket? I thought his jaw was going to drop right off his face."
"A federal escort?" Sister Clara gasps, her spoon pausing halfway to her mouth. A collective murmur of excited giggles and whispered exclamations ripples down the table. "Liliana, really? The ones investigating the... the tragedy?"
"Yes, but they weren't looking at her like an investigator looks at a witness," Martha gossips enthusiastically, leaning forward over her bowl. "The blonde one was standing so close to her he was practically a second habit. He looked at her like he was ready to smite anyone who even breathed in her direction. When they left, he told her to call his personal number if she needed anything. Not the police station, mind you. His personal line."
"Sister Martha, Sister Agnes, that is entirely untrue!" you protest, your voice rising slightly above its usual soft-spoken cadence as you try to defend yourself. You can feel the flush spreading intensely, a deep, furious pink painting your snow-pale skin, making your freckles stand out bright and stark. You look around the table, your winter-gray eyes wide with mortification. "They were just being polite civil servants! I was struggling with the bags, and they happened to be passing by. It was a matter of professional courtesy, nothing more."
"Professional courtesy doesn't involve looking at a nun like she’s a long-lost treasure, dear," Sister Martha retorts with a playful wink.
"Exactly," Sister Mary joins in, a teasing smirk on her face. "Though, I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. Remember those college boys from last semester? And the mailman who always takes an extra ten minutes to deliver the parcels whenever Liliana is working in the archives? You’ve always had a quiet line of suitors, Liliana.”
"Please, it isn't like that at all," you whisper, desperately staring down at your soup, your hands clenching your napkin so tightly your knuckles turn white. You feel utterly defenseless. You are fluent in ancient languages; you can navigate complex theological texts, but you have absolutely no defense against a room full of teasing nuns. Every excuse you try to formulate dies in your throat because the memory of Dean’s intense green eyes and Sam’s warm, grounding presence flashes vividly in your mind.
At the head of the table, Father Reyes sits quietly, breaking his bread. For a long moment, he says nothing, and you look toward him like a drowning sailor looking for a lifeboat. Surely, the parish priest will restore holy solemnity to the refectory. Surely, he will tell them to stop.
Instead, Father Reyes raises his eyes, and a slow, deep amusement spreads across his weathered face. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and a soft, deep chuckle rumbles in his chest.
"Well, Sister Liliana," Father Reyes says, his voice dripping with gentle irony as he tilts his head. "The Bible does command us to welcome the stranger, but it seems you have a particular gift for hospitality when it comes to the authorities. If the Federal Bureau of Investigation is offering to protect our archivists, far be it from me to interfere with the law."
The entire table bursts into a chorus of soft, delighted laughter at the priest's joke.
You hide your face in your hands, the heat of your blushing cheeks practically radiating against your palms. You look completely flushed, your chest heaving with a soft, embarrassed breath as you realize you have completely lost this battle. They are going to tease you about this for weeks.
But beneath the agonizing embarrassment, as you sit in the warm, laughing room, a tiny, secret spark dances in your heart. You remember the rough, reassuring warmth of Dean's fingers brushing yours, and the heavy, safe feeling of Sam standing by your side. For a girl who had been entirely alone in the dark since she was eighteen, the thought that these dangerous, fiercely protective men were out there, watching over you, made the flush on your cheeks feel a little less like embarrassment
The honeyed light of the afternoon fades into a bruised purple dusk, and eventually, the pitch-black cold of another Montana night settles over Bozeman.
Outside, parked a block away beneath the skeletal branches of a dying oak tree, the Chevy Impala sits in darkness. Inside, the cabin smells of stale black coffee, cheap diner burgers, and the faint, grounding scent of leather and gun oil.
Dean rests his forearms against the steering wheel, his eyes narrowed as he stares through the windshield at the towering, gothic silhouette of the cathedral. Beside him, Sam has a battery-powered flashlight propped between his knees, illuminating a stack of old town records and copies of the police files.
"Alright, look at this," Sam says, tapping a finger against a printed autopsy report. "Three out of the four victims in town were prominent members of the local historical society. And the first sister who was killed? Sister Beatrice? She was the one who helped Liliana catalog the oldest crates in the basement archives last month."
Dean shifts in his seat, his jaw tightening. "So the demon isn't just killing for kicks. It’s looking for something. Something hidden in those old texts."
"Exactly," Sam nods, his brow furrowing. "And who knows those archives better than anyone? Who is the sole archivist left alive?"
"Liliana," Dean finishes for him, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous heat in the dashboard light. "Which means that piece-of-crap demon is going to come straight for her. It’s not a matter of if, Sammy. It’s when."
"Yeah," Sam breathes out, leaning back against the passenger door. He looks up through the window, his eyes naturally drifting toward the living quarters of the convent. "But it’s quiet tonight. Too quiet. It’s driving me crazy."
"Tell me about it," Dean mutters, taking a swig of cold coffee. "The waiting is the worst part."
For a few minutes, the brothers fall into a tense, practiced silence, their eyes scanning the perimeter. The stone walls of the cathedral look ancient and fortress-like under the moonlight. But then, a sudden flicker of movement catches Dean’s eye. High up on the second floor of the convent wing, a pair of heavy wooden shutters swings open, and a warm, golden candlelight pours out into the crisp night air.
"Hey," Dean whispers, his voice instantly dropping all its rough edge. "Sam. Look."
Sam follows his brother’s gaze up to the illuminated window frame.
It is you.
Away from the prying eyes of the refectory and the strict rules of the daylight hours, you have finally shed the heavy, suffocating layers of your black habit. You aren't wearing the uniform of a nun anymore. Instead, you are dressed in a long, flowing white nightgown—a vintage, cotton sleepwear piece that falls all the way to your ankles, trailing softly behind you.
Without the veil, your long, voluminous blonde curls are completely free, cascading down your back and shoulders like a golden waterfall in the candlelight. Your skin, already as pale as fresh snow, seems to practically glow against the dark stone of the window frame.
From the front seat of the Impala, the brothers watch in absolute, breathless silence. You look completely, utterly ethereal—like a spirit or a celestial being caught between the heavens and the earth, a far cry from the gritty, blood-soaked world the Winchesters live in.
Through the open window, they watch you turn your head, your soft-spoken voice drifting faintly into the night air as you speak to someone inside the room—likely Sister Agnes or Martha, wishing them a peaceful night. You offer a gentle nod, a small, sleepy smile touching your lips.
"Holy Emmett..." Dean breathes out, his fingers freezing on the steering wheel. His green eyes are wide, completely transfixed by the sight of you. The flirtatious, cocky bickering from earlier is entirely gone, replaced by a raw, genuine awe. "Sammy... tell me you see that. She looks like... like she’s not even real. Like an angel."
Sam doesn't answer right away. He is leaning forward, his large hands gripping the dashboard, his hazel eyes locked onto the golden rectangle of light. His heart does a strange, heavy thud against his ribs. He’s spent his whole life fighting monsters in the dark, surrounded by rot, blood, and despair. But looking up at you right now, standing in your white gown with the moonlight catching your hair, Sam feels a profound, aching need to keep that purity safe. It feels like looking at the last beautiful thing left in a broken universe.
"Yeah," Sam finally whispers, his voice rough and thick with a quiet intensity. "I see her, Dean."
Up in the room, you reach out your delicate, pale hands and grasp the handles of the wooden shutters. You take one last breath of the crisp night air, your gray eyes scanning the dark streets below for a brief second, unaware that two pairs of fiercely protective eyes are watching you from the shadows.
With a soft, fluid motion, you pull the shutters closed, sealing yourself inside the warmth of your room. A second later, the golden light behind the glass clicks off, plunging the window back into the dark.
Dean slowly exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding, sinking back into the leather seat of the Impala. He rubs a hand over his face, a sudden, fierce determination settling deep into his bones.
"Alright," Dean says, his voice low and deadly serious as he stares at the darkened window. "No one touches her, Sam. I don't care if it's a demon, an angel, or Lucifer himself. Nobody touches that girl.
"Agreed," Sam says quietly, his hand instinctively reaching into the door pocket to check his blade. The peace of the night feels incredibly fragile now, but as the brothers settle back into the stakeout, the memory of your ethereal silhouette in the window remains burned into their minds—a quiet promise of what they are fighting to protect.
The silence that follows the closing of your window is heavy, thick with an unspoken tension that fills the front seat of the Impala. The golden image of you standing in that flowing white sleepwear, your blonde curls catching the candlelight, seems to stay burned into the dark space behind the brothers' eyes.
For the next few hours, the night remains stubbornly, agonizingly peaceful. The wind continues to howl through the frozen Montana branches, and the occasional headlights of a local cruiser cut through the dark, but there is no sign of the supernatural. No black smoke. No shifting shadows.
Dean checks his watch for the third time in ten minutes. It’s past 3:00 AM.
"Nothing," Dean mutters, his voice a low rumble in the quiet cabin. He taps his fingers restlessly against the steering wheel. "Not a single damn ripple. If that demon is planning a hit, it's taking its sweet time."
"It's playing the long game, Dean," Sam says, his deep voice carrying the exhaustion of a man who hasn't slept a full night in days. He rubs the bridge of his nose, leaning his head back against the seat. "Demons are patient when they want something badly enough. It knows we're sniffing around. It might be waiting for us to lower our guard."
Dean sighs, staring up one last time at your dark, shuttered window. He hates leaving a perimeter, but sitting in a freezing car for forty-eight hours straight is going to make their reflexes sloppy when the fight actually comes.
"Alright," Dean finally says, twisting the key in the ignition. The powerful V8 engine of the Impala purrs to life, a low, comforting growl in the empty street. "We'll head back to the motel, grab a few hours of shut-eye, and get back here before the sisters wake up for the early shift. But we keep our phones on loud."
As the Impala slowly pulls away from the curb, moving like a phantom through the quiet streets of Bozeman, a strange, lingering quiet hangs between the brothers. They usually spend the drive back to a motel bickering about bad music, cheap food, or the lore of the hunt. Tonight, they are both completely silent.
Sam looks out the passenger side window, his eyes locked on the rearview mirror. As the massive stone towers of the cathedral begin to shrink in the distance, his mind keeps drifting back to the way you looked. You had looked so fragile, so delicate, yet there was a striking, haunting gravity to your presence. In a world full of monsters, blood, and cheap motels, you looked like something entirely sacred. Sam touches the flip-pad pocket of his jacket, a heavy, fiercely protective instinct tightening in his chest.
Beside him, Dean adjusts the rearview mirror, his green eyes flicking up to catch one last glimpse of the disappearing convent wing before they round the corner. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter, a rare, vulnerable expression softening his rugged face.
"Man," Dean breathes out quietly, almost to himself, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. "I still can't get over it. Without that heavy black outfit... she just looked so... out of this world, Sammy. Like she didn't belong in the dirt with the rest of us."
Sam doesn't turn his head, but a small, understanding nod escapes him as he stares out into the dark Montana night. "Yeah. She doesn't belong in our world, Dean. But our world is exactly what’s coming for her."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Dean growls softly, stepping on the gas and speeding up into the darkness toward their motel, both brothers completely consumed by the memory of the ethereal girl sleeping beneath the stone steeples—entirely unaware that the peace of the night is running out, and the countdown to her awakening has already begun.
The morning arrives with a harsh, glaring brightness that does nothing to warm the deep, shivering cold inside your bones.
You slept terribly. Every time your eyelids grew heavy, the nightmares dragged you right back to that blood-slicked corridor. You saw Sister Beatrice's wide, lifeless eyes staring at you, and the scent of iron and sulfur choked you until you woke up gasping for air in the dark.
By the time the sun rises, you are completely exhausted. The other sisters notice the deep, bruised circles under your pale gray eyes and your trembling hands. Grateful for their quiet understanding, you accept their offer of space and head to the sanctuary of the greenhouse garden. You need the simple, mindless rhythm of tending to the plants to keep your sanity from fraying completely.
You stand by a large stone planter, carefully trimming the dead leaves off a cluster of white roses. The glass panels overhead are warm, but your skin feels strangely icy.
Then, the air shifts.
A sudden, deep weight presses down on the back of your neck. It’s a dark, predatory feeling—the unmistakable sensation of invisible eyes locking onto you from the shadows. You’ve felt this fleetingly before over the years, a passing chill you always shrugged off as your imagination, but this time it doesn't leave. It grows heavier. More deliberate. The shears shake in your grip, and your hands instantly turn cold and clammy.
Suddenly, the air inside the greenhouse turns violently thick.
You try to draw a breath, but your lungs refuse to expand, as if an invisible, suffocating hand has wrapped itself tightly around your throat. A wave of profound, crushing weakness washes over you, making your knees tremble violently. Your vision blurs at the edges, tunneling into darkness.
“Pure... so pure...”
A chorus of raspy, distorted voices begins to whisper directly into your mind, scraping against the inside of your skull like rusty nails. They crawl over each other, a chaotic, malicious static that drowns out the rustle of the wind. “The vessel is waiting... the dark is coming...”
"Stop... please, stop..." you whimper, dropping the garden shears. They clatter loudly against the stone floor. You press your hands over your ears, desperately trying to block out the suffocating noise, but the voices are inside you.
The air doesn't just turn thick; it turns **rancid**. Suddenly, the sweet, earthy scent of the white roses vanishes, violently replaced by the copper, choking stench of hot iron and sulfur.
The hallucination hits like a physical blow. You gasp for air, but your eyes widen in pure horror as the clear water dripping from the greenhouse misting system appears to turn a deep, glistening crimson. It splatters across the white petals of the roses, bleeding down the stems. Everywhere you look, the pristine glass panels of the greenhouse begin to streak with phantom lines of dark, pooling blood.
The pressure in your skull builds to a breaking point. It feels as if a pair of invisible, jagged hands have reached inside your throat, mimicking the very wound that took Sister Beatrice. A sharp, burning agony flares across your own neck, so intense and realistic that you violently writhe, your spine arching as you clutch desperately at your throat, convinced your own skin is tearing open.
Through the roaring static in your ears, the voices screech, laughing at your torment: *“Look at her. Look at what we did. You're next, little vessel.”*
In your mind's eye, the vision flashes with blinding, agonizing clarity: Sister Beatrice's wide, lifeless eyes staring down at you from the ceiling, her slit throat yawning open, pouring a torrent of blood straight down onto you.
The sheer horror and phantom pain are too much to bear. Your legs give out completely. You collapse onto your knees in the dirt, writhing and thrashing as you try to escape the invisible blades slicing through your mind. Hot, frantic tears spill over your eyelids, tracking down your snow-pale face as you suffocate in the middle of a room full of oxygen. Panting, terrified, and entirely overwhelmed by the dark force crushing your soul, a piercing, helpless scream of pure agony tears from your throat, echoing violently through the glass structure.
Just a hundred yards away, Sam and Dean are walking through the cathedral’s stone arches, flanked by an energetic Sister Martha. The brothers had driven straight from their motel the second the sun came up, using the excuse of "following up on clues" just to get back to the cathedral—and back to you.
"She's just out back in the conservatory," Sister Martha explains with a warm smile, adjusting her habit as she leads them down the path. "The poor dear barely touched her breakfast. We thought the flowers might give her some peace, so I was just about to go check on—"
Your desperate, echoing scream shatters the morning quiet.
Sam and Dean freeze for a fraction of a second, their hunter instincts instantly taking over. Dean’s hand flies inside his jacket, gripping the hilt of his blade, while Sam’s hazel eyes widen in pure panic.
"Liliana!" Sam yells.
Before Sister Martha can even process the sound, the two brothers bolt down the path, their heavy boots slamming against the stone. They burst through the courtyard gates, shoving past the greenhouse doors just as Martha comes running in right behind them.
Sam is the first to reach you. He drops to his knees in the dirt, his massive hands reaching out to gently but firmly catch you by your trembling shoulders before you can fall face-first into the stone planter.
"Hey, hey, I've got you. Look at me, Liliana," Sam pleads, his deep voice thick with a frantic, protective terror. He can feel the violent, uncontrollable tremors racking your small frame, and it breaks his heart.
Dean kneels right on your other side, his green eyes scanning the greenhouse like a caged animal, looking for a physical threat to kill. Seeing nothing but empty air, he focuses entirely on you. He reaches out, his large, calloused hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb gently wiping away the hot tears spilling down your freckled cheek. The physical touch is an instant anchor, radiating a fierce, grounding heat that cuts right through the freezing, suffocating weight around your chest.
"We're right here, Liliana," Dean growls softly, his voice trembling with a rare, raw emotion as he forces you to look at him. "whatever it is, it's not gonna touch you. Breathe, angel. Just breathe. We've got you."
As Dean’s warmth anchors you, the horrific visions begin to shatter. The phantom torrent of blood pouring from the ceiling thins out, dissolving back into the clear, gentle mist of the greenhouse system. The deep crimson stains on the white roses fade away, leaving only pristine petals wet with water, not gore. The invisible blades releasing your neck leave behind no physical wounds, though your skin still throbs with the agonizing memory of the pain.
The suffocating weight doesn't vanish all at once; it recedes slowly, like a malicious tide pulling back into the dark. You have no idea what is happening to you. Your mind is a fractured blur of terror, the phantom whispers still ringing like a deafening static inside your skull. Every nerve in your body feels raw, on fire with a cosmic agony that your human brain cannot comprehend.
You can’t form words. When you try to speak, to tell Sam and Dean about the crushing darkness, only ragged, broken gasps escape your lips. You are trembling so violently that your teeth click together. The hot, frantic tears don't stop, pouring down your pale, flushed cheeks and soaking into the fabric of your collar. You can only clutch desperately at the heavy fabric of Sam’s jacket and the solid, warm wrist of Dean’s hand against your face, holding onto them like anchor lines in a violent storm.
Suddenly, Sam’s head snaps up, his hazel eyes narrowing into a sharp, dangerous focus. He draws a sharp breath through his nose
"Dean," Sam says, his voice dropping into a tense, gravelly register that vibrates with an immediate, defensive threat. "Do you smell that?"
Dean’s green eyes flicker away from your face for a split second, his nostrils flaring as he scans the humid air of the greenhouse. The unmistakable, foul stench of rotten eggs and burning chemicals hits the back of his throat.
"Sulfur," Dean growls, his entire posture stiffening as his knuckles turn white around the hilt of the silver blade hidden inside his coat. "It’s thick."
The demon had been right here. It had been standing over you, invisible, wrapping its suffocating malice around your soul. The brothers instantly shift their bodies, boxing you in, placing their massive frames between you and the empty air of the conservatory, ready to tear apart whatever stepped out of the shadows.
But as quickly as the pressure arrived, a sudden, freezing draft sweeps through the glass panes. The heavy scent of sulfur dissipates into the thin air, leaving nothing behind but the innocent fragrance of damp earth and white roses.
"It’s gone," Sam whispers, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks down at you, his large hand gently rubbing your back as you continue to sob into his chest. "It’s testing her. It’s pushing at her."
"Not for long," Dean spits out, a rare, terrifying fury flashing across his rugged features. He hates things he can't hit, and he hates seeing you broken like this.
Sister Martha is entirely pale, her hands clasped tightly over her mouth as she watches the federal agents react to a danger she can't see. Her mind is racing in pure panic—she looks at your twisting, breathless form and can only assume the sheer trauma of Sister Beatrice’s murder has finally broken your mind, causing a massive, violent panic attack. Or worse, that you looked into the dark corners of the greenhouse and saw the killer lurking in the shadows.
Realizing that the greenhouse is no longer safe—whether from invisible emotional demons or a physical threat—she forces her holy composure back into place and steps forward, her voice shaking but urgent.
"We need to get her out of the open," Martha says quickly, reaching down to help Sam steady your weight. "She's having a breakdown... or she saw something out here, I don't know, but we have to move! Bring her inside the old rectory. It has thick stone walls, and it's away from the main corridors. It’s peaceful there. Come, quickly." The commotion hasn't gone unnoticed. As Sam hooks his strong arms beneath your knees and lifts you effortlessly against his chest, you bury your face into his shoulder, too weak to even stand. Dean walks half a step ahead, his hand firmly on his weapon, his eyes darting toward every shadow.
As you cross the threshold back into the stone courtyard, the heavy oak doors click open. Alerted by your piercing scream, Sister Agnes, Sister Clara, and Father Reyes come rushing out, their faces pale with a mounting, breathless panic.
"What happened? Is she hurt?" Agnes cries out, her hands flying to her chest as she sees your limp, trembling form in the giant agent's arms.
"Did someone attack her?!" Father Reyes demands, his voice echoing off the high stone arches, his eyes flashing with the terrifying realization that the sanctuary is failing them completely.
"She’s okay, Father, she just needs air," Dean lies smoothly, his tone clipped and authoritative as he pushes past them, his shoulder cutting a path through the panicked clergy. "Clear the way. Now."
The atmosphere inside the cathedral corridors has shifted from a somber mourning into a taut, suffocating terror. The sisters crowd behind you in a frantic, whispering flock, their prayers sounding like a desperate hum against the walls. They can feel it too—the invisible walls of their sanctuary are crumbling, and the girl they have protected for ten years is at the absolute center of the storm.
The old rectory room is buried deep within the thickest stone foundations of the cathedral, a quiet space where the frantic, echoing panic of the outer corridors can barely penetrate.
Sam carries you inside with an effortless, steady care, gently lowering your trembling form onto a plush, faded armchair in the corner. Sister Martha immediately springs into action, her face a mask of pale, maternal worry as she hovers over you.
"I'm going to the kitchen to brew some chamomile and lavender tea," Martha whispers, her voice shaking but determined as she gently pats your cold hand. "The special blend we keep for when the nerves are frayed. It will help her calm down from this breakdown... it will help settle her spirit. Watch over her, please."
With a hurried rustle of her habit, she slips out, leaving you alone with the two brothers.
The atmosphere in the room is heavy, thick with the lingering terror of what just happened. You are still trembling, but the violent, body-shaking panic has finally begun to subside. Your desperate, choked sobs have quieted into a low, breathless weeping, though fresh, silent tears continue to track down your snow-pale cheeks.
Somewhere between the chaotic nightmare of the greenhouse and being carried in Sam's arms, your heavy black veil and headpiece had fallen away entirely. Your soft, voluminous blonde curls are completely free now, spilling over your shoulders and framing your face in a tangled, beautiful mess. Without the strict, holy uniform covering you, you look smaller, infinitely more vulnerable, and utterly heartbreaking.
Sam and Dean don’t step away. They stay anchored right beside you, their massive frames casting long, protective shadows over your chair.
Sam drops to his knees on the floor directly in front of you, bringing himself down to your eye level so he doesn't tower over you. He places his large, warm hands gently on the armrests of your chair, boxing you in with a comforting, solid presence. His hazel eyes are wide, filled with a deep, aching empathy that goes far beyond professional concern. He knows what it feels like to have a dark, invisible weight press down on your soul, and seeing you endure it makes his chest tighten with a fierce, burning protectiveness.
"Hey," Sam murmurs, his deep voice incredibly soft, like he's trying not to shatter the quiet room. "You're doing great, Liliana. Just keep taking those slow breaths. The sulfur is totally gone. Whatever that was, it can't get to you in here. We've got the doors covered."
Dean stands just a half-step to your side, his heavy boots planted firmly on the hardwood floor. He has one hand dug deep into his pocket, still gripping his weapon, while his other hand reaches out, his thumb gently catching a stray blonde curl that had stuck to your tear-dampened cheek, brushing it tenderly behind your ear.
Dean’s jaw is clenched so tightly a muscle leaps in his cheek. He is absolutely furious—not at you, but at the invisible, cowardly piece-of-trash demon that had dared to make you whimper. He looks down at your freckled, tear-stained face, and his usual cocky armor completely dissolves. He wants to tear the world apart to keep you safe.
"You're safe now, angel," Dean growls softly, his green eyes blazing with an intense, unyielding loyalty as he looks down at you. "Sam and I aren't going anywhere. You hear me? We're staying right here until this passes."
You look between the two of them through your blurred, wet lashes, your gray eyes reflecting the dim light of the rectory. You still can't find the words to explain the horrific whispers that had scraped inside your skull, but as you stare into the fierce, protective gazes of the Winchester brothers, a tiny fracture of the icy cold in your chest begins to thaw. You reach a trembling, pale hand out of your sleeve, your fingers weakly curling around the cuff of Sam's jacket, just needing to hold onto something real, something human, while the shadows of the cathedral loom outside.
Your quiet weeping finally begins to taper off into shallow, shaky breaths. You are a complete mess—your eyes are puffy and rimmed with a fragile pink, your nose is dusted a flush crimson, and your long blonde curls are wildly tangled around your shoulders. Your shoulders still give a sharp, residual shudder every few seconds, but the suffocating, dark presence that had invaded your mind is entirely gone, leaving only an exhausted ache behind.
