pinksplace

[pinksplace]

yeah okay I can fw this

You had me at the mask

: ̗̀➛ Doomsday's luckiest

     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ zombie apocalypse simon 'ghost' riley x reader

03 : tonight you belong to me

cw : smut, slight dubcon undressing, panic attack, dead bodies, undead creatures, chubby reader. words : 7.7k

     ㅤ  collection - prev ⋆ next

Manchester was long gone.

It had been nearly a week since you arrived in Doncaster. The journey had taken you nine hours—seven more than it should have. The roads were a disaster. Simon had done everything he could to avoid Sheffield, afraid it would turn into another Manchester.

He’d grown wary of people. He didn’t trust anyone anymore.

For hours, you had passed desperate figures on the roadside, screaming for you to stop, shouting that you were killing them as Simon pressed harder on the gas. You had begged him to slow down, to at least hear them out. But he always said the same thing.

“No.”

It had been a really hard journey for the both of you. Simon was on the edge, always looking for danger, always ready to move to action.

You had asked him if you could stop by your own apartment, it wasn’t far from Manchester at all, but again, he had refused. He said it was too close to the city, that those monsters would be drawn to the explosions from kilometres away.

It was for your own sake, he’d told you.

Now you sat on the counter of a pharmacy, waiting for Simon to finish his sweep. He was making sure you had everything you might need for whatever journey he was taking you on : various pills, bandages, antiseptics, plasters, anything useful he would take. He’d found an empty backpack and was packing it to the brim.

You weren’t sure how he planned to carry it when the car inevitably broke down, but you didn’t doubt his strength. If he said he could manage, you weren’t going to question it.

He had sat you up on the counter once he had secured the place, locked the door and told you to sit pretty while he went on his little tour. You were still unsure about his behaviour toward others, but you couldn't do much about it. He was the only reason you were still alive, if he gave up on you, you were dead in no time.

It didn’t help that, when night fell, the former military man treated you like you were the last fragile thing left in the world. He made sure you ate, wrapped you in warm clothes, and let you rest with your head in his lap while he stayed alert in the dark. His hand would sometimes rest on your shoulder, heavy, possessive, just enough to remind you he was there.

You’d offered to keep watch so he could sleep, but he always refused. Said you needed the rest more. Said he’d learned a long time ago how to get by on almost no sleep. You weren’t sure if that was something to be proud of or something that had broken him.

Not that he could really switch off, even if he tried. Whatever was out there had dragged his mind back into soldier mode. He was all edges now : listening for footsteps that weren’t there, scanning shadows for movement, every muscle coiled tight. Even when his eyes closed for a second, he’d wake at the faintest shift of your weight, like the world outside was waiting for him to relax just once so it could take everything.

It was hard to understand the depth of Simon’s concern for you. You’d barely known each other, yet his attention was constant, unyielding.

He put your needs before his own, though you suspected he didn’t had any. The military had taught him to strip them away, replacing softness with discipline, emotion with control. The man you’d met in that bar was still there—confident, blunt, even capable of a certain rough gentleness—but something had shifted.

Something had darkened.

It was in the way his eyes tracked every shadow. In the way he always stood between you and the open space. His care felt less like kindness and more like possession, as if he were guarding something that belonged to him. Almost like a predator watching over its prey, not out of compassion. More because it wanted to make sure nothing else touched it before the moment it chose to kill.

Kicking your feet idly, you let your gaze wander around the place, lost in thought. The dynamic between you felt strange, but the idea of leaving him never truly crossed your mind. Something about him made it impossible to walk away, even in the case where you wouldn't doubt your ability to survive on your own.

Even if the world hadn’t ended that night, you knew you would have been obsessed with him all the same. He would have lodged himself under your skin, impossible to shake loose. The only difference now was that you weren’t just drawn to him, you relied on him. And in this new world, dependence felt a lot like surrender.

A sharp whistle pulled you out of your thoughts, followed by his deep voice. “Come here,” he said, tilting his head toward you.

You hopped down from the counter and approached, ready to leave, but he had other plans. Without a word, he turned back into the pharmacy, moving down the aisles with the quiet confidence of someone who always knew where he was going. You frowned and fell into step behind him.

“Take what you need,” he said, stopping and leaning casually against a shelf.

You glanced at the items in front of you : pads, tampons, menstrual cups, menstrual underwear. Oh. It clicked now, why he’d called you over to this particular section.