The heavy wooden door creaks open, and Sister Martha steps back into the quiet room. She carries a steaming ceramic mug, the soothing, aromatic scent of lavender and chamomile instantly cutting through the tense air of the rectory.
"Here you are, my lamb," Martha says softly, her voice full of a gentle, maternal pity as she rushes to your side.
Sam shifts back slightly to give her room, though his hazel eyes never really leave your face. You reach your hands out from the oversized sleeves of your coat, your pale fingers trembling so violently that the tea sloshes against the rim of the mug as Martha hands it to you. You have to wrap both of your small hands completely around the warm ceramic just to keep from spilling it.
You don't say a word. The trauma of the whispers inside your head has locked your throat tight, leaving you wrapped in a heavy, fragile silence. You just stare down into the swirling amber liquid, letting the heat of the mug bleed back into your icy palms.
Sister Martha places a comforting hand on your head, smoothing down a stray blonde lock with a heavy sigh. She looks up, her eyes meeting Dean’s intense green gaze, then shifting to Sam’s tall, somber frame. She can see the fierce, unyielding way the two men are positioning themselves around your chair—like gargoyles guarding a sacred altar.
Martha lets out a soft breath, realizing that, strangely enough, the safest place for you right now isn't surrounded by panicked nuns, but right here with these two fierce, protective investigators.
"The other sisters are out in the hallway, practically frantic with worry," Martha whispers to the brothers, her tone lowering so it won't disturb you. "I am going to go handle them. I'll tell them to give Liliana some space to breathe. No one will disturb you in here." She turns back to you, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Drink your tea, Liliana. Let these gentlemen look after you for a little while."With a quiet rustle of her black habit, Sister Martha steps out of the room, closing the heavy oak door firmly behind her. The click of the latch echoes in the silence, sealing the three of you inside the quiet sanctuary of the rectory.
The room drops back into a profound, heavy stillness. You take a tiny, hesitant sip of the hot tea, your hands still giving a small, rhythmic shake against the porcelain.
Dean doesn't say a word to break the quiet, but he shifts his stance, moving from your side to sit on the edge of the heavy wooden desk just a few feet away. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes locked onto you with an intensity that feels almost physical. His jaw is still tight with a lingering, protective fury, but as he watches you quietly sip your tea, his expression softens into something incredibly tender.
Sam remains right where he is, kneeling on the floor in front of you. He doesn't push you to talk. He just reaches out, his massive, warm hand resting gently on the wooden arm of your chair, close enough for you to reach if you need to hold onto him again.
You are completely exposed without your veil, looking small, broken, and beautiful in the dim light, but surrounded by the quiet, dangerous strength of the Winchesters, the terrifying echo of the demon's voice finally begins to fade away.
Summary: Your life was defined by sudden, staggering loss. On your 18th birthday—the day your adult life was supposed to begin—your parents died unexpectedly, leaving you completely alone in the world. Overnight, you became an orphan. Desperate for a safe haven to process the grief that threatened to consume you, you sought refuge behind the stone walls of an isolated cathedral in Bozeman, Montana.
You took your vows and became a nun, believing the convent would be your sanctuary of peace, silence, and divine protection. For nearly a decade, you built a quiet life of routine and prayer. But what you didn’t know was that you were never truly safe. From the moment you were born, invisible, cosmic eyes—both angelic and demonic—had been watching you from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.
warnings/tags: dean winchester x fem!reader, sam winchester x fem!reader, castiel x fem!reader, Canon-typical violence and injury, minor real-life injury, angst, slowburn, hurt/comfort, romance, maybe smut IDK, trauma, emotional damage, blood, slight cannibalism, torture, betrayal, too many secrets to unlock, stranger to friends to lovers, FLUFF, comfort.
wc: 5.9k
author's note: This is my first writing a supernatural fanfic, so please bear with me. It's been a long time since I was in the fandom, and this is the first time I will finally write my ideas. Another thing is that I gave fem!reader a name since it's a little bit hard for me to write, but It's in first-person perspective, so you can interpret it as whatever you want. Lastly, English is not my first language, and I use Grammarly to correct my work. That's all, and happy reading!
Chapter 1 - Unexpected Detour
The morning always begins the same way: in the dark, before the sun has even thought about touching the frozen valleys of Bozeman.
You wake up at 4:30 AM to the crisp, rhythmic tolling of the chapel bell. Your small cell in the convent is freezing—the Montana winter has a way of seeping right through the ancient stone walls—but you don't mind the cold anymore. For nearly ten years, this room, your heavy wool habit, and the predictable rhythm of prayer have been your shield. When your parents died on your eighteenth birthday, the world became a loud, chaotic nightmare of grief. Here, you found silence. Here, you found safety.
You throw on your black habit, smooth the fabric over your knees, and pin your veil into place. Your pale gray eyes reflect back at you in the tiny, cracked mirror on your wall. You look soft, tired, and your skin is as pale as the snow outside, your few freckles standing out against the stark white of your wimple.
You step out into the hallway, your soft-soled shoes making no sound against the stone floor. You are a creature of silence, soft-spoken and gentle, and you like it that way. You are carrying a stack of leather-bound archival books toward the cathedral's library. They are written in Latin, a language you have come to love more than English. Latin is structured. It doesn't change. It doesn't leave you unexpectedly.
As you walk down the long, shadowed eastern corridor, you notice how unusually quiet it is. Usually, Sister Beatrice is already lighting the candles, the faint scent of beeswax drifting through the drafty halls. But today, there is only the scent of the cold stone.
And something else.
A sharp, metallic tang hits the back of your throat. It smells like iron. Like copper.
You slow your steps, the heavy books pressing against your chest like a lead weight. The shadows in the hallway seem elongated, stretching toward you. For months, a dark cloud has hung over the town of Bozeman. The local newspapers in the archives have whispered about a serial killer. Frequent, brutal murders. Bodies found in alleys, their throats slit from ear to ear with surgical precision. The police have been baffled. You had prayed for those souls, but you always believed the thick, blessed doors of the cathedral kept the wickedness of the outside world at bay. You were wrong.
You round the corner into the main hallway leading to the sanctuary. The dim morning light filters through a stained-glass window, casting a pool of deep ruby red onto the floor.
Only, it isn't just the glass.
Your foot slips slightly. You look down. A thick, dark ribbon of blood is sluggishly crawling across the gray flagstones, originating from a dark mass slumped against the base of a stone pillar.
Your breath hitches. The books slip from your hands, hitting the floor with a heavy, echoing thud that shatters the silence of the cathedral.
It is Sister Beatrice.
She is sitting upright against the pillar, her hands folded neatly in her lap as if she is just resting. But her head is tilted back at an unnatural, horrific angle. A wide, jagged crimson smile has been carved across her throat. The blood has soaked completely through her white collar, turning her holy vestments into a gory shroud. Her eyes—usually so warm and full of life—are wide open, staring blankly up at the vaulted ceiling.
A gasp of pure, unadulterated terror rips from your throat. The silence you loved so much is instantly torn apart as a bloodcurdling scream echoes down the vaulted corridors. You fall to your knees, the wet, iron-scented blood spreading until it touches the fabric of your habit. You stumble backward, sobbing, your hands flying to your mouth, but the screams keep coming, bouncing off the cold stone walls.
The heavy, frantic slapping of sandals echoes from the living quarters. Within moments, the hallway fills with the other sisters. Sister Clara stops dead in her tracks, her hands flying to her face as a chorus of gasps and weeping breaks out.
"Oh, sweet Mother of God..." Sister Martha whispers, dropping to her knees. She rushes toward a nearby wall phone, her hands shaking so violently she can barely dial for help.
Sister Agnes, older and steady despite her tears, drops into the wet stone beside you. She wraps her arms tightly around your trembling shoulders, pulling your head against her chest, shielding your pale gray eyes from the horrific sight. "Don't look, Liliana. Don't look, child. I've got you," she murmurs, though her own voice cracks with terror.
Father Reyes appears at the end of the hall, his face draining of all color. He clutches his rosary beads so tightly his knuckles turn white. He doesn't move toward the body. He can only stare at the crimson pool, his eyes wide with a profound, helpless despair. The sanctuary has been defiled. The madness gripping Bozeman has finally breached their sacred walls.
Hours bleed together in a blur of flashing blue and red lights, yellow crime scene tape, and the heavy thud of police boots on sacred ground. The cathedral, once a place of quiet reverence, is loud, chaotic, and terrifying.
You sit on a wooden pew in the vestibule, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket. Your eyes are fixed on your hands, where dried streaks of Sister Beatrice's blood have stained your skin. Your tears have dried, leaving tight, salty tracks down your snow-pale cheeks, though your shoulders still shudder with a residual, uncontrollable shake.
"Sister Liliana?"
A deep, gravelly voice cuts through the ambient noise of the police radios. You flinch slightly, looking up through the strands of soft blonde hair that have escaped your veil.
Two men stand before you. They don't look like the local Bozeman police officers. They are wearing sharp, well-pressed suits and overcoats, carrying themselves with a heavy, intimidating authority. The shorter one, with short-cropped sandy-blonde hair and piercing green eyes, holds up a leather badge case.
"I'm Agent Landis, and this is my partner, Agent Ford," the blonde one says, his voice uncharacteristically soft for a federal agent. "We're with the FBI. We're investigating the string of homicides in town. We understand you were the one who found her?"
You nod slowly, your voice catching in your throat before you can force the words out. "Yes... I—I was bringing the archival texts to the library. It was so quiet. And then... the smell. There was so much blood. Her throat... someone just..." You choke on the memory, your hands clenching the blanket tightly as a fresh wave of trembling takes over your body. You look down, unable to meet their gaze, giving them every detail of the silent hallway, the creeping ribbon of blood, and the terrifying feeling that you weren't alone.
Dean stood over the trembling young nun, his hand instinctively resting near the inner pocket of his suit jacket where his silver blade was hidden. He’d seen a lot of gore in his life, but watching an innocent kid break down in a house of God never got easier.
He looked down at her, and for a second, the tough-guy FBI facade completely slipped. She was tiny, swallowed up by the heavy black fabric of her habit and the police blanket. Her skin was as pale as a fresh Montana snowfall, making the tiny, faint freckles dusting her nose and cheeks stand out in sharp relief. Beneath the edge of her unpinned white veil, soft, long blonde hair fell around her face like a halo.
But it was her eyes that caught him. They were a striking, ghostly pale gray, totally wide and glassed over with a kind of raw, fragile shock that hit Dean right in the chest. She looked completely ethereal, like a stained-glass saint that had somehow stepped down into the mud and blood of the real world.
Dean cleared his throat, his chest tightening with a sudden, fierce urge to step between her and the crime scene techs wheeling out the body bag. "Hey," he said, dropping his voice an octave, gentler than he usually ever bothered to be with witnesses. "Take it easy, Sister. You're safe now. We’re gonna find whoever did this. I promise you."
Sam stood half a step behind his brother, towering over the scene, but his eyes were completely locked on the girl. He was taking notes in his little flip-pad, but his pen had stopped moving.
As she spoke, her voice was so soft, so gentle, even while she was actively shaking from the trauma. Sam felt a heavy, familiar ache in his gut. He knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror too many times to count—the look of someone whose safe, normal world had just been violently ripped to shreds in a matter of seconds. She had sought out this quiet, holy place for peace, and Hell had followed her right through the front door.
He studied the delicate line of her jaw, the way her pale gray eyes seemed to look right through the floorboards, completely shattered by the violence. There was a profound, heartbreaking purity to her appearance, an innocence that didn't belong anywhere near a bloody slit-throat homicide.
But as Sam watched her, a strange, faint prickle of goosebumps broke out along his arms. It wasn't cold in the vestibule, but a sudden, heavy stillness seemed to linger in the air directly around her, a quiet gravity that didn't feel entirely normal.
Sam closed his notepad, stepping forward into her line of sight, his expression softening into pure empathy. "Sister Liliana," Sam said softly, his deep voice carrying a comforting weight. "Did you hear anything before you found her? Any footsteps? A breeze? Did anything feel... out of place?"
You look up at the taller agent, your pale gray eyes meeting his warm, hazel ones. You shake your head, a stray tear finally breaking free and tracking down your pale cheek. "No," you whisper, your voice barely a breath in the loud, tragic cathedral. "Nothing. It was just... completely silent."
You slowly shake your head in response to the tall agent's question, but as you stare at the dried blood on your fingertips, a sudden, chilling memory forces its way through the fog of your shock.
“But..." You pause, your pale gray eyes flickering up to meet Sam’s intense gaze. "There is something else. Lately, when I've been working late in the archives, I've noticed a strange smell. I thought it was just the old matchsticks or dust. But this morning, when I knelt down by Sister Beatrice... it was there again. A faint, bitter scent of sulfur."
You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the wool blanket. "This town... these killings have been happening for months now. We prayed for those poor souls every evening. But now it has come inside the cathedral."
The brothers exchange a sharp, knowing look that passes between them in a fraction of a second—a silent confirmation that their instincts were entirely right.
Dean steps closer, slipping a small business card with a handwritten phone number into your trembling palm. His rough, calloused fingers briefly brush against your incredibly soft, snow-pale hand, and a strange, comforting warmth shoots up your arm.
"If you smell that again, or if anything feels off, you call this number directly," Dean says, his green eyes locked onto yours with absolute sincerity. "Don't call the local precinct. You call us. Understood, Liliana?"
"Thank you," you murmur softly, clutching the card against your chest like a lifeline as the local officers finally begin clearing out the vestibule, leaving you to the quiet comfort of the remaining sisters.
An hour later, the brothers stood by the trunk of the black '67 Chevy Impala parked a block away from the yellow police tape. The Montana wind bit at their faces, but neither of them noticed the cold. They were too busy processing the details of the hunt.
"Sulfur," Dean muttered, slamming the trunk shut after tossing his FBI trench coat inside. "Three months of throat-slit homicides in a sleepy mountain town, and the cops think it’s a local psycho. But a demon stepping inside a cathedral? That’s ballsy. Even for them."
"Yeah, and it matches the autopsy reports we pulled from the county morgue," Sam said, leaning against the side of the car, his brow furrowed as he flipped through his notes. "The local coroner noted hyper-extended bruising around the victims' wrists, like they were held down with superhuman strength. No defensive wounds. A silent execution, just like Liliana said. The demon is targeting people, and now it's focused on that cathedral."
Sam paused, his pen hovering over the page. He tried to focus on the lore, on the patterns, on the Latin translations they would need to look up later. But his mind kept flickering back to the image of the young nun sitting in the vestibule. He could still see those haunting, winter-gray eyes staring into the floorboards, and that soft blonde hair escaping her veil.
"Man..." Dean breathed out, leaning his hip against the Impala. He took out a flask, took a swig, and shook his head. "I mean, I know we’re dealing with a demonic hitman here, Sammy, but holy hell. Did you see her?"
Sam stopped flipping his notepad and slowly raised his eyes, giving his older brother a flat, warning look. "Dean. She’s a nun. And she just found a corpse."
"I’m just stating an observation, man!" Dean defended, throwing his hands up. "I’m a red-blooded American male. I'm just saying, she looks like a freaking angel. The blonde hair, the pale skin, those little freckles? She looks like she belongs on a porcelain plate in an antique shop, not getting her hands dirty in a demon bloodbath. It’s a crime putting a girl like that in a giant black dress."
Sam rolled his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him, though he couldn't entirely deny what his brother was saying. "She's terrified, Dean. Her whole world just cracked open."
"I know she's terrified," Dean's tone dropped, the humor fading into something much darker and more intense. He looked back toward the towering stone steeples of the cathedral. "And that's exactly what bothers me. A girl that soft, that gentle... she's got no idea what's actually coming for her tonight. Because that demon didn't just stumble into her church by accident. It's hunting her."
Sam closed his notepad with a decisive snap, his hazel eyes hardening. "Then we don't leave this town. We stake out the cathedral tonight."
The first night of the stakeout was maddeningly quiet. Sam and Dean sat in the darkness of the Impala, coffee cups piling up on the dashboard, watching the gothic steeples of the cathedral cut a silent silhouette against the starry Montana sky. No black smoke. No shifting shadows. Nothing but the peaceful, freezing wind. For the Winchesters, that kind of quiet didn't mean the danger was gone; it just meant the storm was gathering its breath.
By the next morning, you are a complete ghost of yourself. You haven't slept a wink. Every time you close your pale gray eyes, you see the crimson ribbon of blood creeping across the flagstones, and you smell that faint, choking scent of sulfur.
You try your best to force yourself back into the comfort of your routine, but your hands shake so violently you drop a ceramic tea pitcher in the kitchen. Your face is drained of all color, the dark purple shadows under your eyes making your snow-pale skin look even more translucent.
Father Reyes and Sister Agnes notice immediately. During breakfast, Father Reyes places a gentle, reassuring hand over yours.
"Liliana, child," he says softly, his face etched with worry. "You cannot pour from an empty cup. The chapel is too heavy for you right now. I want you to step outside the cathedral walls today. Take a deep breath. Walk down to the local farmer's market and pick up the groceries for the week. Let the fresh air remind you that life carries on."
They practically force you out the door. For the first time in years, you leave your heavy veil and headpiece sitting on the desk in your cell. You feel strangely exposed, yet slightly lighter, as you step onto the bustling morning streets of Bozeman.
It is a beautiful, deceptively peaceful morning. The mountain sun is crisp and bright. As you walk down the sidewalk, a few local townspeople recognize you; they offer soft, sympathetic nods, and you force a polite, gentle smile back at them. Without your veil, your long, soft blonde hair cascades down your shoulders in natural, voluminous curls, catching the morning light like spun silk. You look incredibly young, delicate, and fiercely beautiful—a stark contrast to the grim nun who had been huddled in a blanket the day before.
You navigate the open-air farmer's market, carefully picking out heavy bundles of root vegetables, fresh bread, and apples for the convent. Your mind wanders, the repetitive task slowly easing the knot of terror in your chest. By the time you finish, you are juggling two heavily loaded canvas bags, your small hands straining against the weight.
"Hey. Let me get those for you."
You flinch, nearly dropping a loaf of bread, as a tall figure suddenly steps into your path. You look up, your gray eyes widening as you recognize the sharp, handsome face of Sam Winchester. Beside him, Dean is standing with his hands dug deep into his leather jacket pockets, a sudden, uncharacteristic look of utter shock freezing his features.
Before you can even protest, Sam’s large, warm hands gently pry the heavy canvas straps from your fingers, lifting the bulk of the groceries effortlessly.
"Agents," you breathe out, your voice naturally soft-spoken, a faint touch of color finally rushing to your pale cheeks. "I... I didn't expect to see you here. Are you still investigating?"
Dean clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from the way your blonde curls are framing your face. He steps a little closer, his green eyes scanning the crowd around you with practiced alertness before settling back on you, his tone surprisingly tender.
"We don't leave a town until the job is done, Liliana," Dean says, dropping the formal 'Sister' title entirely. He offers a small, grounding smile. "Besides, you look like you're about to snap in half under those bags. Where are you heading? We'll carry this stuff back for you."
"I was just going back to the cathedral," you whisper, looking between the two massive brothers. A genuine, small wave of gratitude washes over you, making you feel safer than you have in days. "Father Reyes thought the fresh air would do me some good. Thank you... you really don't have to do this."
"It's no trouble at all," Sam says, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners with a warm, comforting sincerity as he adjusts the bags. "Lead the way."
The walk back toward the gothic spires of the cathedral is a slow, quiet rhythm that feels vastly different from the frantic terror of the day before. The mountain air is crisp, biting at your cheeks, but the sheer physical presence of the two towering men walking on either side of you acts as a shield against the cold. Step by step, the tight, painful knot of tension that had locked your shoulders since yesterday morning begins to loosen. You find yourself matching their long strides, your soft blonde curls bouncing gently against the dark fabric of your coat.
For the first few blocks, a comfortable silence hangs between you. Sam carries the heavy grocery bags effortlessly, his long arms barely straining under the weight, while Dean keeps his head on a subtle swivel, his sharp green eyes casually scanning the rooftops and alleyways as if it’s second nature to him.
Eventually, it’s Sam who breaks the ice, his deep voice dropping to a low, non-threatening cadence that blends perfectly with the ambient noise of the town.
"Father Reyes was right, you know," Sam says, glancing down at you with a warm, encouraging smile. "The fresh air suits you. You look a lot less... ghost-like than you did yesterday."
You let out a tiny, breathless laugh, the sound soft and melodic. "I feel a bit more human today, thank you. Though I admit, walking out here without my veil... I feel entirely exposed. It’s a very strange sensation after so long."
Dean shifts his hands in his jacket pockets, stepping slightly closer to your side as you cross a quiet intersection. "Yeah, well, if you don't mind me saying, Liliana, you shouldn't hide that hair under a piece of cloth anyway. It’s a good look for you."
A faint, genuine blush creeps across your snow-pale cheeks, and you look down at the pavement, offering him a small, polite smile. "Thank you, Agent Landis. But the habit is a reminder of my vows. It’s meant to draw focus away from the external world."
"Call me Dean," he says quickly, his green eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch for a fraction of a second. "When we’re out of the suits, the formal stuff just feels weird."
"And I'm Sam," the taller brother adds, stepping in to smooth over his brother's forwardness. He adjusts the canvas straps of the bags. "If you don't mind us asking, Liliana... how long have you been at the cathedral? You seem very rooted here."
"Almost ten years now," you answer softly, your gray eyes turning reflective as you look ahead at the cobblestone streets. "I came to the convent when I was eighteen. Bozeman was a very different place back then. It was quieter, safer. Or perhaps I was just naive."
"Ten years," Dean repeats, a low whistle escaping his lips. He looks at you, clearly trying to reconcile the delicate, young woman walking beside him with a decade of cloistered isolation. "That’s a long time to spend behind stone walls. You must really love the quiet."
"I do," you nod, your voice carrying a gentle, earnest weight. "When I lost my parents... the world outside became so incredibly loud. It felt violent, chaotic, and entirely unpredictable. The cathedral offered a rhythm. Every hour has a purpose, a prayer, a psalm. It gave me a framework to survive my grief. And because I love books and history, Father Reyes made me the archivist. I spend most of my days translating ancient texts, cataloging the cathedral's records, and keeping the library in order. I'm fluent in Latin, so it became a sort of sanctuary within a sanctuary."
Sam’s hazel eyes light up with sudden interest, a genuine spark of curiosity taking over his detective persona. "Latin? Really? That's not an easy language to master. Are the archives here extensive?"
"Surprisingly, yes," you say, a small, proud smile touching your lips as you talk about your passion. "The cathedral was founded by early missionaries who brought over crates of texts from Europe. Some of our volumes date back to the seventeenth century. Church histories, theological debates, old journals... I know every single shelf by heart."
"So, you basically know everything about this town’s history," Dean remarks, his eyes narrowing slightly, though his tone remains friendly. "What about the people? Does everyone in Bozeman know you?"
You shake your head gently, a stray blonde curl falling across your face before you tuck it behind your ear. "Not everyone. The sisters are a quiet fixture in the community. People see us at the farmer's market, or at Sunday Mass. They know us as a collective—the sisters of the cathedral. They offer polite nods, they ask for prayers when their families are sick, but they don't truly know me as Liliana. To them, I am just a symbol of the Church. A quiet background figure."
"Sometimes being a background figure is the safest place to be," Sam says, his tone dropping into something deeply empathetic, almost heavy with a hidden meaning you can't quite decipher. "But when the world breaks through those walls anyway... it leaves you wondering if the safety was ever real."
You stop walking for a brief moment, the heavy stone facade of the cathedral finally coming into view at the end of the block. You look up at Sam, your pale gray eyes searching his face. There is a deep, agonizing understanding in his gaze that mirrors the exact pain in your own soul. He doesn't look at you like a fragile victim; he looks at you like a fellow survivor who knows what it means to watch your sanctuary burn.
"Yes," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly as the cold reality of yesterday returns. "That is exactly what frightens me, Sam.But whatever killed Sister Beatrice... it didn't care about the stone walls. It didn't care about God."
Dean steps up beside you, his presence instantly breaking the heavy, somber mood. He reaches out, his large, calloused hand gently resting on your forearm for a brief second. The physical touch is grounding, radiating a fierce, protective warmth that seems to instantly dispel the sudden chill in the air.
"Hey," Dean says softly, his green eyes fiercely steady. "Like I said before. You've got us now. We're going to figure out what's going on in that church, and we're going to make sure nothing touches you again. Believe me."
You look at Dean, then back at Sam, who gives you a reassuring nod. For the first time in ten years, you realize that the walls of the cathedral might not be your only sanctuary anymore. As you walk the final few yards toward the heavy wooden doors of your home, flanked by these two massive, dangerous, yet strangely comforting men, you feel a tiny sprout of hope take root in your chest
You stand at the threshold of the cathedral's stone courtyard, turning around to face the brothers. You reach out your hands to take the heavy canvas bags back from Sam, a soft, grateful explanation forming on your lips.
"Thank you both so much," you begin, your voice a gentle melody against the quiet rustle of the Montana wind. "You really didn't have to walk me all this way. You can just leave the groceries here with me, I can manage the rest—"
"Liliana! Oh, thank goodness you're back."
The heavy oak side door of the cathedral creaks open, and Sister Martha steps out into the courtyard. She stops, her eyes widening in surprise as she takes in the sight of the two massive, broad-shouldered men standing on either side of you. Her gaze flickers from Sam, who is still holding the grocery bags like they weigh nothing, to Dean, who is standing close enough that his shoulder is practically brushing yours.
"Sister Martha," you say softly, a little flustered as you step back. "These are the investigators, Agent—I mean, Sam and Dean. They were kind enough to help me carry everything from the market."
Sister Martha’s worried expression instantly melts into a warm, teasing grin. She steps forward, taking the bags from Sam with a grateful nod. "Well, bless you both. Our Liliana is a hard worker, but she's far too delicate to be lugging these heavy root vegetables across town. Thank you for looking after her."
"Just doing our job, ma'am," Dean says, flashing his most charming, disarming grin, though his green eyes linger on you for a second too long.
Martha turns back to you, her tone becoming practical. "Liliana, dear, Sister Agnes needs your help in the conservatory garden right away. The white lilies for Sunday's Mass need to be trimmed and prepared, and she can't manage the high shelves alone. Could you head back there?"
"Of course," you obey instantly, adjusting the sleeves of your coat. You turn to the Winchesters, offering them one last, lingering look. A soft, genuine smile graces your lips, lighting up your pale gray eyes. "Thank you again, Sam. Dean. I hope your investigation goes well today."
"Take care of yourself, Liliana," Sam says gently, his hazel eyes tracking the movement of your soft blonde curls as you turn to leave.
"We'll be around," Dean adds, his voice dropping into that low, protective register. "Don't forget to call if you need anything."
You nod softly and turn to walk with Sister Martha toward the arched gateway leading to the rear gardens.
But as you step away, Sister Martha deliberately slows her pace. She casts a sly look back over her shoulder at the two brothers, who are still standing dead in their tracks in the middle of the courtyard, both of them staring intently at your retreating figure.
Martha nudges your elbow, a knowing, amused smirk playing on her lips. She leans in close, lowering her voice so the boys can't hear, but making sure her playful intent is clear.
"Well, well," Martha hums, her eyes twinkling with harmless convent gossip. "I must say, Liliana... those two don't exactly look like they're just investigating a crime scene. Especially the blonde one. He was looking at you like you were the finest piece of scripture he’s ever tried to read. I think you might have a couple of guardians angels in leather jackets, dear."
A deep, burning blush floods your snow-pale cheeks, reaching all the way to the tips of your ears. "Sister Martha, please," you whisper hurriedly, looking down at your shoes as you quicken your pace toward the garden. "They are federal agents."
Behind you, unaware of Martha's teasing, Sam catches Dean still staring. Sam clears his throat loudly, crossing his arms and giving his older brother a heavy, judgmental look.
"What?" Dean mutters, finally tearing his eyes away from the garden gate and walking back toward the Impala. "I’m just making sure she gets inside safely, Sammy. Shut up."
Sam crossed his arms, his massive frame shifting as he fell into step beside his older brother. He didn't say a word at first. He just let the silence stretch, heavy and loaded, accompanied only by the rhythmic crunch of their boots against the gravel path leading away from the cathedral courtyard. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead, but the sheer force of his judgment was practically radiating off him in waves.
Dean, of course, noticed. He always noticed. He managed to keep his gaze pinned to the street for about half a block, his jaw tight, before he finally snapped.
"What?" Dean demanded, throwing his hands out to his sides as they rounded the corner. "What is that look, Sammy? Stop giving me the bitch-face. I didn't do anything."
"I didn't say a word, Dean," Sam replied smoothly, his voice a perfect picture of calm, irritating innocence. He didn't look at his brother, just kept his eyes on the horizon, his long strides forcing Dean to quicken his pace slightly to keep up.
"You didn't have to say anything! Your forehead is doing that thing where it wrinkles up like a pug," Dean shot back, gesturing aggressively toward Sam’s face. "Look, I was being a gentleman. A polite, law-abiding federal agent helping a citizen in need. Is it a crime to be helpful? Is it a crime to ensure a gentle, soft-spoken woman doesn't throw her back out carrying twenty pounds of local squash?"
Sam let out a short, scoffing laugh, finally turning his head to look down at his brother. "A gentleman? Right. Because your sudden urge to public service had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she wasn't wearing her veil today."
Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Sam cut him off, holding up a finger.
"Don't lie, Dean. I saw your face the second we ran into her at the market. Your brain completely short-circuited. You looked like a cartoon character whose eyes were about to pop out of his head."
"Oh, come on!" Dean scoffed, his cheeks flushing slightly under his stubble as he shoved his hands back into his leather jacket pockets. "I was just surprised, alright? Yesterday she looked like she was ready to be buried in that giant black habit. Today? She’s got those blonde curls bouncing around, her eyes look like a stormy winter sky, and she’s got those cute little freckles. I’m a red-blooded man, Sam. I appreciate aesthetic beauty. And frankly, so did you! Don't act like you weren't staring either. I saw you carrying those bags like you were trying to show off your biceps for the lady."
Sam rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "I was carrying the bags because she was struggling, Dean! And yes, she’s beautiful, I’m not blind. But she’s also a nun. A nun who is currently traumatized because she found her friend with her throat cut twenty-four hours ago."
"I know she’s a nun! You think I don't see the cross around her neck?" Dean groaned, stopping on the sidewalk and turning to face Sam fully. "But did you see the way she smiled when we left? That soft little tilt of her lips? It was like the sun coming out over the mountains. And that older sister—Sister Martha or whatever her name was—did you see the look she gave us? Even the other nuns know she’s too pretty to be locked up in a stone box forever. She’s too... I don't know, man. She’s just too gentle for this world. It makes a guy want to protect her."
Sam’s expression softened slightly, the teasing edge leaving his voice as he looked at his brother. He recognized that tone in Dean’s voice. It wasn't just his usual flirtatious swagger; it was that fierce, deeply rooted Winchester instinct to shield the innocent from the dark.
"I get it, Dean," Sam said softly, sighing as he leaned against a brick wall. "She's sweet, she's innocent, and she’s fluent in Latin, which—admit it—is totally your kryptonite. But we have to keep our heads on straight. A demon is hunting in that church. If we get distracted because you're busy trying to court a bride of Christ, we're going to get her killed."
Dean stared at Sam for a long moment, the humor completely draining from his green eyes, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, deadly serious register.
"I'm not getting her killed, Sammy. In fact, nobody is touching a single hair on her head. That demon wants a fight inside that church? It’s gonna get one. But don't give me grief just because I want to give that girl something to smile about before the world goes to hell." Sam watched him for a beat, then finally nodded, a small, weary smile returning to his face. "Alright. Fair enough. But if you start reciting Bible verses to try and impress her, I'm locking you in the trunk of the Impala."
"Hey, I know a few verses!" Dean grinned, the tension breaking as he clapped Sam on the shoulder and started walking again. "Mainly the ones about smiting. Bitches love smiting."
"Shut up, Dean," Sam mumbled, shaking his head as they finally made it to the black '67 Chevy Impala waiting at the curb.
-
Next: Chapter 2
end note: I hope you guys love this. I will try to update it soon. If you like this, don’t hesitate to reblog, share, or leave a note! ╰(*°▽°*)╯
Summary: When Dean discovers a little secret of (Y/n)'s during a case research session he can't help but let temptation get the best of him.
Warnings: Language, Smut, Fingering, PinV, Oral (M receiving), slight angst if you squint, Dean having a glasses kink (not really a warning but not everyone wears them hahaha lucky bastards)
MDNI! 18+
Word Count: 5688
A/N: It's taken a little while but here is the second competition winner from a few weeks back, the prompt provided by the wonderful @foxyjwls007 - I hope you like it!
The motel room was stuffy to say the least - that usual aroma of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener lingering around us. There was a dripping sound coming from God knows where and the AC hummed in between the concerning clinking from deep within the vents. It was crap. So crap. But it was home for a few nights; just like all the motel rooms that came before. Dean stepped past me and over the threshold, immediately slinging his duffle and jacket onto his chosen bed. He stretched his arms above his head, the grey Henley clutching his muscular abdomen and rising enough to flaunt what lay beneath. I sighed, following him in and slumping onto the bed beside his - the musty stench from the sheets enveloping me.
“Well…” Dean started, pulling Sam's laptop out of his bag and placing it on the small table by the window.
“Well…?” My voice echoed as I focused on the ceiling fan that spun off centre.
“...This is… nice?” His statement was more of a question as he looked around with raised eyebrows. I propped myself up on my elbows, flashing him a look of speculation.
“Seriously?” A moment passed before he huffed a long-held breath and slapped his large palms on his thighs.
“No of course not, this place sucks more dick than a hooker on payday.”
“You got that right,” I flopped back down onto the bed, a small dust cloud erupting under my weight. I closed my eyes and listened as Dean pulled a chair out from under the table, slumping down into it. Then there was the familiar click of the laptop opening followed by the sound of stuttered not-quite-touch-typing, presumably he was starting work on the case that we’d come here to investigate. The tap tap tap of whatever was leaking began to drill into my brain, my patience already wearing thin with the rooms dire ambiance. I pulled myself up to sitting, criss-crossing my legs on the bed and brushing whatever that dust from the bedding was off my sweater sleeves.
“When's Sam back?” I asked, watching as Dean searched the keyboard in front of him for some long lost letter.
“Uuuh, I'm not sure. He said to work this case without him.”
“Ugghhh, I bet he's having way more fun than us right now, it's not fair,” I plopped my chin into my palm and stared past the older Winchester out the window, almost willing Sam to appear and walk in like any other day.
“It's just some dumb wedding, I doubt he's having that much fun.”
I scoffed before I could stop myself, Dean breaking eye contact with the screen to throw me a raised eyebrow.
“Look,” I collected myself, “you didn't know Sam in college. He won't admit it but he was popular. Really popular. Not the total nerd you think he is. He's absolutely having fun with these people.”
“Yeah right. So who's at this wedding anyway? Why was it so important that he just had to be there?”
I rolled my eyes, knowing full well Sam had already told him all the details. Typical Dean.
“It's for a couple of friends who he and Jess were close with back then. Pretty sure the bride was prom queen in highschool or something and the groom was a trust fund jock. Either way, not my crowd,” I sighed slightly, memories from my college days flooding my mind.
Deans eyebrows twitched into a small frown, his thoughts seeming to cloud his vision for a second before he reluctantly dismissed them. I looked down into my lap for a moment, reminiscing how I always kept my distance from Sam whilst at Stanford, but he had always been that boy that would make my heart flutter when he spoke up in class or when I'd see him on the quad with his friends. I remember seeing him with his nose in a book once at my usual desk in the library, my cheeks burning when he caught me staring. Who would've thought several years down the line I'd be sat in a bottom-rung motel room with his obscenely good looking older brother researching monster lore. At least we would be researching monster lore, if it wasn't for the small growl my empty stomach had gurgled out. I couldn't stop the small pulse of embarrassment burning into my cheeks as Dean eyed me with a grin.
“Wanna get some lunch?” He asked, standing up like he already knew my answer.
“Fuck yes. I'm feeling burgers,” I shuffled to the edge of the bed and stood up, watching as Dean shrugged on his leather jacket and headed to the door, holding it open for me.
“Now you're speaking my language.”
*
The diner was almost as sad and withered as the motel room, however the food was nothing short of spectacular. I watched in awe as Dean polished off his second burger, a small glob of sauce sticking to his stubble and threatening to drip off his chin. He must've felt me watching in wonder - or perhaps disgust - as when he looked up from his plate he shot me a questioning glance.
“What?” His tone was a little defensive through the mouthful of fries he'd just shovelled in. I took a second before asking, half-genuine:
“Where do you put all of that?”
“Put what?”
“The food - where does it go? Do you have hollow legs? Two stomachs? Does it just evaporate as soon as you swallow it?”
He grinned, wiping the sauce from his face with a napkin.
“Goes straight to the abs baby. It's muscle fuel,” he leant back in his chair, stretching a little before patting his stomach to punctuate his statement. I simply rolled my eyes.
“Yeah right, you're not that muscly Dean.”
“How would you know? You've never seen me with my shirt off.”
“I know, and I plan to keep it that way.”
He feigned a pout before returning to his fries. We ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, my mind absently going back to all the lore we should be trying to gather. I gripped my milkshake that had so generously been served in a thin paper cup, attempting to suck the practically solid beverage up the equally thin paper straw. Finding the nearest library would be the next task on our to-do list, despite the protesting I know I'll get from Dean.
“Hey, (Y/n)?” My train of thought was derailed at the sound of my name. The slurping of over-thickened milkshake from myself ceased.
“What's up?”
“What were you like in college?”
I eyed him with caution, wondering what part of his brain was in control right now.
“What do you wanna know?”
Catching the wariness to divulge him to such information, he smiled slightly, shrugging his shoulders.
“I'm not asking to be weird, I just-” he paused, choosing his next words tactfully, “the way you described Sam as being a totally different person - some hot-shot with the perfect grades, popular friends and a girlfriend like Jess - it just got me thinking. How would Sam have described you?”
I almost spat my dairy-goop back into the straw, my brain freezing.
“Dean,” I started before planning what I was going to say, placing my cup on the table. “Sam wouldn't be able to describe me.”
My words brought a small smirk to his lips.
“You were that hot, huh?”
“What the fuck- no- I wasn't- he didn't- Sam never- ” I stopped myself before I had an aneurysm and took a deep breath.
“I was in a totally different crowd to Sam. He was always surrounded by people and, well, I barely even had a crowd.”
“Lone wolf?”
“Bingo. But definitely not the cool, collected, stoic type. Think more, invisible to the public eye, always carrying books, and borderline selective mute because of how shy I was.”
“Oh… what changed?,” Deans tone changed entirely, genuine intrigue seeming to take the wheel. I couldn't help but laugh slightly, remembering my method to forcing myself out of my bubble.
“The only job I could get was in a bar. No one else wanted the hours and I desperately needed cash. I didn't really have a choice after that,” I paused, remembering how terrified I was on my first day and grinned slightly, grateful for the extra confidence I had now because I took that leap.
“Hey, what sort of crowd do you think I would've been in?”
I snorted, looking up into his expectant eyes - almost captivated by the glistening greens.
“What am I? A BuzzFeed quiz? I have no idea Dean, you're too much of a wildcard to predict. You probably would've fit in with anyone and everyone.”
“Even you?”
For reasons unbeknownst to even myself, my breath caught in my throat. The sudden soft sincerity of his voice contradicting his usual temperament, my heart starting to flutter in my chest. If the college version of myself had met Dean back then I just know I would have been enthralled at first glance.
“I don't think you would've noticed me. You would've been surrounded by every tall, thin blonde and brunette with perfect tits. Trust me, you would've been distracted,” I smiled an almost sad smile at the thought of him simply being on university grounds and having the time of his life - knowing it was something that he was never going to get the chance to experience in this upside down life of his. Of ours. He tapped his fingers on the table for a second, likely lost in some ludicrous thought I don't think I'd want to be privy to. I attempted another slurp of my milkshake when the paper straw gave out and flopped in half, the need to leave conversation and the diner suddenly looming over me.
“Come on, let's get to the library before it closes,” I stood and pulled my oversized sweater down so it covered my ass before reaching for my backpack. Just as my fingers touched the worn fabric of the strap it was torn away, my head snapping up to Dean who flung it over one shoulder with his signature grin on his face.
“Lead the way nerd.”
I couldn't help but beam at his playfulness. I hated the fact that he made it so easy to adore him. Hated that he completely overlooked how I was his total opposite in almost every way. How when we were talking, his eyes never left mine - how he was genuinely interested in what I was like in the past. And how, when I had his attention, he didn't even notice that the hot waitress had written her number on a napkin and left it next to him.
*
The trip to the library was about as eventful as it sounded. After checking out multiple books on cursed items, local lore and popular antiques from the seventies, we loaded ourselves back into the impala, made an all-important beer run before heading back to the motel.
The small table by the window was now totally smothered by a blanket of books, maps and empty beer bottles. Deans chin rested in his palms as he stared blankly at the screen in front of him, and I must've read the last sentence of the paragraph laid before me a dozen times without it even sinking in. The obnoxious dripping and humming of ancient appliances was starting to make me feel restless.
“It has to be the boots,” Dean groaned, draining the last of his beer.
“Either the boots or the disco ball. But my money is on boots as well,” I sighed, pushing the book away from me and standing slowly, gathering the quickly accumulating litter now scattered around us.
“I'm gonna make some coffee, my brain is fried over how fucking ridiculous this case is,” I ditched the trash in the bin before filling the coffee machine, listening to it whir to life whilst I headed to my bed. I could feel Deans gaze on my back as I rummaged around my bag in search of a specific item.
“What are you looking fo-” he'd started to ask the question but his voice died in his throat when I turned around. I quickly pushed my newly adorned glasses up the bridge of my nose, already feeling the oversized frame start to slip down as I tried not to make a big deal over them.
“What?” My tone was a fraction off aggressive when I realised he was staring. He seemed to snap out of his daze, quickly rubbing the back of his neck and turning back to the laptop screen. He cleared his throat
“I uh, I didn't know you wore glasses,” I could tell from the slight tremble in his voice that his mind was reeling.
“Is there a problem with that?”
“No! I mean, no, absolutely not. They look good. The glasses, I mean. The glasses look good. Not on their own, obviously. On your face. They look good on your face. You have a great fa-”
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
I grabbed a mug from the cupboard and set it on the counter, filling it to the brim with caffeinated goodness. I couldn't stop the grin spreading across my lips at Deans fumbling, almost finding the whole ordeal a little charming. I sat back down at the table and pulled the books back towards me, also grabbing my pen and tattered notebook.
“The guests at the club mentioned hearing footsteps - so it has to be the boots, right? A disco ball wouldn't make that sound…” my voice trailed off when I realised that, even though Dean was looking at me, he wasn't listening to a word I was saying.
“Earth to Dean?”
He flinched slightly at his name, but felt no shame delving in with a completely off-topic question.
“So how long have you worn glasses?”
“I’ve always worn them,” I slid back into my chair at the table opposite him, not sure whether to laugh at the shocked expression on his face or whether to be concerned about his observation skills.
“What?! No way, I would’ve noticed,” He opened another beer and took a sip before tracing the opening to the bottle over his bottom lip.
“ I only wear them for concentration work, and I have emergency contact lenses if I know I’m going to be around a lot of people as I don’t particularly like how they look.”
Dean made a small disagreeable expression before averting his gaze from mine back to the laptop, taking another swig of his beer. I placed my coffee mug down and settled back into the book I was reading before, and after a few moments I could feel my skin begin to prickle - as though I could feel a pair of eyes on me. I glanced up, my breath immediately catching in my throat. Deans eyes found mine, burning with an intensity that made my heart hammer in my chest. I didn’t want to look away, but under his gaze I felt like I’d been stripped bare, unable to hide my insecurities from an eye that seemed to scorch through to my very core.
“Dean-”
“(Y/n), you should really have more confidence in yourself; I think the glasses look cute as fuck. You should wear them more,” a fierce blush erupted across my face when he spoke, his assured tone leaving no room for disagreement. I tried desperately not to let on that his words held any sort of impact over my decisions so I looked down, away from his scrutiny and simply said:
“Maybe I will.”
He hummed in approval, finally looking elsewhere and I couldn’t stop myself from breathing a sigh of relief when the pressure of his stare was averted.
The evening dragged on and an hour and a half had passed since his loaded comment. I was on the third book we’d checked out of the library, now trying desperately to find the curse that would cause a pair of 1970s glam rock boots to dance for eternity and haunt anyone who tried to wear them. This case was absurd, and I could feel myself growing restless with the small amount of progress we’d made. I huffed out a sigh and leant back in my chair, the faux leather and rusted metal creaking under my weight. Pulling the hair bobble from around my wrist I scooped my hair into a bundle on the top of my head, securing it in place; the sensation of air on my neck seemed to clear some of the fog from my brain. The messy bun was comfortably enough that I could forget it was there, and I allowed myself a stretch before leaning back over the table, grasping my pen. As I began to read the next segment, I absently traced the end of the pen over my bottom lip, running it back and forth a few times before gently nibbling on the end. I heard the shuffling of Dean moving in his seat and a ragged clearing of his throat before the sound of vigorous laptop keys clicking ensued. Without looking up at him I continued reading, the pen still tapping my bottom lip, and when I neared the bottom of the paragraph, I slowly licked the pad of my index finger. My eyes never leaving the words, I turned the page swiftly with my dampened digit, the transition from one page to the next perfectly seamless. Another shuffle from the man opposite followed by a quiet groan filled the silence between us. Pen still between my teeth, I lifted only my eyes to glance at him and noted the dusting of pink across his cheeks and the furrow in his brow. Concluding that he’d had one too many beers I decided to ignore his persistent fidgeting, returning to my previous task on monotonous reading. Several sentences in and I’d almost forgotten Deans restlessness - that was until I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth, deep in thought, that I earned myself a throaty groan and an exasperated sigh. I looked up just in time to watch him wipe a large hand down his face, momentarily masking his pained expression.
“Can you not do that? I can’t concentrate when you do that.”
“Do what?” Upon asking my question I absently took the pen between my teeth again, quickly glancing down at the book to place a mental bookmark.
“That.”
“What?”
“That. That thing you do with our mouth, and the pen, and your tongue and your finger. Can you please stop before it kills me.”
The heat beneath my skin was immediate at his admission, knowing my small, absent-minded actions were playing on his mind and making it hard for him to think straight. I instinctively crossed my legs, a fluttering in my lower belly instantly dragging my mind back to the deprived things I’d imagined Dean doing to me in the depths of night. The places I’d imagined his hands travelling, the areas his lips would touch and the sensations his tongue could create. These were deeply, deeply personal fantasies, and right now as Dean looked at me with a restrained hunger, I felt like I was wearing these fantasies for the world to see. For Dean to see.
“It doesn’t help that you’ve been sat over there like a sexy fucking librarian all evening, but every time you do that anything with that mouth - shit, sweetheart you’re driving me insane.” His voice was gravelly as he looked at me with desperate eyes across the table. The overly rational part of my brain had shut down completely, and now the part of my mind that had spent hours conjuring vivid scenes of Dean Winchester ravishing me in my entirety had taken the charge. I stood slowly, taking a moment to reason with myself - unsuccessfully of course - before sinking to my knees in front of my chair. I could see Deans strong thighs were spread wide beneath the table so I crawled forwards, across the cold tiles and placed myself between his legs. Resting my palms softly on his thighs I made him flinch at the unexpected contact. He immediately scooted his chair back, allowing a gap for me to poke my head through - his hand instantly acting as a barrier between the edge of the table and my skull. I got comfortable and allowed myself a moment to gaze up at him, to take in the strained furrow in his brow and the parting of his lips. I observed the way his chest rose and fell in apprehensive breaths, and the way his free hand clenched into a fist on his thigh - like he was so desperate yet so scared to touch me.
“(Y/n)-”
“Dean,” I spoke softly, slowly running my hands up his thighs - delicate palms against rough denim, “you’re a smart boy - you know I wouldn’t do something I didn’t want to do. So please, don’t say I don’t have to do this.”
Dean released a shaky breath the moment my fingers unclasped his jeans. I tugged them down slightly with his help, just enough so I could dip my hand into his boxers and wrap my fingers around his half-hard length. The moment my skin touched his, his head lolled back and his eyes fluttered closed with a breathy moan on his lips.
“Fuck…”
I gently pulled him from his confines, coming face to face with the cock I’d literally dreamt of again and again. I took the scene in, committing to memory the sharp outline of his jaw and the way his long lashes rested on his lightly-freckled cheeks. The way that, every time he breathed in, I could see his defined muscle tone through the thin fabric of his shirt; and with every small caress that my fingers made against his length, it made his fingers twitch and teeth clench. I licked my lips before leaning in and took his tip into my mouth, not giving him a chance to finish sucking in air through his teeth before I plunged his entire length down my throat.
“Oh FUCK.”
His hands flew to my hair, fingers gripping tight as they loosened strands from the messy bun, causing them to fall around my face. He’d lifted his head to look down at me, pupils blown as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He looked nothing more than enthralled. Infatuated. Entranced. I moved my head up and down, up and down, again and again to a steady rhythm, pressing my tongue to the underside of his now rock-hard cock to trace every vein and nerve-ending.