When you looked back at him, you found his eyes on you, hard, but not unkind. Gentle, in their way, though unflinchingly intense. They didn’t waver, not once. It was the same look he’d given you that night at the bar, like he was trying to read every layer of you at once.

“Come on,” he cooed, “don’t have all day.”

That got you moving. You reached for the pads first, then hesitated, wondering what would be the most practical in the end of the world. In the end, you took a little of everything, packs of pads and tampons, a menstrual cup you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to try, and about ten pairs of menstrual underwear.

Simon didn’t comment on the amount. He didn’t complain. He simply let you take whatever you wanted, carefully arranging each item in the backpack until everything fit in perfect order.

“Need anything else, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Hum…” You hesitated, unsure if you should say it. But one raised eyebrow from him was all it took. “Condoms?”

He let out a low, mocking laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, before zipping the bag closed. “Already took care of that, love.”

You nodded at his words and fell in step behind him when he started moving again. When he passed you, his hand came down on your hip, soft at first, patting, then lingered, gripping it with a brief, possessive squeeze before letting go and heading for the door.

It wasn’t like you had had sex again since that night. Even back at the military base, Simon was always gone or too exhausted for anything beyond the barest affection. You’d lived like a couple in fragments, cuddling into sleep, stolen kisses here and there, but nothing more.

And now, on the road, there was neither time nor want for intimacy. Yet in that small, deliberate grip, something unspoken lingered, something raw, tangled between need and restraint.

After loading the bag into the trunk and double-checking the doors were locked, Simon started driving back toward the main road. He didn’t want to linger in cities longer than necessary—only when absolutely required.

“Where are you from again? Whaley Bridge, right?” he asked, easing the car out of Doncaster.

“Yeah, why?” you glanced at him from the side.

He sighed, clearly reluctant. “We need to stay low for a while. Price mentioned a huge thunderstorm heading north fast this morning.” He always checked in with his team when you slept, staying updated on the situation down south. “You said it’s a quiet town, small population?”

“Yeah…” you replied. “But it’s close to Manchester. I thought you didn’t want to go back there?” You frowned.

“I don’t,” Simon said flatly. “But you need some clothes that fit you, and the comfort of your own home might do you good.”

After a few minutes of silence, you glanced back at him.

“How long?” you broke the silence.

“Hmm?”

“How long do you want to stay there?” you asked.

“A couple of days, until the rain stops. Then we head back to Birmingham. Hopefully before winter,” he said, though he knew the chances were slim.

“And if we don’t make it before winter?” you asked back quickly.

“I’ll figure it out then,” he replied dryly, not wanting to burden you with the worst-case scenarios. “Don’t worry about this, kitten.” He shot you a quick smile before taking the Manchester exit.

You didn’t know how long the drive from Doncaster to your house would take, but you hoped it would be quick. Heavy, dark clouds stretched across the sky, casting long shadows that only made your anxiety climb higher.

You’d never liked thunderstorms, and after everything in Manchester, you weren’t sure how well you’d handle the roar of thunder now. One thing was certain, you didn’t want to be stranded on the side of the road if the storm hit while you were out there.

Almost as if he’d studied the route, Simon drove toward your home like he already knew the way. You’d grown used to catching him poring over maps lately, but you hadn’t thought it was to find his way back to your place. The way his mind worked should have scared you.

He did it all in silence, leaving you out of the decisions, keeping his thoughts to himself. Always remembering. Always watching. He’d told you, that first night at the Manchester base, how he’d been programmed this way : trained to notice details, to memorize maps and roads so he would never be lost. And that was exactly how he was now.

Terrifying, and yet… fascinating.

After a few minutes of silence, you felt the urge to speak, if only to cut through the heavy, unbroken quiet he never seemed to mind.

“Isn’t this… I mean…” You hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “Doesn’t this set us back on the way to Birmingham?”

“No,” he said simply, without even glancing at you. No explanation. No room for follow-up.

You looked at him, waiting. The seconds stretched. Nothing. Just his profile lit in the dim, shifting light, jaw set, eyes locked on the road like they could cut through the storm clouds ahead.

That was how he was, answers stripped down to the bone, leaving you to fill in the rest. Sometimes you wondered if it was a habit from the military, or if he just didn’t trust you with the whole truth. Either way, the silence pressed heavier now, his presence filling the small space more than any conversation could.

You were about to answer back, but instead you sighed, surrendering to the silence of the car.