“Shit, (Y/n), I didn’t know you could suck cock, like, at all… how’re you s’fuckin’ good…” his voice was breathless as he continued to grip my hair, his head flopping to the side as pleasure started to overcome his senses. I released him with a small ‘pop’, wrapping my fingers around him and smearing the warm mixture of saliva and precum from tip to base.
“Despite everything I told you earlier, Dean, I’m not a virgin - and this certainly isn’t my first rodeo,” my voice came out more sultry than I’d expected and I could feel Dean tremble beneath my palms.
“Fuck, I wish I’d known that sooner,” I chewed on my bottom lip, quickly becoming addicted to the way he writhed at my touch. The way he moaned and gripped my hair tighter when I sucked him back into my mouth was like pure ecstasy, my insides heating up and throbbing with an ache of familiar arousal. Like a thirst that could only be satisfied by him. By tasting him, feeling him on my tongue and drinking in every sound that passed his plush parted lips. The sensation of my glasses slipping down my nose as I sped up my ministrations had me reaching to push them back up, but not before Dean beat me to it. With the rough pad of his thumb he pushed on the plastic bridge, his palm and fingers pressed to my flushed cheek in the most tender, almost heart wrenching caress. I thought my heart might stop when he tilted my face up to his; lustful eyes burning into mine with a vehemence I’d never encountered. I stopped in my tracks, all actions ceased as the spell he’d somehow put me under wouldn’t let me look away.
“If you keep going like that darlin’ this whole thing is gonna be over before you know it,” his voice was raspy, a rawness to it from the harsh breaths and ragged moans that had been pulled from his throat. He slowly pulled his cock from my spit-slick lips and grasped it loosely, giving himself a few lazy pumps whilst his other hand never left my face. He stared down at me, taking a few moments as though he was committing the sight of me, knelt between his knees with flushed cheeks and swollen lips to memory. Once it seemed that memory was locked away in the depths of his mind, he grasped me by the arm and pulled me effortlessly into his lap, his fingers almost bruising against my skin. Immediately I felt him, in his entirety, press against me with the heat and wetness seeping through my jeans and past my panties. This time when our eyes met, there was a mutual desperation; a need to consume each other and to feel every inch of his heated skin against mine. He pulled me frantically down to him and crashed his lips against mine.
Some people describe their first kiss with someone like butterflies in their stomach, or fireworks exploding all around them. That wasn’t at all what this was like. Kissing Dean Winchester was different - it was wild and untamed - and describing this experience in such a mundane way would be like adding water to a top-shelf whiskey. Kissing Dean Winchester was like driving the impala at one thirty with the roar of the engine drowning out the rest of the world. It was like trying to ride a wild mustang without a saddle, or daring to stand on the highest peak on Earth with nothing to tie you down. It was exhilarating in the most dangerous way imaginable - and I was now officially a thrill seeker.
The warm taste of the beer on his tongue and the masculine scent of old leather and cologne was pulling me under. Breathing no longer mattered as long as his mouth was on mine and his fingers were in my hair, now tugging the bobble out and throwing it to the floor. As my hair tumbled free he grabbed under my thighs and stood effortlessly, moving me from his lap to the edge of the table without his lips leaving mine. I winced slightly as the corners and several books and the laptop jabbed into my rear and I fumbled to move everything aside, failing when I refused to unlock our lips. Deans patience was non-existent and with one sweep of his strong arm everything tumbled to the floor - including the laptop. I threw the remaining books from underneath me down to join them, no longer caring for their wellbeing. Before I could pull Dean back in - to allow him to do whatever the fuck he wanted to do to me - he hastily pulled off my boots and tugged down my jeans, throwing every item to the growing pile of chaos beside us. I discarded my sweater and top, but before I let his fingers touch my bra I wanted nothing more than to return the favour.
“I guess you can forget about that whole ‘never seeing me shirtless’ thing, huh?” he smirked through the sexual fog, not waiting for a reply as his lips hungrily found mine again, his own top falling to the floor.
“Shut up Winchester. Now are you gonna fuck me or wh- OH FUCK-”
Two thick fingers crept under my panties and plunged into me with zero hesitation, curling up and stroking the sensual cushion deep within my core with skillful precision.
“Oh yeah? You want me to fuck you?” Even with my face now buried in the crook of his neck, I could hear the smirk in his voice, the tormenting tone going straight to my brain.
“Y-yes- fuck- please,” my knees twitched either side of him, squeezing at his hips with every push of his fingers. I gripped his shoulders tight, nails indenting his skin as I leant back to look at him better. Seeing the beads of sweat on his chest and brow alongside the raw, carnal desire in his eyes could have undone me there and then. He frowned in disapproval when I moved to remove my glasses, the fingers that were just inside me now wrapped forcefully around my wrist.
“What d’ya think you’re doing?” straight away I knew his growling question left no room for negotiation.
“I was just-”
“The glasses stay on.”
“To the end?”
“‘Til I say you can take them off.”
I did as I was told, moving my hand to grip the soft strands on the back of his neck, softly dragging my nails over his scalp and drawing a shiver from his spine and a groan from his lungs. He pulled me against him, crushing his lips against mine one more time. He swiftly pulled away and I leant back on my hands, both of us taking a moment to drink each other in - to bask in lascivious glory. I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth and looked up at him through my lashes, the lenses of my glasses starting to fog around the edges. Another deep moan rumbled from his chest as his heated gaze stayed locked to mine.
“I can’t wait any longer now that you’ve looked at me like that. Fuck.”
With a large hand gripping the soft flesh of my thigh he pulled my underwear to one side and lined himself up, slowly sinking in. Blissful moans harmonised between us, the rawness of him stretching me was unlike anything I’d ever experienced and my quivering thighs wrapped around him, pushing him to the hilt. He secured his large hands on the soft flesh of my hips and held me in place as he slowly withdrew. I could feel him; feel every ridge and vein drag out and then in, out and in, over my most sensitive, intimate, area. The slick sounds of our intimacy began to echo around the room as he picked up speed, strong thighs working at a feverish pace. With every thrust he pushed against that one spot that made my legs jerk and eyes water, my arms almost giving out underneath me as the table rattled beneath my weight. With the ferocity of his pounding and the heightened sensitivity he’d curated between my legs only moments before, we both knew that neither of us would last long. The sounds of his ragged breaths and throaty moans alone had me clenching around him already, and I know my constricting muscles already had his hips stuttering as I sucked him in with every thrust.
“Fuck (Y/n)- You’re so fuckin’ tight-”
I chewed on my bottom lip as his desperate eyes met mine.
“Oh yeah? Well I feel like you’re cock is in my fucking ribcage- oh fuck-”
He slipped one hand between us, his large palm resting on my lower belly as his thumb drew fast circles around my clit. The immediate contact on my bundle of nerves had my whole body quivering, the knot of an impending climax already starting to twist tighter and tighter in the depths of my core. The way that Dean fucked me into the motel room table was something that I would be able to feel deep in my soul for the rest of my life - my body and entire nervous system having never been worked in such a feral way before. Dean dropped forward and crushed my body into his - one large strong arm wrapped around my trembling body and kept me pressed against him as his head dropped to the crook of my neck. Soft lips pressed hot kisses against my shoulder, teeth gently nibbling the soft flesh as the coil wound and wound, the wave of orgasmic bliss rising higher and higher as my mind emptied, leaving behind only one thought.
Dean.
He was all consuming - all I could see, taste and smell. All I could feel. Oh God could I feel him; driving me to the brink of pure bliss as he frantically sped up - desperate to seek his own undoing as well as my own. One… two… three more fervid thrusts and the peak he’d helped me ascend to shattered around me as I practically screamed his name, the white-hot euphoria scorching my insides as I clamped like a vice around him.
“Oh shit- (Y/n) I can’t- fuck-”
I grabbed the back of his head and pushed his mouth to mine as he came undone, spilling inside me as he worked through his own white-hot euphoria.
The kiss we shared evolved from hot and needy to soft and wanting - the sensation of hot cum running down the inside of my thigh and cooling against my skin being the only thing to pull me away. Dean continued to lean over me for a moment, looking down at me with an expression that told me he had so much he wanted to say. Instead, he looked down at his release now starting to pool on the floor beneath us, then to the books and laptop that had been thrown across the floor before turning back to face me with the most devilish grin on his face.
“You know that this mess is all your fault, right?”
I scoffed.
“My fault? How is it my fault?”
“Because, sweetheart…” he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and pushed lightly on the plastic bridge sitting on my nose.
inspired by this p-link (nsfw warning), cw: 18+ clark kent getting sloppy w his kisses cuz i said so (800 wc)
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You don't expect Clark to kiss the way he does.
He's gentle with it. Following your rhythm, taking slow breaths, letting you take the lead & show him what you felt comfortable with. Clark is painfully aware of how much stronger he is compared to you. So he doesn't force his tongue into your mouth, he lets you roll it in when you initiate it, meeting you half way before he gently tangles your tongue with his.
It's good like that for a while. You like he way he kisses, he's patient. He listens. God knows you love how his hands wanders, squeezing where it'd make you jolt. You love the way he'd adjust himself impossibly close, grinding, stroking your thigh while he takes his time with you — or how he lolls his head to the side, trying to kiss you deeper. You'd always notice how he'd pull away when it got too intense, opting to mouth at your jaw, down to the column of your throat.
Clark kisses you because he wants you to feel good. And it drives you crazy. Not because you were happy about it, but because you'd always felt that he was holding back.
You decide to test your theory.
It's like every other night, you're straddled over his lap, legs on the other side of him. His hands are on your hips, more as a placeholder. Because you're in control. You're holding his jaw with both your palms, pressing your weight onto him while your lips are notched with his. You feel him twitch beneath you when your tongue slides into his mouth. His hand wanders up your back, the other, rested around your hips. It takes a few more licks that you feel him attempt to pull back. But you hold him tight. Biting on his lower lips, enough for it to sting. You feel him groan in your mouth, a slight tremble on his fingers. But nothing more.
You're fully feeling his hard cock poke your ass through his slacks, and you take the opportunity to grind down on him. Your saliva is coated around his mouth, and his yours. It's not until you suck on his tongue that he fully pulls away from you with force. Pupils dilated, panting. It's clear, that you've flicked a switch in him.
He doesn't tear his lips away from you after that. Not even when he's turned you over onto the couch, your belly rested on a embroidered cushion. His lips are on you. Sloppy, chasing kissing at the corners of your lips. It's wet and sticky the way your mouth connects, evident by the string of saliva that follows when they part. Clark has your jaw held up with his palm, while he bullies his thick cock into your weeping cunt.
He'd swallow all your moans, letting you drool around his fingers when he's nosing the nape of your neck. When he spits in your mouth, testing, you fucking smile. He physically feels his brain circuit when you stick your tongue out for him in a half broken smile, wanting & waiting. Looking at him cheeky and sweet. Clark holds back flooding your pussy with his cum right then. So he opts to suck on your tongue, lips, jaw all while he fucks you into the couch.
His lips only part from yours when they're licking into the shell of your ear, breathing heavy and desperate. "Mm-fffuck..fuck. Can I cum in you? Shit. Please. Let me cum in you."
part 1 here :p cuz I promise if u don't read it you won't understand a THING
clark kent feels weird, today.
like, really weird.
this morning when he woke up, he felt like he was having a heat stroke. his skin was buzzing and uncharacteristically warm, but he just brushed it off thinking it was his kryptonian body acting up again.
well, he wasn't wrong.
at work, everything felt worse. he felt intensely disoriented, his head buzzing and spinning endlessly. he had trouble controlling his strength, accidentally shattering his coffee mug or even unwilling snapping his keyboard in half.
but everything got worse when he sensed you.
not saw, sensed.
it was unusual, truly. he spotted your body heat among others, could only focus on your voice, and damn, since when does your skirt hug your butt like that? he quickly shook his head to escape those nasty thoughts but, in vain. it was like his entire body—the codex itself—was forcing him to focus on you. every thought in his head were of you, you, you.
but that was before you interacted with him, before you even laid your eyes on him.
when you did, everything spiked.
as soon as he saw those pretty eyes bore into his, he felt the heat in his chest spread out throughout his entire body. he shifted uncomfortably because of the raging boner he had and licked his lips in what seemed to be dehydration.
and his mind recognized it, recognized you—the groove of your walk, the sound your thighs rubbing together with each step, the familiar beating of your heart, and if he listened close enough, he could even hear the sound of your pussy lips–
"hey, clark," you waved at him and he stopped breathing, clenching his jaw tightly to conceal the ungodly sound that was currently clawing at his lips, ready to escape.
you noticed something was wrong with your beloved, and set a hand on his chest. his usually rock solid skin felt softer and incredibly warmer. when you moved to the right, you could feel his larger heart beating atleast ten times faster than it usually would.
"what's wron..." you trailed off when he grabbed your hand—tightly—and gave you a crooked smile as his eyebrows bent and pinched together. "p-please, dear, go away b-before i–" another spark of heat, "j-just go." and with that, he let you go, disappearing into the men's bathroom and leaving you there, confused and concerned.
it was only hours later, in the evening, that you saw clark again.
you were simply getting up to reheat your food before something—someone—crashed through your living room wall, knocking you down with it.
a strong hand wrapped around your head before you could knock it on the ground and before you knew it, a very familiar pair of lips came locking onto yours, kissing you deeply into his palm.
he pulled away to give you a moment to breath as he dipped down into you neck, licking and sucking. "c-clark what has... what has gotten into you?" you barely manage to breath, the dust and smoke of the broken wall was making it hard to inhale (and see clark at all), aswell as the weight of his body on yours.
"i don't- I dunno, I..." he kept licking your skin like a dog, your taste giving him some kind of sexual gratification. "all day I've been... my body felt so... so freakin' warm and just– I felt like all I needed was you... I couldn't even focus on anything i kept..." he was curiously out of breath, like the effort of simply speaking to you while holding back the urge to fuck your brains out was too much for him.
"...I kept smelling you and- and hearing you... and– jesus, I just.. want you so bad, darlin'.." he licked his way back up to your lips, nibbling on your bottom one softly. "clark," you finally managed to say, the dust settling. "tell me what you need." your hair ran up his back and into his hair, scratching his scalp which nearly made his eyes roll back.
"you. I need you, c-can I have you? please?" and the way he's just asking makes you want to give him everything he could ever ask for.
so you do.
as soon as you let out a soft "yes," he became a totally different kryptonian.
and that's how you ended up with your back arching away from the dining table, shoulders pressed against the cold surface by clark himself to keep you from slipping away at each mean thrust of his hips.
it's been, what, 4 orgasms? neither of you knew and honestly, neither of you cared—matter of fact, you both stopped caring when he finished inside for the first time and it happened.
the hooks.
"i- I wanna..." he swallows sharply, "I wanna feel it again, d-dont you, sweet thing? i-it felt so good, right? right." the both of you nodded dumbly at eachother and he smiled, terrifyingly so.
clark kent looked feral. his eyes were as hectic as his hands, moving everywhere. he wanted to see you, to feel you, to give in to you. he was inside you and yet he wanted more. he wanted you to be his—more than you already were.
"stuffin' you full so that- oh, god, yes— so that you can carry my kids... so that everyone will know you're– m-mine... mine, mine." he squeezed your breast, his gaze zeroing onto the oddly shaped (thanks to his buds) bulge on your stomach before his hand followed, caressing his cock through your skin and twitching every time the buds were stimulated.
it felt perfect, truly. he felt like you were made for him. the gummy texture of your walls fit perfectly with his buds as each of them grazed the crevices of your rugae every time his hips bumped into yours.
"c-clark, I don't... I'm gonna— i- i cant-" he presses down onto the bulge which makes you scream, "y-yes you can, baby, please- one more, just one more- i– please, sweetie, gosh, I love you so much!" his speech quickly became incoherent—a sign of his impending orgasm.
another tell-tale sign is, of course, the hardening of his buds. they were so strong that they halted his movement, burying him deep inside you while hooking onto your ridges. "o-oh my god–" you gasped, feeling the vein on his cock rubbing against your g-spot. "t-too much– I'm- I'm too full, clark!" and he shakes his head, chuckling lowly.
"n-no you're not baby! i-i can see it! you still... you can still handle more..." he starts to look more and more pained with each word, his body aching for release. "p-please.. pleasepleaseplease–- take it, baby, take it... please, it hurts... y-you're gonna be good f'me right? gonna be good and take it?" fuck, it was intoxicating. everything was. his speech, his smell, the feeling of his alien dick literally hooking inside you to cum deep in your womb...
"please..." was all you could mutter, but he understood. his body understood.
his release was cataclysmic. the buds settled slightly deeper into your crevices, allowing him to shoot into you with bullseye precision. "h-holy– oh my‐" he couldn't even speak. his breath came out in short pants and he looked up, as if begging some higher being to release him from this seemingly everlasting ache.
upon feeling his warm cum painting your insides, and hearing him mumble "g'nna make you a mommy... you're gonna look s-so pretty with my– hhnnng... my kid inside y-youu...", you orgasmed aswell. you walls clenched and rubbed against the now soft buds on his dick, pressing down onto his shaft which has his stomach clenching and caving, almost folding the kryptonian in half.
in the midst of it all, you swear you saw his eyes glow red for a moment, but he quickly blinked that away. his eyes flickered back to your face, and then back to you pelvis, before he threw his head back again with a groan.
"y-you're... shoot.." he's barely catching his breath, "you're not... full enough.." and he resumes his thrusting which makes you give up on looking at him, eyes lazily rolling back.
your entire body relaxed and went limp, allowing him to use you as he pleased.
"wanna make you a mommy... and you're not full enough."
synopsis: Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate.
warnings: enemies to lovers, smut smut smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, size kink, mild spitting, rough sex, hate sex but add yearning, slight exhibitionism & public sex & risk of getting caught - fawking in the workplace), canon-typical violence (nothing graphic), description of gunshot, a lot of fighting but they are closeted cutiepies, cursing, steve rogers is a MUNCH and that's canon (to me),
word count: 12.3k words (literally 5k is smut. i wish i was joking. i have no impulse control)
a/n: i tried to do a bit of an inverse on the whole 'steve rogers is a golden retriever' thing in this so there are way too many references to dogs lmao (see: title). i physically cannot write hate sex without yearning bc i am a lover girl. someone release me from these shackles.
Steve has a big fucking issue with you.
You can’t remember exactly when it started but you do know that you liked each other just fine before you joined his team. Back then, you’d thought his unyielding, boy-scout-adjacent sense of duty and honour was kind of cute. He’d hold doors, call you ma’am, talk about doing the right thing as if it was just easy in a job like this. As if it was always clear as day what the right thing to do was.
Now, his virtue is just exhausting.
You’re watching him spar with Sam from the corner of the training floor as dusk descends outside the window and the training room becomes a sort of cave. Dim yellow light is spilling over the room, drowning it in a blurry smog. People are clearing out for the day, but not Steve. Each of his punches are pulled, each strike carefully calculated to inflict just the right amount of force in order to win but not injure. Steve could have Sam pinned in two minutes flat and both of them know it. The frustration in Sam’s expression is tickling you - you recognise it well.
You used to taunt Steve for this kind of thing during training runs and team building events, and he’d tease you right back. That boyish smile would give way to something a bit more wicked and an unnamed heat would pool low in your stomach at his crack in composure. You had been sure he was only days away from asking you out - some very proper invitation to the pictures with an assurance that he would drop you back by a reasonable hour, most likely. But then you got a promotion and came under his leadership.
He moves through missions like he’s got some do-gooder checklist in his head, and you can feel him watching every corner you cut. He doesn’t have to say a word (though he often does); the disapproval is baked into the air between you. Whatever spark had been building between the two of you got buried somewhere between all his rules and all the ways you’d break them.
A side-mission from Fury here, a refusal to wait for backup there - and suddenly you two are enemies. Or adversaries, at the least
You remind him frequently, in the throes of fiery screaming matches that make the rest of the team avert their eyes, that this is the way SHIELD trained you. He is the one going against the grain, not you. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him because his trusty moral compass never points him wrong, it would seem.
Things have gotten so bad by now that you think Steve, patient and tolerant as he is, might have even considered requesting that you be transferred if you weren’t so damn good at your job.
And you are good. That can’t be denied.
But there’s something about working with Steve that makes you great. When you’re not at each other’s throats.
You move around each other on missions as if performing choreography that only you two have rehearsed. You’ve saved his ass more times than he has ever acknowledged or thanked you for, but he has done the same for you. You have a deep understanding of how he works, mind and body. He keeps his moves varied as a rule, but you have learned to read the minute shift in his centre of gravity before he strikes, the smallest drop in his hips that means he’s about to duck, the tightening of his frame before he lunges. Equally, you know when he’s running multiple scenarios behind his eyes, when he’s processing angles before he commits.
It makes you his best possible partner on the field and the biggest pain in his ass in training.
“You’re up,” Steve mutters to you while Sam limps to the corner of the room, grumbling something about how next time Steve needs to stop dragging this shit out before he gets a leg cramp.
You haul yourself up slowly, moving to the centre of the gym with exaggerated languor just to piss him off, rolling your shoulders as you go. His sweat is making his white t-shirt entirely transparent, the thin fabric sticking to his defined pectorals and torso. He shakes his head, spraying sweat over the mat. It should be kind of gross, really, so you’re a bit disgusted by how hot it is. You see his jaw tick with impatience, and you begin to stretch your calves, too.
“You couldn’t have done this while you were waiting?”
“And risk seizing up again while you played with your food?”
“Just because I don’t use full force, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing with my food’,” he says, frowning at you in that disappointed-teacher way of his “Every time you all fight a super soldier, it makes you better. I use more force every time.”
You say nothing, only because you’re cautious about baiting him too much ahead of the ass-whooping you’re about to get. You roll your shoulders one more time, looking up at him.
“Let’s go.”
Steve lunges, coming at you hard and fast. A blur of muscle flies past your eye-line, fist cutting into the air where your jaw had been just half a second before. The force of it sends a gust that moves wisps of your hair and the speed of your dodge sends your boots skidding across the mat. You raise an astounded eyebrow at him and he shrugs with a tight smile.
On days like this, when his restraint is frayed and he is too irritated to be sanctimonious, you are reminded that he can be a little bit fun.
When you slide by his guard again, your eyes catch his for a fraction of a second before he lands a surprise hit to your abdomen that pummels the wind right out of your pipes. You groan but stop yourself from bowling over right into his knee that comes shooting up for you. You see him bear left and you glide away in the opposite direction.
“Testy today,” you say, but you can’t hit the patronising tone you are aiming for. Your voice comes out scratchy from the knock you took. He says nothing but leaps at you again.
You lean back and dodge the hit but go sprawling to the floor. Before he can pin you, you sweep a foot under his. It’s not enough to knock him in itself but he blunders for a bit and with one more kick, you send him to his ass. You get a foot in his side and hear Sam hoot in delight as he clears out of the training room with the remaining agents.
Steve’s on his feet in a flash, but by then, so are you. There’s a glimmer of something on his face, like surprise or maybe excitement. You try not to get too arrogant.
And it’s a good thing you don’t. Because after five minutes of hits and dodges, he has you on the ropes again. You’re giving it as good as you’re getting but you don’t have his stamina or pain tolerance. You can feel your equilibrium slipping, movements getting sloppy. You’re over-balancing, tumbling instead of landing.
There’s something about the current between the two of you today that makes you want to win in a way you never do with Steve. You had never even really seen it as a competition before, safe in the conclusion that he and all his serum-amplified testosterone will have you beat eventually. It was always a matter of if, rather than when.
But Steve is coming at you properly today, not pulling his punches (as much), not giving you the space to recover before he’s on you again like a hound on fresh blood and it’s making a sort of swooping adrenaline sing in your blood.
You don’t think too much about it, sweeping behind his back and hooking a leg over his. The serum means you don’t have enough strength to bring him down, but the confusion makes him stumble. With two hands on his shoulders, you climb his broad frame, boots digging into flesh, hands ploughing through his hair. He reaches a hand back to peel you off with bruising strength, but you have an iron clasp. His fingers dig into your t-shirt with almost enough force to pull it clean off.
You eventually reach the peak of him with immense difficulty. You are able to lock your thighs around his broad neck and curl your knee around his throat, squeezing hard. It’s not enough. His hands are pulling at your legs, but he’s not tapping out. You can only hold this grip for a matter of seconds, before your muscles loosen, and Steve will have your tired body pinned.
Impulsively, you dive backwards, head swooping down towards the floor. The force of it sends Steve flying back with you and you vaguely feel three taps - a victory - against your thigh before you both hit the floor.
You crash hard on your back. Your head takes a small bump to the mat and black dots dance behind your eyes for just a second, but your ass and shoulder blades take the brunt of it. It’s far from the worst injury you’ve received in training, but it’s been a while since you’ve received more than a hit. You take a few deep breaths to centre yourself, groaning once air returns to your body. Only then do you realise that Steve’s head is planted firmly on your lower stomach, neck still pressed up between your thighs. You scramble away with what you hope is a collected suavity, all bones and muscles shrieking in opposition to the sudden movement.
When Steve spins around, you know you’re in for it.
“What the hell was that?” he spits, picking himself up from the floor. His eyes are blazing, hands on his hips while he looks down at you where you are sprawled out on the mat. You close your eyes and let out a long, deliberate sigh - precisely the response you know will drive him crazy.
“That was me winning, Steve,” you say, ignoring your groaning limbs to pull yourself up. He does not offer you a hand up.
“No,” he said, voice strained and thick with irritation. “That was you trying to get yourself killed. Are you insane? You could have a concussion.”
“I know a concussion from a small bump,” you say, brushing him off with a limp hand. You move over to get your water, trying not to stagger. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“This is your problem, you know that? You always think you know best and everyone else is just dramatic or not seeing your vision, or whatever it is. You’re a good agent, but that’s not enough. You’re going to get yourself killed some day and it won’t be some great, heroic gesture like you probably think. It will be something stupid like this.”
His speech might have made a mark on you if it had been the first time you had heard it. As it stands, you just roll your eyes and take a sip from your bottle to look busy. The water mixes with blood from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. It tastes bitter and metallic going down.
“God, you’re-”
You glance warily at Steve, wondering whether he is about to curse at you for the first time since that mission in Moscow. He swallows it. “You don’t listen.”
You shrug with a smile, watching his face go from a blushing red to a deep crimson. His eyes narrow and he spins around, broad back tensing as he storms out of the gym.
“Steve?”
He stops, twisting ever-so-slightly.
“You not gonna congratulate me on my first ever win?”
You think he might have given you the finger if he was anyone but himself.
You do end up grumbling your way over to the med bay eventually, but only because Steve threatens to suspend you from any further missions. You turn out to not have a concussion so you feel perfectly justified in scowling at him days later from across the quinjet the whole way to the shipyard two states away.
The air is warm despite the February frost splotched on the grass below. The hour is getting late; the setting sun turns the lakes and rivers a deep orangey red.
You hadn’t expected Steve to bow down or apologise, but you did expect him to ignore you. Instead, he’s watching you with a detached curiosity, like you’re some rare lab specimen or an interesting insect.
“I know you’re not seriously mad at me for sending you to the med bay,” he says. “Because that would be insane.”
“They did a whole medical evaluation, Steve,” you snap at him. “I was in there well over an hour. All for fuckin’ nothing because I’m healthy as a horse, apparently.”
“Well you missed your last mandatory check-up. So you’re welcome,” he says, his lips stretching into a handsome little smirk.
You frown. You are usually the one provoking him and you’re not overly fond of how it feels to be on the receiving end. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you, heady and pleased. He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, lofty thighs spread open with an abnormal arrogance. One that would not be on display if the rest of the team were with you.
You can fully appreciate his size from this angle, the fabric of his t-shirt straining against his biceps, his wide shoulders holding strong like an impenetrable wall of muscle and brawn. He looks particularly good when he smiles - even if it’s at your expense. He could have passed for a Gladiator, or some Greek god in another universe - the kind whose likeness would be captured in marble for future generations to marvel at and admire. It wracks you how unfair it is that he can be so irritating but still look like that.
Have you thought about him bending you over? Sure. Many a time. But you still can’t stand the guy.
“You still seeing that guy in R&D? Uh- Mark, or whatever.”
You give him a side-glance. Steve doesn’t forget anyone’s name. He is the kind of guy to be introduced to a hundred-man team and be asking Lucy for a debrief and thanking Jim for the coffee the very next day. You think he might be on a first-name basis with everyone he’s ever met. So you know that he knows his name his Mike.
“No,” you mumble. “We broke up last month.”
“Why?”
“None of your business, Rogers,” you say. You’re trying to appear unbothered, but you’re a little rattled. Your teeth are grinding. “What about you? Any dates recently?”
“A couple.”
“And how were they?”
“Good.”
You scoff. “You talk this much with them? Your chattiness might scare them off.”
“The ladies I take on dates might not have the same preferences as you, you know,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Your lips twitch at that term - ‘ladies’. How old-school.
“No, I’m sure they love one-word answers and taciturn grumbles.”
“I’ve had no complaints.”
Your mouth opens and closes stupidly. The shells of your ears prickle with heat as Steve just grins wider, shifting his hips to lean further back. He looks so goddamn cocky, so punchable. You wish you could take a picture and show him to all those trainees you had heard refer to him as a ‘golden retriever’. He seems more like a Mastiff to you; huge, stubborn, impossible to deal with.
You purse your lips together, eyes dropping to his army dog tags. The chain droops down his tanned, fabric-clad chest, the tags sitting neatly in the deep groove between his pectoral muscles.
“Why did you and Mike break up?”
Your cheek twitches up. “So you do know his name.”
“Tell me.”
You turn your gaze away from him to watch the sun set out the window, even if it makes your retinae burn. “My fault, mostly. I don’t really, uh- know how to do it.”
“What? Relationships?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m not used to having to let someone know when I’ll be home or making sure I have time for them between back-to-back missions. I blame my career choice.”
“Maybe you just didn’t care enough.”
Your eyes snap back over to him, eyebrows shooting straight to your hairline. “What?”
“I’m just saying. It’s not your career choice. Lots of people in this line of work have relationships that they prioritise.”
“What, you’re suddenly Dr Phil or something? It’s not like you know the ins and outs so don’t-”
“Dr Phil?” A cute little line forms between his brows.
“He was this-” You pause, heaving a frustrated breath out your nose. “You know what? Never mind.”
“My point is,” Steve continues. “I think you would want to do all those things for someone you cared enough about, even when it’s difficult. It wouldn’t be some tick-the-box.”
All traces of arrogance are gone from Steve’s expression, only genuine interest remaining as he scans your face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. It makes you uncomfortable - you would prefer for him to laugh at you or lecture you.
“I could be dating Brad Pitt and I still would not care enough to answer a text about what’s for dinner when I’m busy.”
He frowns. “Who is Brad Pitt?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The walk to the shipyard is quiet. Silent, if not for the steady scratch of Steve’s boots grinding against the gravel. The hum of the quinjet dulls the farther you walk.
You may not particularly like Steve, but you appreciate him at times like these. You couldn't be more perfect mission partners for each other if you tried. The way you fall into your posts quickly and seamlessly, giving each other the space and silence to focus on preparing for the mission while also trusting that you will speak up if the situation calls for it.
Your methods and routines are practically identical. It’s almost a shame that the moment things break open, that quiet alignment shatters.
Steve holds a fist up, signalling you to stop. You do, falling in behind him. You’re not sure what he’s hearing, but you trust him implicitly when he makes the motion for you to duck behind a flatbed truck. You press yourself against the cool metal and Steve plunges in after you, his warm chest and stomach caging you. Hardly a second later, you hear what he had - a door clanging open, boisterous voices spilling out, all speaking over each other in Russian.
Steve meets your eyes, gives you a silent signal and you nod, moving out from behind the truck as silently as a deer and blending into the night. You weave through the shipping containers with practiced alacrity. You don’t need to look to know Steve is right behind you; you can feel him.
You split angles without having to speak. Steve covers the high runways while you sweep the lower lanes between cargo. The night has cooled and the wind is vicious now, needling the hulls of the half-empty freighters and blowing the hook block of the crane overhead until it swings like an unsteady pendulum over the flooded pier. Steve is keeping close. His hot breath feels sharp on your neck against the biting wind.
You get within five hundred feet of the main electrical substation before you’re spotted. A pair of guards open fire from the building behind you, spraying an uncoordinated bouquet of bullets in your direction. You find cover effortlessly and huff with humour at the sloppy execution. They had just revealed that they are aware of your presence without allowing you to get close enough for a good shot.
“Idiots,” Steve mutters, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. You smile up at him, almost expecting him to say something about how he expected better from them.
You easily dodge their fire as you advance leisurely and safely, winding in and out from behind shipping containers. You decide that you’re not in the mood to go at it with Steve today, so you take his lead even if it’s significantly slower than how you would choose to do this yourself. You don’t worry about the shots that get too close - whatever you can’t dodge, Steve fends off with his shield.
You are out of the gunmen’s range when you make it to the ladder that leads up to the platform you need to get to, but you have no doubt they are headed your way. You go first, taking your gun from its holster, aiming it upwards, and heaving yourself onto the ladder. The iron bars are slick with seawater and heavy fuel oil; you have to grip tight so you don’t slip.
You’re making careful progress up the ladder with Steve behind you, eyes pointed upwards for any sign of unwanted company. The metal feels slithery beneath your fingers and it takes you an extra few seconds to climb each step. It’s shuddering under each step and you wonder vacantly whether Steve’s weight will make it collapse.
You don’t have much time to prepare for the gunman that approaches above you. Your fingers are still clumsily fidgeting, trying to aim your gun while also grasping the slippy bar of metal. You get your shots off at the same time; yours hits, his does not.
What it does do, though, is make you dodge. Your body bears left, foot skidding on a rung of the ladder and suddenly you’re slipping downward, stomach swooping as your body collides with Steve’s.
He scarcely reacts, catching you with one arm, using little to no exertion. His fingers clamp around your waist, steadying you. For a fraction of a second you both freeze - your breath catching, his jaw tensing, bodies flush together, faces inches apart. Every hard plane of his body is pressed up against you. There is a throbbing warmth low in your stomach.
“You good?” he asks, breathy and deep.
“Move,” you say, voice tight, shaking out of his grasp and climbing up once more. He sighs and mutters something under his breath but you can’t make it out. Your heart is galloping, your pulse thundering in your ears.
You barrel over the platform, and go running towards the tower just as another guard reaches the door, attempting to get to the breaker panel before you have the chance to disable it. He locks the door behind him but Steve kicks it in with a crash. You slide low, sweeping the guard’s legs. Steve disarms him before he can even hit the floor.
There’s no need for discussion as you both fall into your respective roles. The room is oppressively grey and layered with multiple wires, but you find your way to the breaker panel. You work on planting the shutdown device on the primary switchgear while Steve holds off reinforcements, laying enough suppressive fire to keep three guards pinned behind a forklift.
You’re more aware of his presence than usual while you work. He sits like some nagging instinct in your head, telling you to look. You know if you do, all you will see is his back, a heavy fortification of muscle and hard lines and sweat. You don’t need that kind of distraction. Your nerves are already fried from the uncomfortable consciousness of how his body felt pressed tight against yours.
You step back, watching the disruptor activate and the power shut down around you with a whining drone. The grey space becomes black and for just a split-second, yourself and Steve stand alone in the dark, no sounds pervading the room except your laboured breaths. The street lamps outside have extinguished - the bullets outside pause while the gunmen assess their situation.
Steve moves, shattering the stillness. He grips your wrist and pads quietly out the door, taking full advantage of the blackness to make a discreet getaway. You grab your wrist violently out of his grip but you follow him silently. You can’t see anything very well, but you think he might roll his eyes.
The shipyard is drowned in darkness, the only light the thin silver sheen of rain on metal. You move with Steve between the towering containers, keeping low. Every small sound seems deafening now - the clink of a loose cable swaying in the wind, even your own breaths.
A pair of guards drift close, their flashlights slicing through the blackout. You flatten against the cold steel wall, willing yourself still as the beams skim past, bright enough to catch the rivets beside your cheek. When the voices fade, Steve breaks across an open stretch at a quick, silent sprint. You follow.
You’re not sure why you do it. It’s usually Steve’s job to scan the high ground. His serum-enhanced eyesight can catch movement long before you can. But Steve is preoccupied with sweeping for guards on ground level, so you do it instead out of pure intuition. And you see it: a sharp, unmoving glint on the crane platform above.
Your pulse spikes.
There’s a shooter.
You had caught sight of him too late to find cover. You are out in the open. You can’t see the shooter well, but you know who their target will be and it’s not you. Steve is too far ahead to be able to warn him in any sufficient way.
In a moment of complete and utter instinct, and maybe more than a little stupidity, you raise your gun and shoot. You miss.
The shooter turns their attention to you now. You fire another, miss again.
The hit slams into your shoulder so hard, it immediately steals your breath. You stagger forward, fingers going numb. The gun drops from your clasp.
You try to breathe, but the pain is sharp and choking. Your vision wavers from blood loss and the sheer, overwhelming burn tearing through you. Steve’s gun cracks somewhere to your left but the sound bends around the pain, distant and warped. You can’t lift your arm. You can’t even unclench your jaw.
You wait to feel the blood clot around your wound but it’s slow and reluctant. You hold on for one more second, and then blackness swallows you.
The only thing that you’re aware of when you open your eyes is the pain. Not the cold, harsh light of the hospital. Not your family and team members that sit around you, looking morosely at the floor and bouncing their legs. Not even that Steve is absent.
For some length of time that feels very long, you exist in that state; slinking in and out of consciousness. But the pain never disappears, not even the bouts of darkness. In those moments of oblivion, the pain goes behind a cloud, but it always returns with a violence. You get to know this in a vague sort of way, feeling dumbly grateful when the pain is at bay but never being so naive as to think yourself free of it.
Although you will later find out it is only two days, it feels like a small eternity before you can clear the film that feels like scum from your throat and croak anything out. You must not be of fully sound mind yet or maybe the painkillers are making you loopy, because the first thing you say to the room, crammed with familiar faces, is; “Steve?”
You’re assured by someone - Maria? Natasha? - that he got you out. That he’s ok.
And then that grey cloud descends once again. The pain and the haze return.
It’s not that you care that Steve doesn’t come to visit.
It turns out that your wound is just a through-and-through shot to the top of your shoulder. One centimetre in any direction and the bullet might have lodged itself firmly into your neck or paralysed your arm for good. The area is packed densely with muscles and nerves so you are wreaked with pain, but as it stands, it did no permanent damage.
So, really, there is no need for him to visit. And you definitely don’t care. You just think it’s bad leadership is all. You would have showed up for him if the roles were reversed, no matter how much of a pest he is. Would have sent a card. Even a text, at the very fucking least.
You leave the hospital after the dullest week of your life. You hadn’t, until that point, realised how tangled your life purpose is with your career. You feel rabid after just a day or two of consciousness, restricted to your bed with no files to review, no cases to crack open. Just you, a few beat-up novels you had been meaning to get around to reading, and whoever decides to drop by to see how you were doing.
Maria lets you know that you are required to take another two weeks of leave before returning to work. Standard policy. Your requests to be forwarded files related to your ongoing cases are rejected. You can’t even enter the building to go to the gym.
In the absence of anything better to do, you watch films back-to-back. Try some recipes you had earmarked. Visit the new museum that had opened in the next block over. Wait to hear from family, friends and colleagues. But not Steve. You’re definitely not waiting to hear from Steve.
You’re not usually great for following orders but you follow the doctor’s instructions closer than you have abided by anything in your entire life. By the time you return to HQ, the pain in your shoulder has flattened to a dull ache and you have formed a resolution to try to find some sort of hobby outside of work. You had no idea your real life is that grim.
Maria meets you with a distant smile at reception.
“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, turning to walk with you through the building. Quiet conversation, the rustling of paper and the heavy clicks of agents suiting up covers the space you walk through. “We’ll do a mini induction and then I’ll let you get to it.”
Maria’s office is pristine. The door clicks shut behind you, muting all murmured voices outside. Everything looks recently straightened, recently dusted, recently organised. Sticky notes, task lists and cables are perfectly spaced out into their correct positions. The files stacked on the shelves are bound and appear to be in alphabetical order. You picture your home office space with a dim sort of shame as you sit down in front of her.
“How is your shoulder?” she asks without much interest.
“Much better, thank you. Should be able to get back out there now.”
She opens a cabinet in her desk and pulls a bloated yellow file. “That won’t be possible. We have made the decision to transfer you to another team. You’ll need a few weeks to catch up on the ongoing cases.”
“Another- what?”
Your brain is whirring, trying to catch up with what Maria just said. She doesn’t reply, just watches you buffer.
“You’re really taking me off the team on my first day back? Am I being punished for getting shot?”
“Not punished, no,” she assures you patiently. “You’re not being demoted, your day-to-day won’t even change very much but you’ll be working under Romanoff now. It was just decided that you would be a better fit somewhere else.”
“Decided by who?” you ask, even though you know the answer.
“By the leadership team,” she replies diplomatically.
Your gaze narrows on her but she is unperturbed. The sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock are suddenly deafening. You’re engaging in a sort of silent stand-off with her and you’re certainly not winning.
“Where is he?” you ask at last.
“On assignment.”
“When will he be back?”
She smiles at you tightly and you realise she can no longer tell you. You’re not on his team anymore.
A wild instinct runs through you; you feel you might be a few seconds away from stomping your feet like a child, shouting at her that it’s not fair! and he started it!
Instead, you huff out a harsh breath and snatch the file up from the desk.
The hour is late and night is spilling through the windows. Yourself and Nat are the only ones left in the room; maybe the only ones left in the building. She lounges against the opposite row of lockers, boot propped up, grinning like you hadn’t just run a mission that by all rights should’ve ended in a four-page incident report and at least one formal reprimand.
“We are a match made in heaven,” she says with a dreamy sigh.
You snort. “Tell that to the clean-up team.”
“Let them file a complaint,” Nat says, waving a dismissive hand. “Clean exit, no casualties, minimal property damage. Made decent time too.”
“Mm.”
It had gone well. Better than well. Nat works like you do - zippy, instinctive, a little unhinged when the situation calls for it. There had been no questioning glances when you made a split-second decision, no screaming matches in lieu of a debrief. Your third mission back was a big fat success. You should be overjoyed.
But as you wipe the shower-water from your skin and peel your top on, all you can summon is a hot, directionless anger. Or, maybe not entirely directionless.
Because for the most part, you can direct it towards Steve. Your shoulder has mostly recovered with only a mild stiffness left to show for it but you’re still suffering from a wounded pride. The fact that he didn't bother to check up on you and requested a transfer after you quite literally risked your life for him is bad enough. But he’s been a ghost to you in the three weeks since you returned to work.
That first week, he had been on assignment in Hungary. You had gone on a hunt for him as soon as word got around that he was back, but he was nowhere to be found. All his usual conference rooms were vacant and he had clearly started training elsewhere. You have not been able to track him down in the weeks since and you have no doubt in your mind that his sole intention is to avoid you.
Because he feels guilty for what had happened? Or maybe because he doesn’t want to have to thank you? You’re not sure. But you’re pissed.
And not just at him either. At yourself too.
Because, alongside that anger, there’s an uncomfortable hollowness tugging at you. You bring it with you everywhere you go. It weighs you down like a chain. He won’t vacate your brain no matter what you do and you can’t quite deny that maybe you might miss him. Just a little.
The anger is not the worst of it; it’s that other thing - the tiny, shameful spark fluttering under your ribs when Natasha lets you rove free instead of testing you, challenging you, making you better. It’s the way your life feels just a bit emptier without someone to tease and provoke.
And it’s humiliating, because - seriously? How original. You really had to go and join the queue of people pining after the tall, hot, golden-boy with perfect manners and stupidly earnest eyes and muscles so perfect that only scientists could have sculpted them. Brilliant. Groundbreaking. As if you don’t already hate him enough without adding that to the mix.
“I was gonna drag you for a drink but the energy you’re giving off right now is rancid,” Nat says, walking towards you with her towel in hand. She snaps it at you but you jump out of the way before she can make contact. “You’re so pissy all the time since you got transferred.”
“I’m not pissy,” you snap, obscurely aware that you’re proving her point.
“Why do you even care? You and Rogers fight like dogs. You never wanted to be part of his team in the first place.”
You’re purposely avoiding her gaze, but you know the exact look that Nat is giving you based on her tone alone and you hate it with a burning passion.
“I don’t care. It’s just not fair, but it’s whatever.”
She sighs, picking up her duffle bag and flinging it over her shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in your direction. “Get eight hours tonight and try to come back less cranky.”
She walks out, hips swinging, and you wait another moment or two before following suit.
HQ feels different at this time of night. The overhead lights seem a shade too bright without bodies moving through them and your footsteps sound sharper against the floor. The whir of a printer on standby and the buzz of a monitor stand out more. Clean, white light is shining on empty desks.
There is a weight on you as your make your way through the carpeted corridors, passing empty offices and meeting rooms. Nat is right - you are pissy. You’re so goddamn angry and mortifyingly upset, crucifying yourself with mental images and memories you would do anything to be rid of. You had always been mildly curious about those feelings that you observed in movies, the ones all your friends used to rave about when they met someone they fell head over heels for. You have dated, have even been in a few serious relationships. But you always knew there was a big gap between what you had witnessed and what you had experienced.
You wish someone had told you how stupidly painful and embarrassing it could be. You would have tried harder to steer clear of it.
You almost think that you’re imagining the picture of Steve in the meeting room to your right, framed by the semi-frosted window in the door. For just a split-second, you think it might be another one of those humiliating daydreams. But no - he’s burning the midnight oil; his neck is craned over a file, a small lamp pouring light over his handsome features.
You’re not one to question your instincts. You hurl the door open with an aggression that has Steve’s head snapping up in shock, pen falling from his hand, mouth parting. You listen to the door tumble closed before you realise dimly that you have no idea what to say to him. You’re floundering a little, but you keep your expression steady.
He breaks the silence first.
“You’re here late.”
“Just wrapped an assignment with Nat,” you say, hand on hip. “Turns out we make a pretty solid team. It’s refreshing.”
His jaw ticks, but he gives nothing else away. He looks back to his papers, as if dismissing you. “Glad to hear it.”
That’s it? That’s really all he’s giving you?
You can feel fiery heat crawling up your neck and you try to stop the furious shake in your hands. Composure is becoming more difficult to maintain and you know that you’re about a second away from bursting but his gall is astounding. He really has nothing else to say? After everything?
“You got me kicked off the team.”
“You didn’t get kicked off anything,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat. His eyes are travelling your form warily, like he isn’t quite sure where you’re going with this. “You got transferred.”
“Yeah, transferred out of the team.”
“I thought you would be happy,” he says wryly. “You were always complaining about having to work with me. I think you even said you’d rather work with Natasha a few times.”
“I am happy!” It comes out as a bark. You’re embarrassed by your petulance even though you can’t cork it. You know that you’re acting like a child. Steve’s lips are creaking upwards, his eyes lit up in amusement.
You clear your throat. “I am happy,” you repeat, in a low, controlled voice this time around. “It just feels a bit ungrateful is all.”
The way Steve’s poise breaks, superior grin twisting itself into a snarl, is hugely satisfying. You are self-aware enough to know that you’re being hugely immature, but it just feels so good to drag him down to your level.
“You think I should be grateful that you almost got yourself killed on a mission?” he snaps, standing up from the meeting room table and walking towards you. You meet him half-way, until you are inches from each other. Your neck stiffens with how it bends up to meet his enraged eyes. Your body is humming with this familiar rhythm, as if fighting with Steve is the only thing that makes you feel alive.
“Well, I got shot saving you, so yes - I would say that’s a pretty good reason to be grateful,” you snap back, eyes narrow.
“Don’t be dense.” His voice is tight and poisonous in a way you have rarely ever heard before. “That was a really fuckin’ stupid decision and you know it. You took a bullet for the super-soldier with accelerated regenerative healing and a vibranium shield. Does that sound like a good decision to you?”
He sounds more furious than you have ever heard him in your life - and you have made him mad more times than you can count. He had cursed at you. He hasn’t done that since Moscow.
“I knew what I was doing,” you spit back with equal fury. “That shooter had all the time in the world to get into position; they would have been aiming for your head and they would have hit their mark, too because you weren’t paying enough attention to raise your shield. I knew that pulling them over in my direction meant that they would shoot me but they would have less time to aim. Just because you think I’m stupid doesn’t mean I am, you jerk.”
He is struck dumb momentarily, brows furrowing and lips pursing in thought. You are close enough to see the twitch of his mouth, to feel his disgruntled puffs of breath against your skin. Contentment slithers up your spine. Seconds tick by in silence; Steve pensive and stoic, you smug and satisfied. You have won this round and decide to go out with a bang.
“But I guess I should be thanking you because I have a new team lead now who trusts my judgement and doesn’t pick a fight every five minutes. So thank you. And go to hell.”
You turn on your heel, already halfway into your stride, and his hand shoots out so fast it must be instinct - large, calloused fingers closing around your arm before you’re even finished the pivot.
There is a second where he just glares hard. His blue eyes eat up every inch of your face.
And then your body meets his chest and his lips are instantly on yours in a heady explosion of fire - it’s a violent, fervid thing and you surprise yourself with how quickly you return his passion. You had imagined this moment in the last few weeks - in all your dirtiest daydreams, you made him sweat it out a bit, even beg. But maybe you can make him beg later - you had missed him too much to turn him away now.