Outside, the sky was darkening fast, clouds swollen with rain, thunder rolling in sooner than expected. You fixed your eyes on the passing road signs, trying to figure out how close you were to Whaley Bridge.

As you neared Manchester, the devastation became impossible to ignore. The lane leading out of the city was a graveyard, cars crushed into each other, windshields caved in, shards of glass scattered across the road like cruel confetti. And bodies.

So many bodies.

Your brow furrowed as you tried to make sense of it : men, women, children, burned and broken, their limbs twisted in unnatural angles. A few meters ahead, even army tanks lay abandoned, their crews sprawled lifeless beside them, uniforms torn.

Then, at the sound of the car, some of those soldiers opened their eyes.

It wasn’t a slow, natural flutter, it was sharp, wrong, like a switch being flipped. Their gaze snapped to you, glassy yet aware, the dull grey of death staring straight into you. You could see the neat, blackened hole in the side of each skull, ringed with dried blood, the unmistakable mark of a bullet. Yet they moved.

Your stomach turned cold.

“Simon…” you whispered, the fear in your voice unmistakable.

The former lieutenant flicked his gaze toward you, then back to the road, then to the soldiers who were now standing. You could see it in his eyes, the silent maths he was doing. Calculating their speed. Yours. The stretch of open road ahead. Every possible outcome measured in seconds.

One of the bodies twitched unnaturally, head lolling before it snapped upright, eyes fixed on the car. Another took a step forward, slow at first, then faster, the jerky movements making your chest tighten.

Simon’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Hold on.”

The engine roared as he pressed harder on the accelerator, the car jolting forward. In the rearview mirror, you caught a glimpse of them breaking into a run, bullet wounds and broken bones be damned. The sound of their feet hitting the pavement carried faintly through the closed windows, swallowed almost instantly by the rising growl of the approaching storm.

“Don’t look,” he ordered, his voice low but firm, catching your jaw in one hand and guiding your face toward the road ahead. The pressure was gentle, but there was no mistaking the authority behind it.

A few cars were abandoned on your side of the road, crumpled and empty, but Simon steered around them without hesitation. Every movement was precise, deliberate, almost too smooth, as if he’d driven through scenes like this before.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror now and then, sharp and calculating, but never for long. No panic. No wasted motion. Just quiet, controlled efficiency. It was reassuring… and yet, in a way, unnerving.

He handled the chaos outside like it was nothing new. Like it was muscle memory.

Breathing heavily, you kept your eyes on the side of his face. He was the same as he’d been since the day you met him : cold, closed off, focused. Somehow, that steadiness eased your heartbeat, even when your gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and caught sight of them, far, but closing fast.

“What did I say?” he snapped, his hand finding your jaw again, turning your head firmly back toward the road ahead.

Not daring to look back, your eyes settled on the road ahead, straight into the heart of the thunderstorm the “Price” man had warned about. The faster Simon drove, the darker the sky grew, and the heavier the air felt around you.

It was almost as if God was mocking you.

A heavy thud echoed through the building as Simon kicked your front door open.

You were both soaked to the bone, rain hammering against the side of the building while the roar of thunder crept closer and closer. It made your skin prickle, but the familiarity of your home settled your nerves, if only a little.

Driving through town had brought tears to your eyes. You’d recognized some of the bodies by the roadside, people who’d been a part of your life. The old florist who always slipped you an extra flower. The sweet old man who’d ask you to walk his dog when he felt too tired. People you had liked.

You’d barely had time to process the sight before Simon had moved. His hand gripping a knife, the blade flashing once before sinking deep into their skulls. The sound, wet and final, made you flinch and let out a strangled scream. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t explain, just pulled the blade free and moved on, leaving their bodies still at last.

It was only afterwards that he spoke, voice flat and certain: it was the only way to kill them for good. The first death didn’t matter, they always came back. You only wished he had told you before so you could have shield yourself from the sight. It almost was as if he had wanted you to see him.

Wanted you to see how far he could go.

What unsettled you most wasn’t the explanation, but how easily he did it. Each motion had been precise, practised, as if this was second nature. In that moment, you saw the man he’d described in the bar, someone far darker than the one you thought you’d met. It was terrifying… and, in a way you couldn’t quite understand, comforting. He was doing it for you. To protect you.

You felt his hand on the small of your back, guiding, pushing, you into the flat. The flat made you a little uneasy.