Your lips move like it’s another one of your fights, faces pressed against each other in a messy battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His hands travel to your hips and pull you flush against him while you fist his crisp blue shirt, folding wrinkles into the perfectly ironed fabric.
Your feet leave the ground as he lifts you with irritating strength, pushing you onto the meeting room table and settling himself between your legs. His sheer power - the way he can lift you like you’re absolutely nothing - makes heat pool in your tummy, something stirring low. You’re pushing your lips against his fiercely, channeling all the pent up anger from the past number of weeks.
He isn’t gentle. He’s rabid as a stray dog. His fingers grasp harshly onto your hips with bruising strength. Despite the fact that you’re already pressed up against him, he tugs you tighter to his body, like close is not close enough. You can feel the large swell of his cock against your thigh, hard as a rock, and you have to stop yourself from adjusting your position and grinding down on him. You’re eager enough to do it, but he can't know that.
Your hands travel around his chest and shoulders, fingers delving into every curve of muscle there. He feels so big and broad against your touch and it turns you on so much that it almost pisses you off.
“You’re such a dick,” you gasp, the sound muffled against his lips.
“I know,” he says back between kissing, his mouth not moving from yours.
“Didn’t even visit me in the hospital.”
“I know.”
“I hate you,” you say, aiming for a sharp tone. It comes out breathy. He’s still kissing at your mouth, lips moving wildly - out of sync and jumbled.
“Shut up,” he grunts, hand going to your lower back and pushing your pelvis forward so you grind against him. An embarrassing whine rips itself from your throat as pleasure sparks through you, lighting up your body. You grind down again, addicted to the feeling, and Steve groans against your lips, hips jerking up.
It prompts something filthy; the two of you still fully clothed, bucking and grinding against each other like feral animals. There is a delicious throbbing in your core, your entire body crying out for more of him. His left hand is still on your hip, encouraging your body to continue grounding down against his hard cock through layers of cotton, but his right hand moves up to grab your jaw with a possessive force. You are giving it back to him too, hands clutching and grasping at him with a brutality.
He pulls away to lift your top over your head, eyes levelled at you with a burning intensity. His pretty blues are darker now, less earnest.
“Steve, we’re in the office,” you object, fingers reaching out to grab it back. He tosses it to the floor before you can.
“Don’t care,” he says, reattaching his lips to yours, fingers crawling to the waistband of your trousers. “Gonna fuck you right here.”
Your stomach clenches. It’s a strange role reversal. You’re not accustomed to being the one who stops and thinks about things before acting - that’s always Steve’s remit. You should be concerned that his perfectly constructed control has been tossed out the window, but it only makes you more excited. You know that there is something dangerous deep underneath each layer of restraint that Steve exercises. You have always known you’re better at digging it out than anyone else in this world. When you do, it’s a beautiful thing.
How can you do anything but give in?
Steve’s fingers play with the button of your jeans, popping it open with an effortless tug before he slides them down your legs along with your shoes. You’re left in just your underwear, splayed open before a fully-clothed Steve Rogers like you’re some sort of offering. He watches you with dark eyes, something between worship and hunger enveloping his features.
His eyes zero in on your bra-clad breasts. “Take it off,” he says, voice strained, and you reach up with urgency to unclip it, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the table.
“Suddenly so good at taking orders.” His hand reaches up to palm your breast, the other playing with the waistband of your panties. Your body arches to his touch involuntarily. “Should have done this months ago. Might have made you behave.”
He can probably tell you’re about to say something snarky, because his lips meet yours ferociously yet again and what would have been a rude retort turns into a moan when his thumb presses down on you over your panties.
Steve pulls away, eyes catching yours with surprise before dropping down to your core, covered in a thin layer of now-transparent fabric. “You’re soaked through,” he breathes, awe colouring his tone. “See how wet you are for me?”
Hot humiliation floods your face. “Fuck you.”
He gives you a slow smirk, eyes glinting. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy and shiny, and you realise he enjoys this as much as you do. His head dips down, lips just brushing over your neck, breath caressing your skin, before he’s lathering kisses there. He hooks his fingers over your underwear and yanks it down aggressively. You watch it cascade down your legs pathetically, chest heaving with the pressure of his lips under your ear and his fingers sliding down your stomach torturously slow.
His fingers just graze over your wet heat and your blood is singing in your veins. You feel overpowered by him in the most mouth-watering way; his large frame trapping you, caging you in. He presses two fingers in, harsh and sudden, and you gasp.
“You get so turned on fighting with me, don’t you sweetheart? I knew it. Knew you were getting all wet every time I raised my voice at you. You pretend you don’t like me but you love when I boss you around.”
You want to slap him, but he’s right. And you consider that if you do, he will stop. His fingers are so big and calloused inside you and it simply feels too good to ever stop. You’re breaking into a sweat while he pumps in and out of you, your slick spilling onto his perfectly tailored work slacks while your walls clench around him.
When his other hand reaches down to grind down on your clit with vigorous strokes, a burst of white-hot pleasure works its way through you, licking up your spine. You pull hard at his hair, looking for anything to anchor yourself and hear him hiss a moan against your neck. The sound makes you clench around him and his fingers pump into you with renewed roughness in response.
You’re absolutely ruined. He has turned you into a complete wreck. You can no longer deny how badly you want him nor how much you need this; you don’t even try anymore. Your hips are wiggling down, trying to take him deeper. You have lost all semblance of shame, too taken up by the pleasure that his fingers are delivering you.
“Look how desperate you are,” he says, eyes caught where he is filling you. You don’t want to look down, shame working its cruel way through you at his taunting, but he grasps your jaw, tilting your head downwards. His fingers are warm and wet with your slick.
His two fingers are enough to stretch you out - they almost look too big for your hole. You shudder at the sight of them sliding in and out, knowing his cock will stretch you out all the more. Steve’s staring at your pussy like a man who is starving.
His fingers pull out from your heat quite suddenly. You’re hazy and confused until he lowers to his knees on the ground in front of where you are perched on the table. Your eyes connect in a moment of explosive intensity. His pupils are blown wide and when yours begin to flutter shut, he pinches your thigh gently in warning. You are forced to stare while he lowers his face between your thighs, eyes gleaming.
“Gotta taste you,” he says, almost to himself, and then that stupid fucking mouth that pisses you off so much every single day meets your cunt.
The sound that comes out of your mouth is unintentional and would be entirely mortifying if you were thinking straight. Your head falls back, eyes shutting. He pinches your thigh again, harder this time.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You eyes spring back open, twitching as you fight the instinct to squeeze them shut. He holds your gaze captive while licking a messy stripe up your folds. You can feel sweat collecting at the top of your forehead at the sensation. He is ravenous and unrelenting, sucking on your clit before soothing it with soft kisses. Exploring your folds with his lips. Dipping his tongue inside and gently nipping, testing your limits.
He’s eating you out in a way you never have been before; it’s not some repetitive flick of the tongue against the clit, picked up from porn and designed to make you cum as fast as possible so he can get the hell up and get his own rocks off. Steve is learning you, watching your expression closely to see what makes your breath catch. You feel him grin against your pussy as a moan slips out reluctantly when he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit, offsetting the pleasure with the tiniest bit of pain. He groans when you lose control and your eyes roll back in your skull.
He pulls back just a few inches and you watch him spit a thick glob of saliva straight onto your cunt. He’s still holding intense eyee-contact with you when he runs his fingers through your slit, mixing your wetness with his own. It’s sliding down through your ass and onto the table, reminding you exactly where you are. The fact that you are doing this in a meeting room in your place of work makes it seem even dirtier.
He shoves two fingers back into you without warning and your hips buck. He continues to mouth at your clit in the most beautiful patterns and you truly feel like he is doing this purely for himself, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.
He sucks hard, sliding your clit into his mouth and you’re not in control of the words or sounds that spill out of you. You’re telling him how amazing you feel and how fucking good he’s eating you, but you realise you might have fucked up because you can just feel his arrogance. It’s pissing you off. You need to remedy it quick.
“Maybe I should keep you down here like this all the time, Steve. What do you think? Can’t bitch at me when your mouth is busy. And you’re just so good at it too.”
You can feel the smug smile melt into something more sinister. His eyes grow darker, but he never moves them from yours. He continues to lap at you, but his mouth is more aggressive now - a stormy sort of warning. You ignore it.
“Bet you’d let me put you on your knees after every mission if I wanted.” Your voice is coming out a bit too breathy for the sort of control you’re aiming for, but you continue regardless. “Keep you there for hours if I need to.”
Steve is standing up faster than you can register, a rough scowl painting his face. “Fucking brat,” he grunts, voice low. Your pride does not allow you to complain about how close you were to coming on his tongue.
He’s unbuttoning his shirt with rapidity and you get the message, part terrified and part exhilarated by what’s to come. You go to work on his belt in the meantime, clumsy fingers frantically unbuckling so you can yank his trousers down his legs.
Steve shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt, you almost groan. It is just so utterly unfair. It’s not like you’ve never seen him in this state before - missions sometimes require you both change clothes in less-than-ideal settings. But seeing him in this context, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pecks, an enormous bulge in his underwear that you know you have inspired; it’s unearthly. It’s only for you. You want him in wicked, sinful ways. And you’re determined to have him.
You try to hide the shake in your hands as you reach towards his underwear. Time slows down as you pull down it down to reveal his cock - what had been a frenzied blur of limbs and clothes patters off into cautious movements, heavy breaths.
You actually groan when you see it; standing tall and fucking huge, slightly curved, subtle veins running lines up to the tip. A pearl of liquid has collected at the tip, smudged on the swollen head. It’s so pretty, you can feel your eyes becoming a bit hazy. The light in the room seems to ripple and bend around it.
Your fingers reach out tentatively, dragging down his length. He hisses, hips jerking up to your touch when you wrap your fingers around him. You can barely wrap your hand around it and you’re startled by how small your hand looks in comparison.
“You think you can take it?” Steve asks you.
“I can,” you confirm with certainty.
“Let’s see about that, sweetheart. I think I might break you,” he returns and you wonder vaguely whether Steve is just baiting you, taking advantage of all your stubbornness to make sure you push yourself past your limit.
His body brackets yours again, leaning over your body to give you a filthy kiss. His mouth is absolutely dripping with the evidence of your arousal and his own spit. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something that is pleasant and categorically Steve Rogers. His lips move hot and dirty against yours, tongue pressing in on yours while his cock nudges your entrance. You gasp against his lips.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You ready for me?”
You nod furiously and he reaches down to fist his cock. You feel his thick length begin to nudge at your entrance, the head slipping in slowly. Your cunt pulses with anticipation as you feel the sweet ache of him breaching you. You let out a low whine, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, as he pushes in further, the thickness of him stretching your walls.
It’s a tight fit. He gets just less than half-way, before your pride breaks and your hips jump away from his at the burn. His jaw twitches, blue eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
Steve reaches down to stroke at your clit and the rush of pleasure makes you loosen up just enough for him to notch in a few inches further. “C’mon, sweetheart. Thought you said you could take me.”
“I can,” you say, the words pattering off into a whine. “Just big, is all.”
“Sure is,” he says, pushing in further and smiling wickedly at you. “And I’m gonna make you take it all, baby. Gonna make you feel it here.” His fingers press down hard on your tummy.
His cock is stressing its size inside you, hitting places previously untouched. You can’t quit believe that he still has more to give you but he does. You’ve never felt anything like this before, never had anything this big inside you and it hurts in the most delicious way.
“Fuck,” Steve spits, breathless. “Yeah, okay, I think you can take me all the way. Just a little bit more, sweetheart. Let me in.”
If he hadn’t eaten you out until you were an inch from nirvana, you’re not sure this would be possible. But as it stands, he bottoms out and you feel like you’re floating. Your hips are twitching, unsure whether to escape or grind down harder.
“Squeezing me so tight, baby. Think you were made for my cock,” he hisses, his face tightening with a primal need. “You okay?”
You’re not sure that your vocal cords are still working so you just nod and listen to his deep breaths. Your back arches when he presses sloppy kisses to your neck while you adjust to him. It feels as if he is moulding you around him.
Your fingertips drag down his back and he shivers, jerking his hips forward involuntarily. “Sorry- ah, fuck-” he groans, face clenched tight.
He withdraws a couple of inches, cock dragging through your walls, before slamming himself back in. He looks down at you like a kicked puppy when he hears your strangled gasp. “Feels too good. Gotta- agh. Can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
You like this side of him, you think idly. You had seen Steve in many different moods, but never like this. Apologetic and pleading. He is a boulder above you; 6 foot something of pure brawn, but begging you so nicely to take his cock. “I know it’s big but you’re such a pretty little thing for me. Have to move.”
You still can’t talk so you nod at him in encouragement and watch relief pour over his face. He kisses you again with intention, bucking his hips into yours with beautiful friction. You are stuffed so full, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. This whole thing is becoming far sweeter than you were expecting.
Steve finds a leisurely, pulsing rhythm as he rocks himself into you, lathering kisses over your lips in a way that is entirely too romantic for the setting. He rubs tantalising circles on your clit, helping your walls to relax into him - helping you let him in until you find your voice, babbling about how much you want him and how good he’s making you feel.
You’re becoming aware that he owns you now; that maybe he always had. He thrusts into you with a beautiful sort of reverence and you know that you are ruined. Sleeping with anyone else would feel like a brutal punishment after you felt him like this.
A noise from outside - the faint tread of boots on the ground - makes you both stop cold. Steve freezes completely, his dick coming to a stand-still inside of you. They are faint but getting closer by the second. Your eyes meet Steve’s wide ones. He starts looking around the room. at your intertwined bodies. You can see him assessing the situation, working out solutions, but a smug part of you notes that he still doesn’t pull out of you. He dick doesn’t soften; you actually feel it twitch inside you.
Your pussy jumps at the realisation that he’s excited by it. Maybe he doesn't even know it yet, but he is. You know it by the way his hips give involuntary, shallow thrusts. By the way his pupils grow impossibly darker.
So you do what any sane woman would do with Captain America’s cock buried deep inside her. You grind down.
Steve eyes snap back to yours with astonishment. He looks wild; entirely out of control and somewhat furious. He brings a hand to your hair, tugs it with a warning that you don’t pay any heed to.
You grind down again, this time removing your right hand from his broad shoulders and bringing it slowly down to your clit. You rub and squeeze there, using his cock to get yourself off. The way his eyes are burning as he watches you only makes it so much hotter. You feel yourself approaching your peak.
The steps get louder until you see a flash of cherry red pass the window and you know it’s Natasha. She’s on her way back to the locker room, perhaps to check if you’re still there. You don’t stop moving on his cock even as she passes by you and the locker room door swings open and shut.
“Are you insane?” Steve spits in a low whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You just smile back at him because you can see his eyes growing hazy. You not sure he even realises that he himself has begun to thrust into you again. A flush is working its way up his neck and you wonder whether it’s anger or arousal. Maybe both.
You’re halfway through a moan when the door to the locker room swings back open and Natasha begins walking out again with a huff. Steve’s hand goes up to cover your mouth, so large it almost envelopes your entire face. He’s giving you look like he’s disapproving of this development but he doesn’t stop fucking you.
Natasha’s footsteps stop for a split-second. You feel a disinterested sort of confusion, too wrapped up in the way Steve’s cock feels as it drags through your walls.
Something spasms between your legs and you realise you’re about to cum. Your blood freezes. You feel Steve tense, breath snagging in his throat. You’re sweating now - praying that all those gasps you can’t mute are not audible from outside.
You hear Nat let out a long, irritated sigh from outside, but you’re too far gone to even care about the consequences anymore. You squeeze around Steve’s length once and then your eyes are rolling back into your head while she resumes moving down the hall. As she approaches the glass window of the door, you try to crouch, as if that would prevent her from seeing your and Steve’s very naked bodies as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can see the faint shadow of her figure sliding across the frosted glass. For one horrifying second, you’re sure Nat will glance in.
But she doesn’t. She keeps walking, footsteps fading with distance until the hallway is left silent again and your pussy is squeezing with aftershocks.
“You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?” Steve asks, but there’s more awe in his tone than malice. “You really get off knowing someone could walk in here and see me fucking you?”
You don’t even know how to answer him. He’s given you no time to recover from your orgasm, fucking into you again with a renewed vitality. You’re overly sensitive, the pressure of his massive cock inside you bullying your sensitive hole. It shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much too soon - but it’s not because it’s Steve. And you don’t think you could dislike anything that he chooses to do to you.
“You wanna be fucked like a whore? Fine,” he says, pulling his cock out of you with lightning speed and flipping you around on the table so your ass is arched up for him. He takes a second to look at you, squeezing at the skin of your ass, dragging his thumb all the way up from your clit, past your wet heat and through your ass. He’s mumbling something unintelligible. You clench and shudder, a moan breaking out through your lips.
When he fists his cock and presses into you again, all that slow romanticism from earlier is gone. He is fucking you hard and fast, his thick cock pressing into a heavenly spongey spot that you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck Steve!” you cry out, ass working its way back on him of its own volition.
“Such a fucking brat. Couldn’t even wait patiently for me to fuck you for one minute. Too desperate for my cock.”
You want to argue that he was also fucking you, but your brain is not working fast enough to come up with the words. All you can focus on are his dirty words, the obscene squelching noises of him filling you, and how it feels to be taken by him.
“Maybe I should punish you for that. Always so disobedient. Maybe I’ll leave you high and dry here, fill you up and not let you cum.”
“Try it,” you growl, brain suddenly fully operational. “I’ll make you regret it.”
You hear him huff a laugh from behind you. “You’re adorable. Fucked out on my cock and still think you’re in charge. I’ll make you cum sweetheart, but only because I want to see you fall apart. Next time you won’t get this lucky.”
His cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you see god. His hands are so tight on your hips as he fucks himself into your body that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You hope you do.
“That’s it, isn’t it baby? That’s your spot. Fuck. Maybe I should reward you, now that I think of it. All my sweet girl wanted was to get caught getting fucked by me. You just wanted to show everyone that you’re mine. Want everyone to see me fucking that attitude right outta you.”
Being called his coils your stomach in a way you’d rather not examine. Instead, you twist your head back and scowl.
“Fuck you,” you spit, voice strangled.
He chuckles again, but it’s strained. He’s pounding you with a force that you feel all the way up to your belly, all the way up to your teeth. You know you’re not far from coming again and neither is he.
“Is my pretty girl gonna cum on my cock again?” he asks, patting and squeezing your ass encouragingly. You nod, eyes squeezed shut, not even sure that he can see it from his angle. A desperate whine escapes.
“Good fucking girl. ‘Cause I’m about to come inside you. Want you walking out of here with me dripping out of you. Gonna fill you up so good, keep you topped up for every mission. Make you mine.”
That sends you tumbling over the edge, white-hot pleasure soaring through you. Your cunt clenches down hard on him and you feel him burst, spilling sticky ropes of cum into you. He groans loud, telling you how good you are for him while holding your hips with a bruising power, fucking into you violently. He shudders behind you, and eventually his aggressive thrusts patter out and slow into shallow jerks.
Dark spots are exploding behind your eyes for a while as you come down, chest heaving as Steve drives his cum back into you slowly. You feel your mixed spend dripping down your thighs, spilling onto the wooden floors below. Steve hisses as he steadily pulls himself from your tight heat. He stops momentarily while he, presumably, watches his cum drip out of your hole.
And then he reaches down to grab his underwear. He wipes it across your privates and thighs as a makeshift towel. It is decidedly not romantic, but the fact that he’s willing to go home in soggy underwear just to clean you up makes your chest tighten with affection regardless.
Steve begins to dress but it takes you another minute to gather the strength in your limbs to haul yourself up. Your hands are shaking as you yank up your panties and try to buckle your bra. Steve is fully dressed now, watching you intensely, thighs spread out on an office chair.
You’re feeling slightly awkward in a way you never do around Steve. You’ve never been short of quips or insults to throw at him, but the air has changed now and you’re not sure where you stand or how to navigate this.
You have just tugged on your jeans when Steve leans forward to grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You hadn’t realised that you were waiting for him to do it until he does. You go with no objection, curling into his chest. It feels strangely natural for how combative you’ve always been with him. He nuzzles his face into your neck with a shy affection.
“I’m sorry for requesting the transfer. I regretted it immediately after if I’m honest.”
“Why did you? It was kinda fucked up, Steve. And you didn’t even come to visit me when I got shot. It hurt my feelings because I would have been there for you.” You can’t even look at him when you say it. You are vastly uncomfortable being this vulnerable with him, but you suppose if there’s ever a time for venturing into uncharted territory, it’s now. Steve was right about what he said regarding your past relationships - you just never cared enough before. But you do now.
“I stayed there until you were stable,” he says. “I was just so angry that I couldn’t even look at you. The idea that you risked your life for me killed me. I hate the way you risk so much on missions. It makes me feel like I can’t protect you.”
“But sometimes you can’t, Steve. I know I should be less reckless. Being away from you for the last few weeks made me realise that. But I have to be able to make my own decisions too.”
“I know. I know it’s just part of what happens on missions but I can’t deal with you getting hurt for me. Not with you. Because I…”
He swallows hard, eye downturned. He fidgets against your thigh and it makes your heart ache. You’re feeling embarrassingly gushy, watching him be this fragile and open. You’re taken off guard by it.
“Because you want me?”
He gives you a tight, sad sort of smile.
“I want you so bad, I’m not even sure ‘want’ is the right word for it anymore.”
You’re fighting a goofy grin but it’s beaming out of you like sunshine. You kiss him nice and slow, feel his lips move ardently and reverently against your own. Your heart flutters where it presses against his chest, as if trying to fly its way closer to him.
You pour every ounce of your adoration into the kiss and feel Steve's grin against your lips as a response.
You pull away only when your phone buzzes with a text.
NAT: so i see you’re out of the doghouse
NAT: and now i need to find a new partner. goddamn.
a/n: initially this had bucky instead of nat but i kept accidentally creating sexual tension between him and reader lmao i can't help myself with that man
pairing. clark kent x fem!reader genre. friends to lovers. sexual tension. smut.
after a brutal event leaves clark weak and poisoned by kryptonite, you follow strict orders to rush him to his parents’ home — the one place you’re certain no one would find him at. a safe house.
word count. 5.1k words warnings. men in pain !! men in pain !! sexual tension. clark worrying about oc. he smells and hears her arousal bc of his super senses giggles. smut. oral (fem!receiving) MUNCH CLARK. fingering. unprotected + rough sex. size kink. tummy bulge. he puts a fucking pillow between the wall and the bed frame. they have to be very quiet. BIG COCK CLARK. squirting.
✶ inspired by events from — SUPERMAN (2025).
ana’s notes. i know this isnt anything jungkook related but .. im going through something rn with this man. i shouldve never fucking watched this movie. some details are improvised bc i lowk dont know shit abt superman (i was always more of a marvel girlie) so if theres smth in here that doesnt make sense for his character .. please just PLEASE JUST DONT OKAY. okie !! enjoy ♡
Clark Kent was a very reserved man.
Even at the office, he rarely had much to say. If someone asked about his day, he’d answer with something short — a few words, never a story. He never flaunted his accomplishments or fed off the praise. Where most of the department reeked of overbearing bragging and egotistical bastards, Clark kept to himself. He was private. Content with staying out of the spotlight.
Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address.
And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.
That he was Superman.
He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.
Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.
You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.
Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe.
You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.
It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.
Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.
His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.
A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.
“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.
“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.
“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”
There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.
You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.
“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.
“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.
“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.
His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”
You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”
“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”
You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.
“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”
“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.
You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.
Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.
Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.
You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.
You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.
“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.
If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.
Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.
“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.
You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.
On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.
You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.
“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back.
“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”
You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.
“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.
“Yes?”
His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”
You smile back. “Of course.”
Because friends help friends.
Clark awoke with a start.
The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.
His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.
He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.
“Clark?”
Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.
And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.
“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.
“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.
He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.
“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.
“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.
“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.
“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”
He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.
But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder.
The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.
“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.
You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.
“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.
“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.
Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier.
“You’re tense,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”
You cleared your throat, swallowing.
“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”
He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.
You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.
Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.
“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.
“No, it’s fine-“
“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Ma and Pa get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”
You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”
His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”
You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race.
You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“
But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.
Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.
He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.
He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.
Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.
He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”
You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.
“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.
The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.
“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.
“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”
Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.
He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.
“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.
Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.
“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”
He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.
His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.
You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.
You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.
“You like that?” he murmurs against you.
You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”
He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.
“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”
“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.
“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“
Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.
His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.
You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.
“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”
His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.
“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”
Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.
You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.
He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.
Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.
He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.
He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.
“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.
“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”
You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.
He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.
Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.
Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours.
“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.
“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.
“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.
“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.
“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.
He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.
“Ready?” he murmurs.
You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.
He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.
“Good?” he asks, voice low.
“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.
Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.
“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.
Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.
“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.
Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”
The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.
“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.
“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.
You can feel him through your stomach.
“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”
You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.
Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.
“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.
His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.
He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.
You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.
“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”
He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”
You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.
Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.
“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”
“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.
“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”
The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.
“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.
Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.
Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.
Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.
You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.
He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”
“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.
“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”
“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.
“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.
“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”
You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”
He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.
You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!
“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“
“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”
He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”
You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”
He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.
“Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.
You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”
— In which, jimmys potty mouth about his first time overstimulating his recent fling intrigues Clark & gets you in trouble.
Wc: 3.52k
Warnings: 18+ (MDNI) , cunnilingus, overstimulation, clark lowkey a freak, squirting!, first time for everything, p in v, slight dacryphilia (crying k!nk), use of nicknames, & smut.
৻ꪆ I was ovulating so bad while writing this bye. (Listening to my freak playlist didn’t help neither).
Clark had been distracted all day at the daily planet. But it wasn’t his fault, it was jimmys.
It wasn’t like jimmy meant to corrupt the man’s slightly innocent and sweet mind, but you know what they say; curiosity kills the cat.
It all started once jimmy began rambling on about his ‘smoking hot’ date he had last night. And clark being the good friend he was, he always chose to listen to what any of his friends had to tell him, even if they were crazy.
As jimmy rambled on, a sentence suddenly struck Clark. “She couldn’t stop shaking even after she came,” referring to the fun they had after leaving this really grotesque bar. Clark was more than intrigued now, his eyebrows quirking as he continued to type against his keyboard.
His tone was questionable—almost disturbed. “Go on..” eyes narrowing behind his glasses.
Jimmy could tell Clark was getting a little weirded out, but it was guy talk. Surely Clark had been through one of these conversations before—right?
“And so after she came, she asked for more, which I had never done by the way, and I just did,” he shrugged, finishing his sorting with the papers in his hands. “I just kept going.”
Clark stopped mid typing and turned his head toward him. “You what..?” He spun his chair to fully face him, Jimmy just nodded as if this was a normal thing. “Mhm, yeah. What, you never kept going after you and your girlfriend finished? Or while she finished?” Jimmys brows scrunching.
“No..?” Clark shook his head slowly as if it was an obvious thing. Jimmy just halted turning toward him slowly. “So you and— like never?” He was in utter disbelief as if was a common everyday thing. “Dude no, I just said no.” Clark explained before turning back toward his desk.
“You gotta try it with her Clark!” Jimmys eyes lighting up at the thought of his friend doing something intimate as if it was Clark’s first time. Clark’s eyes widen, turning toward him. “What—!? No, no, I will not ask my girlfriend if I can..if I can..”
“Overstimulate her.” Jimmy finishes.
“Thank you,” Clark huffs. “Overstimulate her. That’s embarrassing. Especially if that’s not her kinda thing.” - “but you don’t know thats not.” Jimmy shrugged.
“Jimmy, im not asking her that.” Clark’s voice was stern as he glared back at him. “Okay,” jimmy threw his arms up turning back toward his desk. “Jimmy.” Clark tilted his head.
“I didn’t say anything!”
Clark just turned back into his desk, cheeks and ears finally flushing freely. That was a crazy thing to even consider, but it did pique his interest. What would he even say if he were to ask you? ‘hey sweetheart, yeah, heard this crazy story from Jimmy today and I wanted to ask if you’d let me overstimulate you?’ God he was gonna choke slam Jimmy if he ever had a reason to.
That was forbidden to even do to women back on krypton, women were only allowed to do that to their husbands. Well— when it still existed..
He shook his head, just typing bullshit into a blank document while trying to clear his head of the suggestion. He did wonder though—what would you look like in that moment?
By the time he made it home, the thought was still clouding his mind, even as he shut his eyes, he kept making visual representations. What the hell was he thinking?
He didn’t even know if you’d enjoy something like that. Would you judge him for it or would you secretly or love the feeling proudly?
When he walked through the door it smelled of vanilla and there you were, sitting on the couch in this worn out Batman shirt clark bought a while ago, leg crossed over the other as you read, palm squished against your cheek, and toes wiggling in your socks.
His chest instantly filled with warmth upon seeing you. His favorite girl.
“Hi baby,” you greet, not even looking up from the book since you knew it was him. You always knew it was him when he came home by the sound of his oxfords or hero boots.
Clark fully stepped inside removing his jacket, eyes already full of hunger although he tried (horribly) to mask it. “Hey sweetheart,” He began heading toward the room, but not without placing a kiss on your head as he passed the couch.
He could feel the hard on growing in his pants.
Gosh clark, get it together.
As he emerged from the room, blouse unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, he couldn’t help but look at you. God, what would you even look like in that predicament? He’d bet you look so pretty all fucked out and swol—
“You’re staring again.” You look up from your phone with no intent look, just acknowledging it, knocking him out of his thoughts.
“Can’t help it,” he answers simply, voice low and much rougher than he intended for it to be.
He sat beside you, hand trailing over one of your legs as he pulled one over his lap with ease, leaving you straddling his lap. His big and calloused hands sliding underneath your (his) shirt to rub circles on your thighs.
Your phone was off and thrown onto the far end of the couch at this point.
He just looked at you, eyes filled with admiration and fondness as he leaned in closer. You smile, a smile that quickly turned into a soft sigh as your lips found his, humming into his mouth as the kiss deepened fast. His tongue teased, running over yours more often, hands palming your ass through the thin fabric of your panties as he bit down on your bottom lip.
“Mm, Clark—“
“B-been thinking about you all day,” he murmured against your lips, kissing against your jaw, his bulge already straining against his slacks.
You tilt your head back, amused expression on your face as you smirk. “Obviously,” you giggle, pressing down on him slightly. “What’s going on with you huh?”
He hesitated, cheeks and ears flushing almost immediately before he spoke. “Can I tell you something?” he mumbles. “Anything.” You hum, hands resting on the back of his neck.
“Well..today at work, Jimmy was telling me about how his date went the other night,” Clark began. Your brows furrowed as you tilted your head. “Uh huh..?”
“And uhm..” he cleared his throat, scratching the back his neck. “Uh..well, he told me how he made his date cum more than once..like over and over,” he finally confesses, as if he did it.
“An-and he said she was shaking a lot too…like so much that she—squirted..” his voice lowering as he continued, every word filling him with embarrassment.
You just blinked, then just burst into complete laughter while your head sat on his shoulder. Why the hell would jimmy talk about something like that around your boyfriend?
Clark just sat there with his eyes narrowed as you lifted your head. “Whys that funny?”
“You seriously let Jimmy Olsen corrupt your brain? Out of all people?”
“I didn’t intend to!” Clark threw his arms up, eyes slightly widening. “He just started talking so I had to listen!”
“Clark, you don’t have to listen to him just because he’s your friend.” You cross your arms to which he huffs. “I know that,” he muttered, not agreeing with you deep down while his hands rested on your thighs. “I only brought it up because..well- I uh—I wanted to try it. With you.”
Well that was uncalled for.
Your laughter instantly died at his tone, stomach doing flips. Clark had never been this open about what he wanted when it came to sex or being intimate in general with you, so you just blinked before slowly nodding. “..okay.”
You lean in for a kiss, pulling back ever so slightly just to tease a bit before actually catching his mouth in a warm and passionate kiss.
He hummed against your lips, hands roaming as he squeezed your thighs and ass to try and pull you impossibly closer. He shifted, hips grinding to meet yours before lifting the both of you from the couch, headed to the bedroom—not once breaking the kiss.
Your legs wrapped around him in an instant, moaning into his mouth as your hands roam his hair whilst he laid the both of you down.
He was quick. Swiftly pulling off your damp panties while you unbuttoned his slacks (he took the belt off earlier since this was his goal).
But he was getting a bit too eager to know just what this would be like, so he ripped his blouse open, buttons flying everywhere before he removed it and threw it wherever before pouncing on you again.
The kiss deepened further, tongue swirling against yours before he pulled back to attack your neck. His hand ran underneath your shirt, fondling with one of your nipples, squeezing and twirling just to elicit whimpers from your mouth. He pulled away, hand traveling down your body toward your hot and wet core.
He teased, index finger grazing over your folds which made you whine quietly and he just knew he was gonna love this.
He ran his thumb over your clit teasingly before he slid two thick digits into your fluttering cunt, a gasp flying from your mouth almost instantly.
“A-anh..”
He caught your lips again, kissing you like he was afraid it’d be his last time. Whenever you two got intimate your moans got him hard, even the smallest whines made him excited.
Your back arched, hips bucking into his hand, and you bit your lip so hard it could’ve bled. But Clark noticed your half assed moans, deciding to curl his fingers against your gummy walls. You whine automatically, rolling your hips against his fingers. “A-annh, fuck!”
His fingers plunged in and out of your pulsing entrance, pace starting to become unbearable although he just started, forcing choked moans and cries out of your mouth.
All he wanted to do was make his pretty girl feel good. And that’s what he was going to do.
He pulled his fingers out, a pop! following after. His thumb circled your clit, teasing before rubbing against your slit with his middle finger, flicking away.
“H-haa shiitt!” Your eyes rolled back as you whimpered, completely melted underneath Clark’s huge figure.
“Shh,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, “Stop cursin’ so much sweetheart,” he murmured against your skin as he slid his fingers back inside, being completely relentless as he twirled and scissored his fingers.
“O-oohh!” You cry out, grabbing his wrist. “M-m’not trying tooo!” Head pressing back against the pillow. “Fuck Clark!” You whine, hands searching for anything to grip onto as your back continuously arched off the bed.
This was driving him insane and he wasn’t even the one being touched right now.
He could tell you were close, he could literally see right through you. But that never stopped him from tearing up your insides, just made him angle his fingers a direction that made you squeal out, thighs closing around his hand as you held onto his wrist as if that was going to stop anything.
He had never done you like this.
He was quick to pull your legs apart again, curling his fingers even deeper than before. “Hnng—yesyes, m’coming—C-clark!”
Your thighs trembled as you saw white, squeezing his fingers so hard they might’ve been at risk of falling off.
You pant as your high came down, ready to push him away, but his head was already dipping down your body. You blink, wanting to say something but the thoughts quickly forgotten as he flattened his tongue against your pussy.
You whimpered loudly, his arms locking around your thighs.
“H-mph..c-clark wait..” You felt weird, so sensitive, and he just— just kept going.
His tongue swirled against your clit, nibbling on it softly as your body jerks into his mouth. He just smiled and you could tell, and it was fucking killing you.
He ate even slower, eliciting even louder and desperate moans from your lips. You fought your hardest not to grip his hair, arms just squirming around as you got lost in bliss.
He pulled your legs over his shoulders, groaning loudly. Did you always taste this good; this sweet?
You looked down for just a second, glancing at him and man, he was gone. Not once did he glance up at you, just kept eating. Eating like a man starved.
The sight made you even wetter, god, you’d fuck him right now if you could.
Your feet flexed helplessly against his shoulders as you cried out, hands finally flying toward his hair. You were so conflicted on whether or not to grip his pretty curls. Clark practically growled at the feeling of your hands in his hair but that quickly led to a groan once he felt you not pulling on it.
His tongue worked faster, dragging countless moans out of you, giving you a reason to pull on his hair.
What eventually got you to pull on it was when he began to stick his tongue in and out of your hole, making your back arch off the bed once more as both your hands became tight and full of soft coils.
“O-oh ye-yeahh..!” Your second orgasm flooded and washed over you as saw white for the second time, liquids oozing right onto Clark’s tongue. You whined at just how pretty he looked, dazed as if he was the one in your position right now. “O-okay, okay, m’done I—“
But Clark was nowhere near done himself.
He pushed your fluids back into your aching hole, sucking off whatever was left on his fingers.
“M’not done,” he breathed, licking his lips. Your cheeks heated, propped up on your elbows. “Wha?!” You pant faintly. “Im not done.” He repeats, looking you dead in the eye.
You almost—almost replied with something slick but he’s faster, licking a long stride from your entrance to your clit. “ungh!” You fall back down against the mattress, tugging on his hair.
Your thighs shook, wanting nothing more than to close around his head. But he wouldn’t let you do that, not because he’d get mad, but because he was stronger than you, and he knew you liked the size difference between the two of you.
He was slurping you up so good, your fingers ran through his hair as your hips shot up, crying out as you bit your lip. “Shit..”
You blink vigorously, teary eyed as you tried looking down at him.
You caught a glimpse before it got too blurry; his cheeks flushed and his jaw just moving continuously.
You were four rounds in now, all sweaty and your joints sore, and an aching cunt that was killing you with its constant throbbing. But clark wasnt fazed.
He was more..confused. Why hadn’t you reacted how he wanted yet? I mean yeah, he did drag four orgasms out of you, but he could drag way more outta you any other night if he wanted to with no problem!
He huffed, sitting up from in between your legs, chin and lips glistening. “Am I doing something wrong?” His voice full of actual concern.
You lay in front of him, limp but still full of energy and he could tell. Damned sexy extraterrestrial.
“Huh..?” You managed to breathe out, completely dazed. “Like— like why aren’t you-“ he made a fountain gesture with his hands. You shake your head.
“I dunno clark, you’re doing great obviously, I’m just not..” you mumble as you look at him. He was dumbfounded and irritated, man he really did not like this feeling.
“Uhm..uh, okay. Okay, hang tight sweetheart.” He got up from the bed, pulling you back up toward the headboard and pulled a pillow to the side.
He hovered over you once he was done, hands sprawled out right next to the sides of your head. “Maybe you just need some— some dick,” he murmured, pulling his slacks all the way down his legs as well as his boxers.
“Wait- what? No..clark-“
“It’s okay,” he kissed the corner of your mouth, rubbing his flustered cock in a bit of frustration. “Im gonna get you there, I promise.” His tone full of determination as he aligned his tip with your entrance.
And like always, the stretch was great. You cried out instantly, pushing him away which just made him grab your arm and put it over your head.
“u-unn..clark..” you whine, looking up at him, not even knowing what your doing to him in that moment. He bit back a pitiful groan, pushing inside even more.
“Gosh,” he growled. “damnit...pussys squeezing me so..well.” He gritted, bottoming out as he slammed his hips. You felt the air knocked out of your lungs as your eyes rolled back immediately.
He grabbed your thighs, pushing them against your torso as he placed your legs over his shoulders.
He was slow at first..but as time went on, he became faster and way more aggressive:
“Hold your legs,” he instructed as he aligned his tip again. “Baby I—“ - “hold ‘em. Please.” His tone firm with you for the first time ever. You whimper weakly, bringing your hands underneath your thighs, pulling them toward your breast, knees hitting your chest.
“Thank you pretty girl.” He smiled, grabbing the pillow he left to the side and placing it underneath your back.
That fucking smile.
He slid back into you with a pitiful moan, and honestly, it felt way different this time.
His hips rocked slowly, like he was actually feeling it this time. And there you were underneath him, mouth slack, tears streaming down your cheeks, lips so pretty and swollen.
“Mmn-“ he bites down on your shoulder, rocking much, much deeper than he was before, kissing your cervix.
“S’too much..goddammit clark—“ you hiss and he rolled his hips again, slowly speeding up.
You were throbbing so much, so sore, aching as if he wasn’t inside you right now.
Your back arched against the pillow, hair sticking to your skin at this point. You held him closer, clenching around him like you were scared he was gonna start levitating or something (it’s possible).
“Hnngh..” your skin felt like it was on fire, everything was hot, nerves lit up. He sped up, bottom lip in his mouth. He was focused.
So focused on just how good he knew he could make you feel.
Your arms found their way around his neck, pulling him closer, his lips hovering above yours. You pulled him down even more, kissing him sloppily and full of love as you cried into his mouth, his pace speeding up and slowing down in rhythm, hitting that soft gummy spot in your walls repeatedly.
“M’right here baby,” he whispered against your lips. “Right here.” He laid a kiss upon your cheek as you cried out desperately.
Everything about him made you melt.
You shook your head, tears welling your eyes again as you felt that knot building in your stomach. “Don’t stop,” you cry out. “Please don’t stop.”
But then— you felt too full.
The pressure was unbearable, your eyes widening quickly as you tried pushing him away. “C-clark, no, no. Wait— I gotta-gotta pee!”
But he didn’t stop.
He kept going, pushing deeper just to make your whimper in ecstasy.
“Clark, please, I can’t hold-“
You tried squirming away, babbling on about how it was too much, but clark kept rolling his damn hips, kissing your ankles. The pressure felt so tight, you begged him to stop, your voice breaking with every cry. “C-cant hold—hgh—hold it!” You stammer, eyes repeatedly rolling back.
“Clark!” A high, broken moan ripped from your chest, the pressure finally giving way, hot streams gushing out of your pussy with each thrust. Some of it shot up onto his washboard abs, and fuck you just knew he had the biggest smile on his face right now.
Your thighs shook violently, tears stinging your face as you attempted to hide it. “Aahnn—fuhh-!” you cried, clawing at his forearms, but the sounds only grew louder as he continued to thrust into you with no problem.
“Golly,” clark just groaned, his balls slapping against you one last time before he finally came, spilling hot loads into your puffy walls.
He collapsed on top of you, huffing slowly, trying to catch his breath. You lie beneath him, completely limp and spent.
“You did amazing sweetie..so good baby.” He cooed, lifting up ever so slightly to press a kiss to your temple.
You hum softly from his kiss, shaking uncontrollably, body twitching everywhere you could think of.
It gets quiet for a moment and Clark decides to be first to break it: “You uh..you think you can do that again but on my tongue this time pretty girl?” He murmurs, voice lowering with each word.
You just look at him, dumbfounded. Just blinking. “Im gonna fucking kill Jimmy.” You deadpan.
He winced, his voice faint now. “Please?”
kissmyglxck — don’t copy my work, ask to translate, & if you recreate anything pls tag me <3
summary: you’ve known clark kent your entire life. you know him better than you know yourself, if you’re being honest. and you are way too comfortable with him.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut (piv, unprotected sex, handjob(?) idk you’ll see, fingering, oral, praise, clark talks you through it, cum.. eating..?, finger licking/in mouth, cute n soft, BIG DICK!clark, size kink/difference, dacryphilia undertones, aftercare, clark gets exposed to a breeding kink, porn with little bit of plot), fluff, shy (at first) and soft!clark, teasing mainly from reader to annoy clark, lowk secondhand embarrassment, reader finally in her last year of university after taking a long fucking time to decide on what she wanted to do with her life, pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby), no use of y/n, NOT proofread // wc: 7k
yari yaps: i’m supposed to be writing my bwatober fic. but NOOOOO mr. kent has me in a chokehold and im a useless writer that can’t focus on deadlines (bwatober will be posted soon i promise i js cant work on it when this was on my mind) // divider credits
“So, I've been wondering— and you don’t have to answer— but is your dick different from humans?”
You say the words without even looking up from your textbook and notebook. A pen continues to twirl between your fingers as you absentmindedly fidget. The choking noise that fills the air concerns you for half a second, forcing you to look over your shoulder and at the man who was quietly going through his articles on his laptop before you rudely interrupted him.
“You haven’t talked in hours,” he mutters, referring to how you crashed his apartment just to study. He removes his glasses off of his face– frames that he doesn’t even need to wear– to drag a hand down his face like it would wipe away the absurdity of your question. “And this is what you say?”
“My anatomy class finally moved on to sex,” you say, as if that was supposed to explain anything.
“… Right.” Clark looks exhausted. He probably wishes he never opened his front door to you, but here you were. Well, even if he didn’t, you could always use the spare key that he gave you ages ago. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”
You roll your eyes at his sass, “C’mon. You know why I'm asking this.”
Of course he does. You were the first person to know of his abilities— right after his Ma and Pa. You'd been there to watch him soar into the sky for the first time, finally unafraid. You watched him discover ice breath, and remembered how distraught he was as he looked at you.
Clark sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically with the breath. “My… reproductive organs are similar, from what I can tell.”
“From what you can tell,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.
“I didn’t exactly grow up with Kryptonian anatomy lessons,” he shoots back immediately. “I haven’t seen a spliced Kryptonian in a museum— a body donated for science and research.”
You pause, then shrug slightly. “I guess.”
He huffs. Actually huffs, like he’s throwing a mini tantrum over your lack of thought to your question. Despite it, he still settles back onto the couch. His muscles no longer feel locked in place, he can breathe normally—
“So you don’t have an alien dick?”
“Sweet lord— what are you going on about?” he whines, looking at you with pleading eyes. You ignore it in favor of expanding your knowledge on his biology.
“You know,” you say, waving a hand in the air, “Some of the rifts— there’s documents on the corpses that come through. talking about how some male presenting aliens have both uterus and testicles, like they can impregnate and be pregnant, too—“
“I don’t have a womb,” he says, followed by your name falling from his lips in exasperation.
“But are you sure?”
“You know those released documents also included strong evidence that those aliens also had a menstrual cycle,” he quickly says. Clark moves his laptop off of his thighs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He’s one second away from burying his face into his hands. “I haven’t— I think I would know if I was bleeding from my pen… from my thing.”
Clark's ears are red. Bright red. He can’t even hide it.
Suddenly, your questions are no longer out of simple curiosity. Now, you want to poke the bear. Except the bear is too sweet and kind to tell you to knock it off, to get out of his apartment, and to leave him the hell alone.
“Your thing?” you tease, a smile spreading across your face. “Your cock, Clark.”
“Do you have to be so vulgar?”
“It’s basic anatomy.” You cross your arms over your chest. “One that you claim to have.”
“I don’t—!” He runs his hands through his hair, clearly stressed. You can’t help but giggle at the sight. “I don’t claim to have regular anatomy, whatever that means.”
“So you admit that your body is biologically built differently.”
“I mean, yes, but not like that!”
“Like what?”
“Please,” he groans, nearly desperate now.
“Ooh, begging,” you say as your grin spreads even wider. “Are you trying to keep Kryptonian biology a secret?”
It doesn’t take much for him to break. You knew that. Always have, and always will. Clark was scarily easy to bait.
“My dick is normal!” he finally shouts, face still flushed. You swear he’s sweating, too.
“But how do you know that?” you ask. You’re not even trying to hide the lilt in your voice. “You compare lengths in the locker room in school?”
“Oh my— stop. please.”
“So guys don't do that? That’s just a myth said online?”
“You’re not totally off,” he quickly says, only to pause a moment later. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”
You pout at him, giving him your best pleading eyes you could muster. For someone made of steel and ice, this man melted at the sight of you. He always did.
A deep sigh escapes his chest as he leans back into the couch. “My college ex said my… penis… was above average. I haven't seen other men’s… things, but i’m assuming since she didn’t have an issue with it then it has to be normal.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Do you not watch porn?”
Your name falls from his lips in utter shock, matching the look on face. “You do?”
“You don’t?”
Clark stares at you, as if he’d been slapped with a bucket of freezing water. You can only stare back, waiting for his response.
“… No,” he finally mutters.
“Huh,” you say, taking in the sight of him. Even seated, he’s large. If you stood in front of him right now, you’d barely be taller than him. “Well, it makes sense that you’d be above average. with your height and all. Do you think that is also Kryptonian?”
“I don't know.” Clark shrugs, and it seems like the embarrassment of the topic is slowly melting off of him. “Probably?”
You hum, contemplative. “So, your dick doesn’t have ridges on it? Like spiky nubs along the shaft? Do you think your sperm count is higher than the average human male? Must be stronger, too. I wonder if a normal human woman would be able to carry your children to term without complications.”
A frown takes over his face at your rapid fire questions and commentary. Though he doesn’t look as bothered as he was earlier. It's as if he’s really thinking about it this time.
“I would really hope that whoever carries my children won’t have any complications, but that’s another thing that I wouldn't know until the time came.” Clark's pointer finger taps thoughtfully on his knee as he continues to think, “All of your questions have to do with research that hasn’t been conducted on me.”
“You didn’t answer my question about the appearance of your cock, Clark.”
This time, a pretty red takes over his face. “Why are you so intrigued?”
“Just answer, or I'm gonna demand you to just show me so I can find out,” you groan.
“If I do show you, would you stop asking?”
It’s your turn to freeze in place, blinking at him. He's still the shade of a tomato, but he’s not cringing at his words. If anything, he seems determined. like this would really shut you up.
“Take your pants off then,” you dare.
Clark, ever so obedient and kind, moves. his hands reach for the button of his jeans, so certain and sure.
Suddenly, you realize how close the two of you really are.
You grew up together with neighboring farms in Smallville. The two of you used to sleep in the same bed as children when your parents dropped you off at Kent's for a sleepover.
As a child, the two of you used to change right in front of each other. Even as a budding teenager, you didn’t feel the need to hide away from him, though he was always a respectful kid and began to turn his head away on his own.
Clark went off to college first to pursue journalism. It didn't stop your contact with each other, even when he went off to Metropolis first. You simply told him you’d follow him soon. And you did.