The air inside was stale, musty, like it hadn’t been aired out in months, which, of course, it hadn’t. Still, the sight of everything exactly where you’d left it eased something in you. The town had been small enough that no one had bothered breaking in to take what they could.

It was strange, but comforting, to know that all your belongings were still here, untouched, waiting for you, as if the world outside hadn’t fallen apart.

As you wandered further inside, a heavy scraping sound made you jump.

You turned to see Simon shoving the tall cabinet from your entry hall across the floor, wedging it firmly against the door. Kicking it open earlier had already broken the locks and bolts, not that they would have been much use anyway.

With the cabinet in place, and the storm closing in outside, Simon was clearly hoping he could relax enough tonight to finally get a full night’s sleep.

He let all the bags drop by the front door and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of one of them. Even without him saying a word, you could see the exhaustion settling into his frame, shoulders low, steps slower. Maybe that was why he’d wanted to come here, to somewhere he was almost certain was safe.

And he’d been right. Your place was exactly the way you’d left it that night.

Making your way to the kitchen, you gagged the moment the smell hit you, thick, sour, rotting. You turned on your heel, ready to shut the door, but Simon’s hand caught it before you could.

“Gotta get rid of anything expired…” he muttered, voice low. Tired, yes, but still moving with that deliberate, unshakable purpose you’d come to expect from him.

The stench rolled over you again, and you gagged harder. You’d always been particular about things like that, mold on fruit, spoiled food, anything that smelled wrong. It made your skin crawl.

“Go sit down. Do something else,” he said, a hint of command in his sigh. “I’ll handle this.”

It wasn’t just an offer, it was a quiet dismissal, the same way he handled anything he didn’t trust you to deal with. In his world, he was the one who decided what you faced, and what you didn’t.

He gave you a gentle push before closing the door. You knew you had some food that was still good, some canned things but all your fruits, vegetables and everything in your fridge was gone.

Not forcing him to let you help, you turned toward your bedroom—opening all the windows as you passed—pulling out another bag and filling it with clothes and a few personal items. Simon had said you’d be here for a couple of days, but you knew better than to trust plans in this world. Better to pack now, just in case.

About ten minutes later, a loud splash echoed from outside. You froze. Heart kicking up, you rushed to the window, scanning the street for movement. Were there still people alive in town? Or worse… had the undead monsters found you?

Your gaze locked on a large trash bag, burst open and sprawled beneath your kitchen window.

Leaning out the open frame, you spotted Simon looking out the kitchen window, eyes sharp, gun in hand. He was still as a stone, watching, waiting for anything drawn to the noise.

Nothing came. And so his body disappeared back inside, letting the window open.

You thought you’d hear the kitchen door open as he came in to settle for the night, but no. The only thing that followed was silence. Then, a softer sound, and a deep exhale, curling low like the growl of distant thunder.

He was back at the window.

From where you stood, you could see him outlined against the storm, broad shoulders hunched slightly, the faint glow of his cigarette burning in the dark. Lightning flashed, etching every freckle and scar on his face in stark white for the briefest second. He looked almost unreal like that, danger wrapped in flesh.

The way he drew on the cigarette was deliberate, unhurried. Smoke drifted from his nose in slow streams, mingling with the rain-slick air, while the cigarette bobbed faintly between his lips. You couldn’t look away.

“Like the view, kitten?” he called, voice low but cutting clean through the storm. The smirk that followed was small, dangerous, and just for you, the cigarette hanging at a reckless angle as if it might tumble at any second.

Somehow, that simple sentence, mixed with the sight of him framed in the storm’s glow and the depth of his voice, sent a sharp, electric chill straight between your legs. This was the man you had met that dreadful night. The cocky, dominant man who had rocked your world without mercy.

You shook your head quickly. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not with the thunder creeping closer, each roll louder than the last. It was going to be a long night.

Turning back to your half-packed bag, your gaze drifted toward the bathroom door.

“Simon?” you called, raising your voice slightly. The apartment wasn’t big, but with the kitchen door closed, you weren’t sure he’d hear you.

Seconds later, the door swung open, and you almost laughed at yourself. Of course he’d hear you, he was trained for it. He didn’t speak, just tipped his chin toward you, eyes locking on yours.

“Do you think…” You glanced at the bathroom, then back at him. “The water’s still running?”

“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Just gonna be cold as fuck, is all.”

On one hand, you were soaked and freezing from the relentless rain outside, and on the other, it had been days since you’d last had a proper shower. Clutching some clothes in your hand, you gathered your courage and moved toward the bathroom.

Pausing just before the door, you glanced back at Simon. He looked so out of place in your pastel coloured bedroom, surrounded by soft posters. He, by contrast, was all black—military gear, combat boots, and that hardened mercenary build. In his hands, the big emergency light you had stored in the kitchen supplies closet.

“Want to go first?” you asked softly, feeling like he deserved the chance to relax before you.

“Yeah.” He answered simply. He slipped off his boots, then brushed past you, his hand settling quickly on your hip with a familiar, almost casual pat.

It had become a habit of his.

You quickly handed him a towel before he shut the bathroom door, leaving you alone.

Just as you were about to resume packing, you noticed the rain had picked up, wind driving droplets inside and wetting the floor. Rushing from room to room to close the windows, you ended in the kitchen last. The air still carried a faint sourness, but the counters were now neatly lined with what was salvageable, some fruits, canned goods, even a few packets of dried meat, all grouped and organized by type.

Almost as if Simon had a streak of OCD. Not that you’d put it past him.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, Simon was emerging from the bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips. His shower had been quick, military habit, you guessed.

“You can go,” he said simply, disappearing into the main room.

Grabbing an oversized t-shirt from your closet along with underwear and a pair of fluffy pants, you made your way into the bathroom. It wouldn’t be a pleasant experience, cold water and all, but you longed for the feel of clean skin and fresh clothes.

Shedding your soaked layers, you left them in the sink next to Simon’s. As you twisted the faucet, you heard your closet doors creak open in the bedroom. You frowned, guessing Simon was hunting for something to wear. You’d always kept a few men’s pieces in there, your own comfort clothes.

Large men’s clothes were the comfiest.

Thinking nothing of it, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the shock of the cold water. You made it quick, washing your entire body, running shampoo through your hair, and rinsing fast.

Just as you were about to step out, your gaze fell on your razor. It was silly, you knew, there were far more important things to worry about than body hair, but the intrusive thought stuck. Out of habit more than anything, you gave in. You shaved your legs, your armpits, and tidied the overgrown hair between your legs, working quickly before the cold could seep too deep into your bones.

Once out, you wrapped a towel around your hair, drying your skin in fast, brisk motions before pulling on the clothes you’d brought. The oversized shirt and fluffy pants were warm enough, but your bare arms still prickled in the chill, a sweater would help.

You lingered in the bathroom a little longer, towel still twisted around your head. One by one, you uncapped your skincare bottles, sniffing each to see if they’d gone bad. Some were brand new, untouched. The motions felt almost normal, almost like you were back in a world where this was just another night in.

Once your skin felt hydrated and your hair was more or less dry, you switched off the emergency light and stepped out of the bathroom.

You hadn’t expected the sight that greeted you.

Simon had changed your sheets, fresh ones pulled tight over the mattress. The clean scent of linen hung in the air, sharp, crisp, strangely comforting. He was sprawled across the bed, under the covers, the occasional flash of lightning casting sharp lines across his bare chest and freckled face. A notebook lay open in front of him, one hand holding a pen while the other kept a map steady. He looked good, almost too good, and you wondered how he wasn’t freezing without a shirt.

"Thought new sheets would do you—" he began, eyes still on his work. The moment he looked up, he stopped mid-sentence. His gaze dragged over you once, slow and deliberate.

"Take your clothes off," he said bluntly, eyes already dropping back to the map. His pen kept moving, like the request was nothing unusual.

"What? Why?" you asked, caught between confusion and disbelief.

"Because it’ll be warmer that way," he explained in that same calm, matter-of-fact tone. "Clothes just trick you into thinking you’re warm. Body heat works faster."

Your eyes went wide, taking in the way his pale skin stood out under the brief flashes of lightning. "Are you naked?" you asked, bewildered.

"Yes," he replied simply, still not looking up. "Nothing I haven’t seen before, kitten." He shot you a quick side glance at your hesitation, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When you didn’t move, he added a curt, "Chop, chop," before turning back to his notebook, jotting down a few more notes.

After a few seconds and with deliberate slowness, he closed the notebook, setting it and the map on your bedside table. Both yours attention shifted to the window just as a loud crack of thunder split the air, making you jump. The wind howled, rattling the walls, each violent gust making the building groan in protest. Leaves, dust, and debris smacked against the glass, the storm’s fury unrelenting.