You had your own place in the city, no longer dorming as it was your last year in university. Still, you spent more time in Clark's apartment than on your own. You had a key to his place, welcoming yourself and making yourself at home even when he was at work on the Daily Planet— especially when he was at work as superman.
You’d fussed over wounds you knew would heal at the sight of first light, and he would let you take care of him. Clark knew it calmed you down.
Clark always let you do what you wanted, and would always do as you asked.
And now, he was unzipping his pants.
“Wait,” you say quickly, as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his briefs. “Are you okay with this?”
Clark's eyebrows pull together, eyes flickering up to you. “You’re the one who asked, and now you’re the one backing out?”
“I just… I don't want to make you uncomfortable if you don’t actually wanna…” you murmur slowly.
“It’s you.” His words are said like it’s normal— like being you was a good enough reason to do anything. In this case— take his pants off. “I don't mind.”
You swallow, a weird rush of sentimental feelings going through you. Then, you nod, steeling yourself. “Show me your weird alien cock.”
“It's not weird,” he grumbles, “You’re lucky I love you.” A moment later, he’s lifting his hips off the couch slightly as he pushes both underwear and pants down his thighs.
Your jaw drops, and you suddenly can’t breathe.
The sight before you— he was right. His cock isn’t weird. If anything, it’s the prettiest dick you’d ever seen.
Maybe it was the mix of him being carefully groomed as well and the fact the man before you was already pretty everywhere else, but you don’t think you’d ever seen a dick as nice as his.
Clark's soft, but he’s still big. His skin is smooth, resting against his pelvis, dormant and asleep. You wondered if he was a grower— if he got bigger than the estimated seven inches you were staring at.
Even his balls were fucking nice to look at. The seam of it— oh my God. You were going insane.
“So?” he questions, breaking the silence and your thoughts. He sounds nervous, “What’s the verdict?”
You lick your lips, taking a deep breath. “You're actually really beautiful, Clark."
He stares at you, and you’re certain it was the last thing he expected you to say. So, you clear your throat.
“I mean,” you start, “I've seen a good amount of cock. Yours is, by far, the best.”
Clark blinks at you, still digesting your words. “… Thanks. I guess.”
“Is it as soft as it looks?” you ask, finally getting a grasp of yourself again. “It looks soft. Like— your skin.”
He pauses for a moment, looking down at himself. Then, he reaches.
You lied. You don’t have a grasp of yourself. Your sanity is gone, thrown out the window at the sight you were witnessing.
Clark, sitting there on the couch, pants pulled down, with his hand wrapped around his cock. He's still flaccid, but he’s running his hand along his dick, trying to get the best answer for your question.
“Just feels like… the rest of me,” he murmurs, frowning as he concentrates. “Nothing really different. You wanna feel?”
You’re a dead woman.
You brought up this topic. At first, it was genuine curiosity. Upon seeing his reactions, you moved onto some lighthearted teasing. It wasn’t supposed to progress to whatever was happening now. In the back of your mind, you’re wondering if he’s doing all of this now just to mess with you like you did with him.
The curious look on his face tells you he’s not even thinking about it.
You should tell him it’s a bad idea. That there’s boundaries in friendships, and even though you’re so comfortable with him, maybe there’s things you shouldn’t be doing.
But your feet are moving, and you’re standing in front of him within a few steps.
“You sure?” you ask, hoping your voice comes out steady.
Clark releases himself, then nods.
You’re leaning forward before you have the chance to allow more rational thoughts to invade your mind. It’s as if your hand wasn’t connected to the rest of your brain, moving before you could even stop yourself– and holy shit your hand is small compared to him. He's warm to the touch, skin smoother than you originally thought.
His cock jumps in your hand, and Clark flinches. The gravity of the situation just dawned upon him, and blood was rushing throughout him, coloring his cheeks and hardening his dick.
“Wait,” he whispers, breath catching in his throat. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— I'm not meaning to—“
“You really are pretty, Clark,” you cut him off, a little mesmerized.
You can feel his eyes on your face, but you’re not looking back at him. You still can’t tear your eyes off the annoyingly pretty sight of his cock. Then again, you should’ve expected it. The rest of him was just as gorgeous.
There's a vein popping on the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing against your palm. His skin is still smooth despite losing the soft feel of it. And you were shocked— he was a grower. Both length and girth filled out with the rush of blood, and your mind wandered.
His ex was fucking wrong. This man wasn’t above average. He was far from it— this was off the scale. He was Godly.
“I don’t think you’d be able to fit.”
The words slipped out of your mouth softly, mainly spoken to yourself more than him.
Clark's breath hitches. “What are you…”
“Just, theoretically, if we had sex, I don't think you’d fit in with me. You'd probably rip me apart— my hand barely can hold all of you when you’re soft, let alone hard. I don't know if it would even feel good to have you inside of me.”
“Oh my… You really can’t be saying these kinds of things while you’re still holding me,” he groans, head dropping back against the cushions as he shut his eyes.
“I’m not wrong,” you argue. “Logistically speaking, there’s no way this would feel pleasurable for me– you’d tear me in half before I even get to cum.”
He lifts his head, and you look up at him. He's still flushed, but now he looks offended. “If we had sex, I wouldn't just stick it in you. I know it’s bigger than average so I'd make sure you’re prepared first. I'd need to fit at least three fingers in you— comfortably— before either of us could imagine me inside you. Besides that, who says I wouldn’t make you cum at least twice before I even want my dick in you?”
You can’t help the warmth you feel in your nether regions— like a sudden zap that went between your legs to make you feel weak at the knees.
Clark notices. He always does.
He swallows, visibly nervous as a whisper comes from his lips. “Did I make it weird?”
You’re surprised you can even suck in a breath. You shouldn’t be able to breathe. Your autonomic nervous system should be failing, but here you are.
“Only weird if you think it’s weird, Kent,” you murmur.
“You smell different.”
Fuck him, and fuck those super senses of his. You should’ve known better— he could easily spot every single twitch in your body, the change of scent as pheromones exit your body, and the feel of the light tremble of your hand against him.
But despite all of that, a smile comes to your lips.
“Now you’re making it weird,” you tease.
A devastating grin spreads Clark Kent's face. “My apologies. Thought we passed weird when you didn’t take your hand off me,” he hums.
“You want me to?”
The smile falters, and his eyes meet yours. He's reading you. Your face. reactions. Anything he can use to figure out what’s going through your head. You're doing the exact same thing to him.
Finally, he speaks.
“No. Want you closer, actually.”
You don’t fight him when his hands reach for you, landing on your hips. You don’t fight him as he guides you towards him, your knees resting naturally on either side of his thighs.
You’ve released him now, but only in favor of your hands sliding up his chest before finding home on the broad expanse of his shoulders. He's looking up at you, blue eyes swimming with an emotion you see every day— love.
Only now you’re realizing that the simple love you!’s that you’ve been throwing at him meant something else entirely for him.
“There you are,” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing circles into your hipbones. “You only notice me when my dick is out and between us?”
“Thought you didn’t like that word,” you say, a little breathless.
Clark smiles a bit wider, eyes sparkling. “I don’t mind it every once in a while.”
A laugh falls from your lips as you stare down at him, taking in every ounce of affection he was oozing out at you. You want to say something to acknowledge his feelings, but not yet. Not when you’re currently hovering over him, his cock still out and slowly, but surely getting more firm as the seconds pass.
“You gonna show me how you’ll fit?” is what you say instead.
You’re in his bedroom within a blink of your eyes— comfortably beneath him as he hovers over you.
“Sorry. ‘m a little excited,” Clark confesses, breathless as if moving at the speed of light was difficult for him— of course not. It's you. You're the entire reason his heart rate picked up, that his hands were slowly turning clammy, and why he feels like he can’t breathe.
“I can see that. feel it, too,” you grin at him, and a groan pulls from his lips as he shuts his eyes. Still, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he presses closer, slotting himself perfectly between your legs, dick pressed right against your aching core.
“You're lucky I love you,” he sighs.
Clark descends on you, lips meeting yours in what you can only explain as home. He’s warm, always is, but never in a suffocating way. He’s like the first warmth of spring after a long winter.
“Take this off,” he murmurs against your lips, but is already moving to remove your shirt for you.
His hands slide under the fabric leaving goosebumps in his wake, and breaks the kiss for just a moment to pull it completely up and over your head. It’s discarded without another thought, tossed somewhere to the side.
He cups both breasts through your bra, lips trailing from the corner of your lips, down to your jaw, and finding their place on your neck.
“Gosh,” Clark sighs against you, peppering tickling kisses down to your collarbone, “I’ve dreamt about this moment before.”
“Do I live up to your expectations?” you ask, breathless. You arch, pushing your chest further into his palms.
He groans, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say this entire situation causes him pain. Except you do know better, and he’s in heaven.
“Better,” is all he says before his kisses move even lower.
You’re certain he used his x-ray vision to locate your nipples over the thin padding on your chest. There’s no other way, you think, that he managed to be so precise. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he’s ever used this ability to feed some of his darkest desires.
No, you decide. Your sweet, kind Clark wasn’t like that. Though you really wouldn’t have minded it.
A soft moan slips out of you, cautious and shy. His response? To smile against your chest, and reach beneath you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a single manipulation of his fingers.
“You practice that a lot in college?” you whisper as he tugs the fabric off your chest.
“Mm… Not lots of practice, but enough,” he hums, eyes taking in the sight of you. He looks in awe, unable to believe this was truly happening to him. Soft hands run down your sides, just needing to feel you. “So pretty, sweetheart.”
Your heart flutters in your chest, and you can feel your skin warming. Just one compliment, one silly little nickname, and you’re melting for him. Maybe he’s got you wrapped around his finger more than you realized it.
“Want this gone,” you tell him, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt in attempts to gain some form of control over the situation.
Clark chuckles, and gives you a small nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
He doesn’t give you any time to appreciate the beauty of him— the sculpted muscles that lay beneath the slightly baggy clothes he wears in hopes it hides his superhuman physique. Usually, he keeps his shoulders pulled in, a slight slouch to his posture, but in this moment he’d never looked larger. Confident. Yours.
Your sweatpants and panties were being removed from you, joining whatever corner your shirt was thrown into.
Without hesitation, Clark fit himself right between your legs. His hands wrapped around your knees, moving you to hook over his shoulders comfortably. Of course, not without him pressing a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh.
“You smell so good,” he whispers against your skin, lips trailing higher and higher up your leg until he was hovering right above where you needed him most. “Goodness… Already dripping for me and I haven’t even done anything.”
“You gonna hurry up and do something, Clark?” you ask, impatience pulling from you without realizing it.
“Easy there.” His eyes lock onto yours from below, a sparkle on them. “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me, baby.”
Before more whines of complaints can form in your head, his flattened tongue licks a slow strip between your folds, parting them and giving him perfect access to your aching clit.
A moan vibrates through your core, unabashed and utterly delighted.
“Tastes so good, too. Could stay here all day,” he mutters against you, breathing hot and heavy.
“Clark—“
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he huffs. “One day.”
Clark didn’t verbalize the rest of his disappointment. Honestly, with the way he thoroughly laps at your core, you might have to reconsider your decision.
It’s as if he had been dying of thirst for his entire life. He dips his tongue in and out of your core, groaning in absolute joy, before moving to suck on the sensitive little nub that’s begging for his attention. You can’t help it when your legs start trembling around his head, threatening to close and trap him there. In the back of your mind, you realized that he wouldn’t care if you did. He’s able to hold his breath for over an hour, after all.
The sensations are all too much for you to handle, sparks flying behind your eyes as Clark seems to struggle to pull himself away from you. Eventually, he gives in. Tonight mercy is granted to you as you stop tugging on his hair to begin pushing him away instead. From the way his eyes are blown out, nearly every part of his eyes covered with black instead of blue, you know that you’ll find yourself back in this position another day.
But not right now.
Right now, you need him– all of him–
“Slow down,” he mutters to you as you yank him up your body. Clark rests beside you now, free hand helping him prop his head up to give himself a good view of your entire body. “Haven’t even started to stretch you out.”
You whine, heart still pounding from being brought to heaven and pulled back down to Earth. “Clark, you need to hurry up.”
“We have all the time in the world,” he coos at you in an attempt to try and soothe you. It doesn’t work. What does work is his fingers gliding up your thighs, reaching the warmth between your legs, and pushing in.
You always knew Clark’s hands were big. It matched the rest of him– long, slender fingers that seemed like they could whole the entire world with ease. If you verbalized any of this to him, he would tell you that he was doing exactly that– holding his world safely in his hands.
The introduction of a second finger has you squirming beneath him.
“You’re so soft,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead– a stark contrast from the filthy way his fingers were spreading you open with a scissoring motion. “So wet for me, aren’t you? Gosh… Can you hear yourself?”
Of course you can. The squelching noise coming from your lower half was hard to ignore, after all.
You coated his fingers in your essence, and Clark was certain you were seeping into his skin, marking him as yours. You wouldn’t be able to smell yourself on him, but he would still be able to smell you on his skin for days to come.
His digits curled slowly within you, rubbing against that extra soft, spongy part inside of you. His eyebrows shot up in amusement as you gasped out his name, hips lifting slightly off the bed.
“Right here, honey?” The low baritone, gravely whisper of his voice in your ear sent shivers down your spine. He was invading your every being, just as you’d done to him for years on end.
The stretch of his ring finger made the air in your throat catch.
“Easy,” he orders, clicking his tongue softly in disapproval.
“It’s— fuck, that’s… A lot,” you manage to stutter out, eyes screwing shut.
“If you think this is a lot, how can you ever imagine taking me?” he asks, almost teasingly.
A shaky breath exits your lips. “You’re— you’re enjoying this.”
“And you’re not?” Clark shoots right back at you before plunging all of three digits into your fluttering hole— right down to his knuckles.
Your best friend doesn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he begins to work into you, the length of his fingers slowly massaging in and out of you. You twitch beneath him, mouth falling open in a wordless moan.
Try as he might, his actions were only making you clamp down tighter around him. You were trying to suck him in, keep him deeper within you.
With one more slight curl, you were coming undone. Your fingernails digs crescent marks into his wrist, trembling as you attempt to keep your sanity intact.
Slowly, his fingers exit you.
“Mm… I don’t think you can take me tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. You nearly missed his words, all of your body paying attention to the way his fingers moved upwards to lazily circle at your clit. He presses a kiss to your temple, “Next time, hm?”
Your heart nearly stops in your chest as you look up at him, wide eyed and pleading.
“What?” you ask, voice hoarse and dry from the moans you gave him. “Clark— No, need you—“
“I’ll just hurt you if we do it today.” He shakes his head. “Need to spend more time. One night of prep isn’t enough—“
“What if I want it to hurt?” you cut him off, head spinning. Clark looks at you, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Just need you in me— need you to stuff me full. Need it so bad, Clarkie.”
He’s not convinced yet. You know it for a fact. He’s still thinking too rationally for your liking. But he’s pulled his hand away from your legs, resting it on top of your stomach instead— if he was truly unaffected by your words, he would’ve continued his ministrations. No, he was trying to keep his control by limiting his touch.
You couldn’t have that.
Your hand finds his cock again, eyes still locked with his. His lips part to suck in a tight breath of air as you slowly palm at him. You run your hand up and down his length slowly, then reach the tip. To your delight, he’s leaking.
“Look, baby. He’s crying for me,” you whisper to him, swiping your finger across the head of his dick, picking up a bead of precum in the process.
For the first time that night, Clark’s gaze breaks away from your eyes. His eyes drop down to your lips, watching as your fingers enter your mouth to lick off his arousal. His breathing picks up, ever so slightly.
You release your fingers with a pop, then move to rest them on his lips. He opens his mouth without any instruction or order, tongue wrapping around your fingers and licking, sending a new wave of excitement crashing through your body.
“So big, so hard for me,” you sigh, almost pouting at him, “And you’re not gonna fill me up?”
Clark moans around your fingers like it pains him, like he’s trying his best to hold onto the restraint that you’re chipping away from him.
“You know I’m on birth control,” you tell him, pulling your fingers from his lips. He moves forward slightly, as if trying to chase them. Once again, his eyes meet yours. “You wanna indulge me in some more research? This one would be an experiment, really.”
He swallows. “What kind of experiment?” His voice is broken.
You smile sweetly at him, resting your hand against his chest. You can feel his heart beating rapidly under your touch. He’s waiting, on the edge of whatever sanity he has left.
Finally, you whisper, “I want to see if Kal-El’s sperm can beat the efficacy of my daily pill.”
Within a breath, Clark pulls you to the cusp of his bed. Your legs only dangle off the edge of the bed for a few seconds before he pulls you to rest them against his hips. He shadows you, cock resting on your tummy as he leans over and presses a hard kiss to your lips. His teeth catch and tug, demanding entrance that you happily give him.
His hands rest on the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him as he pulls back his hips slightly. The length of his cock drags against your skin, leaving a trail of burning desire and want. He coats himself in your slick, depositing a moan into your throat as he does.
The tip of his cock is right at your entrance, parting your puffy folds, and stops. You’re about to whine against his mouth, grab at his shoulders or wrap your legs around him, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for long.
Clark Kent is a fucking liar.
Three fingers and two orgasms was not enough to prepare you, prepare anyone, if you were being honest. Even with the fact you were quite literally dripping for him, it still wasn’t enough to ensure a smooth entry. Then again, he did warn you. This was partly your fault for egging him on until he couldn’t stop himself anymore.
Your lips still against his, eyebrows stitched together as you try to adjust to the foreign body entering you. Clark notices– of course he does– the way your muscles lock beneath him. Your lungs stop pulling in air, and you’re gripping his forearms so hard he actually registers a small nip of pain.
His voice cuts through the cloud in your mind. “Breathe, honey.” Clark showers you with kisses– your nose, cheeks, eyes, neck– anywhere he could reach. “I know it’s big, baby, I’m so sorry.”
With his words snapping you out of it, you suck in a greedy gulp of air as you open your eyes to look at him. “F… Fuck, Clark,” you gasp out.
“I know, I know,” he reiterates to you, patient and so understanding despite the fact you were the one that begged him for this. “Try to relax for me, okay?” Another kiss gets pressed to your eyes, his lips catching a stray, salty tear that slipped out. Your heart skips as you watch him swipe his tongue across his bottom lip, tasting your tears.
“You’re so big– God,” you say, voice cracking.
“Not God,” he corrects with a chuckle, “But yes.”
“Fuck you,” you whine, unsure how he can find this situation funny. Still, the way he lets out another small laugh above you does ease your body just a little bit– probably from the familiarity.
You focus on Clark, deciding that he will be the best way to distract yourself from his cock, as ironic as it may sound.
The way there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes as he smiles at you. If you focus, you can see yourself in the reflection of his eyes. There you lay beneath him, skin flushed with a light layer of sweat all over you, hair touselled and mussed up, yet he still holds a love for you that you don’t think you’re worthy of carrying.
His skin is warm under your touch, always is, but goosebumps are left behind wherever you touch. His body is reacting to you, showing you that the littlest things you do leaves a mark on him both physically, emotionally, and mentally.
How he touches you with extreme care, though you know it’s easy for him to break even the toughest of metals in his hand without even breaking a sweat. He’s always treated you delicately. Always a gentleman, opening every single door without complaint or annoyance, pulling out your chair whenever you have a meal together, and holding your hair back whenever you end up drinking a little too much. So kind, thoughtful, and nice. You wonder how much you’d have to push him to fully break you.
It’s only when your mind trails back into its sinful desires do you register his hips fully flushed against yours, his length sheathed within you.
Clark’s pulling in shaky breaths, hands resting on your hips with his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. His forehead rests against yours as he closes his eyes, trying to get a grasp on his bearings once more.
“I… Sweetheart,” he grunts. “You’re still so tight around me.”
As if his words were to be a reminder of your situation, your walls flutter around him, sending pleasure through both of your bodies.
“Move,” you tell him, breathy. “Please–”
“Hang on,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “I’m not paused right now for you. I might–” Clark cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. For a moment, you thought he might curse aloud for the first time in years. Instead, he swallows thickly. “I might lose it right away if I don’t give myself a break right now.”
Pride swells in your chest. “Superman is a minuteman?” you tease softly.
“Hey–”
A shared moan stops whatever rant he was about to go on, thanks to your hips rolling against his. And you can feel it, how his dick twitches deep inside of you, already so close to the edge even though he just got there. You can also feel him pressing up right against your cervix.
His fingers dig into your hipbone– not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to warn. Clark pulls back, looming over you as he takes in a deep breath.
“You’re playing dirty,” he accuses, voice as tight as how he holds his jaw.
“So what if you cum fast?” you grin at him, hands moving to rest on his abdomen. “Don’t tell me Superman can’t go a couple rounds.”
His eye twitches, and you know you’ve hit him somewhere personal. Then again, baiting Clark Kent was always your favorite pastime.
“Of course I can,” Clark says with a tone you know all too well– one that lets you know he’s about to prove you wrong.
His hips pull back, cock dragging out of you so painfully slow until just the tip of him is left within you. You mistakenly believe that he’s going to slam back into you without any warning. He doesn’t.
Clark pushes back inside of you slowly, giving you the chance to properly feel the ridge of his tip as it meets the shaft of his dick. You can feel a pulsing vein on the underside, matching the rapid beat of his heart. You can feel him separating your gummy walls with each new inch of him, forcing you to accommodate his size. And you can feel the bulge in your lower abdomen– him– deep inside of you.
“Shit,” you gasp out, but you don’t have time for anymore words. He’s pulling out once again before thrusting back into you, setting an easy, comfortable pace. Despite it, you can’t even begin to form any thoughts. He’s splitting you apart, filling you in ways that you’ve never felt before.
“That’s it,” Clark chuckles from above you. You catch a lazy, nearly fucked out smile paint his face as he watches you. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”
You whimper in response, unable to properly respond to him.
He hums, leaning back down to kiss you, his movements never stopping. “I got you, baby. Don’t worry– You’re so pretty like this.”
Clark swallows all your moans and whines like he’s desperate to have them. All you can feel is him– his hands running up and down your body to map you, the feel of his cock piercing in and out of you, his tongue brushing against yours, his muscles rippling and flexing whenever your hands find somewhere new to hold onto.
“You look so good like this. So perfect, so beautiful— gosh, you look so pretty with me inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, voice strained ever so slightly. He moans out your name when your walls flutter around him again, giving him one brief warning. His hips snap harder into yours, efforts renewed as he urges you to your doom. “C’mon, baby. Give it to me– need you to make a mess all over me.”
As one final push, Clark presses a hand onto your stomach, snapping the last bit of pressure within you. “God– Clark!” you cry out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you begin to tremble beneath him.
All the while, he never lets up. If anything, the pace is faster, chasing your high with everything he has– prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible.
One more time, your name falls from his lips, this time strangled and needy before you feel a warmth deep inside of you. He’s coated you from the inside, both of your sticky juices mixing together into one substance as he lodges his cock deep inside of you, poking at your cervix.
Clark collapses over you, careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms. Still, his chest is pressed against yours, allowing you to feel the thumping beneath his skin.
He collects himself faster than you, lips trailing all over your neck and collarbones as his cock jumps within you, hard once more. When you look at him with disbelief, he gives you a stupid grin that you nearly melt for.
“What’s with that look?” he asks, nipping at your lips. “You only have yourself to blame for this.”
“I didn’t do anything just now.” You frown at him, though not entirely upset.
“No,” he agreed, “But you did challenge me to put a baby in you. I’m feeling competitive tonight.”
You almost wish you never said those words out loud, never teased or poked him until he broke. Almost.
Warm water sloshes around you as Clark lowers himself into the bath behind you. He instantly engulfs you with his size, his body granting you more heat than the tub you both sit in together. You lean back against his chest, closing your eyes.
Exhaustion ran deep in your bones. You don’t fight against Clark as he begins to scrub your skin with soap, cleaning off the sweat and stickiness that accumulated during your time together. Still, you know he can’t get rid of the markings he left behind.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror when Clark carried you into his bathroom earlier. Purple, manmade flowers had grown across your skin, effectively ensuring you’d be wearing high neck clothing on days you didn’t feel like doing your makeup.
You should be mad. You should scold him for losing control, but frankly… you don’t really care, especially not when he lowers his head slightly to press a delicate kiss to your shoulder.
“How do you feel?” he murmurs against your skin.
“Good,” you sigh, content. “Might be sore tomorrow, thanks to someone.”
“You asked for it,” he reminds you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Yeah, yeah,” you dismiss, but you’re smiling too.
Tomorrow, you both will have a discussion. A long talk on where you both stand in each other's lives, and how to ensure your relationship with each other won’t end up in flames. But all of that is for your future self to deal with.
Right now, you’ll revel in his touch, allow him to wrap his arms around you, and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.
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