It was like no storm you’d ever witnessed, wild, alive, and unnerving. In that moment, you were glad you wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight.

Another short whistle pulled your gaze from the window back to him. His eyes were locked on you, intense, unblinking, with just a hint of patronising amusement. "I’d like to have an early night, kitten, if you don’t mind."

You nodded softly and began stripping off only your pants, figuring your t-shirt and panties would be enough for the so-called “body heat” plan. Surely warmth would pass through them.

But that wouldn’t do for Simon.

The moment you slid under the covers beside him, he manhandled you into position, your back pressed firmly against his chest. Without a word, he pushed your shirt up, his hands brushing your breasts lightly before tugging the fabric over your head. Knowing you had plenty more tucked away in a drawer, he didn’t hesitate to tear your panties from your hips, pulling you flush against the heat of his semi-hard cock.

In an instant, his warmth enveloped you. You’d always known he ran hot, from that night in his bed, and all the others at the army base, but this felt different.

Better.

Maybe because you’d been freezing for hours, maybe because the heat rolling off him was such a welcome contrast to the storm raging outside. His slow breath fanned against your neck, the steady thump of his heart against your back lulling you toward sleep.

Just like that night at his flat, his bicep became your pillow, its solid weight grounding you. His other hand rested lightly on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh there for a brief moment before settling.

You could feel how relaxed his body was now, no trace of the tense soldier who kept watch while you slept, nor the stressed lieutenant from Manchester. This was the same man you’d ended up in bed with almost two months ago, on a reckless night out.

He had to be exhausted. Even a man used to short nights couldn’t outrun fatigue forever. The soft sound of his snoring told you everything you needed to know, and you finally let your own eyes drift shut.

A sharp clap of thunder tore you from sleep.

Your body tensed, confused by the surroundings, so familiar, yet distant enough to unsettle you. You were lying on your stomach, an unyielding weight pressed against your back. One large hand gripped your hip, the span of it reaching the curve of your arse, while messy hair tickled the back of your neck. The presence eased your panic, if only slightly.

Then another violent crack of lightning split the night, and your breathing quickened. The comfort of that weight was no match for the way your body was sinking back into panic.

Simon’s body, once comforting, now felt suffocating. His heat wrapped around you until you were overheating, trapped beneath both him and the sheets. Claustrophobia crept in, quick and merciless, feeding off the lingering fog of sleep.

Your mind flickered with unwanted images, civilians scattering under military fire, smoke thick in your throat, bodies pressed too close in the chaos. Each flashback made it harder to breathe. Another crack of thunder, louder than the last, rattled the walls and tightened the knot in your chest.

Wriggling beneath Simon’s weight was like trying to move under stone. He was heavy, heavier than you remembered, and for a surreal moment, you couldn’t believe this was the same man who used to wake at your smallest shift. His hand clamped harder on your hip, as if anchoring you in place. The arm beneath your head flexed, adjusting with your movements, his body moulding even closer to yours.

The storm roared outside, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, and the quickening pace of your breath.

“Stop,” he mumbled into your back, his voice thick with sleep, words muffled against your skin.

You could hear the fatigue in him, bone-deep, unshakable, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was escaping the heat, the weight, the noise that seemed to press in from all sides.

You wriggled forward, almost free, when his arm shot out and dragged you back. In one motion, he rolled you onto your back, looming over you. His face was a mask of irritation, jaw tight, eyes hard, until he actually saw you.

The anger dissolved instantly.

Your chest was heaving, each breath catching on a sob you couldn’t swallow. Tears streamed down your cheeks in hot, unsteady lines, your hiccuping breaths sounding too loud in the small space between you. The panic had you in its grip, and you couldn’t even speak.

“Fucking hell,” Simon sighed.

He knew this. The rapid breaths, the glassy eyes, the way the body tried to bolt without thought, it was a panic attack. He’d seen them before. Lived them before. Grew up with them. They were an old, unwelcome companion, one he’d fought in himself and seen in others more times than he could count.

You could see the confusion in his eyes, as he turned around swapping the room for any threats. A small whine left your lips at another clap of thunder, forcing his eyes back on you. His brown eyes calmed even more at the realisation of what you were afraid of.

Gently brushing the damp hair from your sweaty forehead, his hands anchored firmly on your cheeks, holding your gaze. “Breathe with me,” he murmured, guiding one of your hands to rest on his belly.

Your breath came uneven, every inhale snagging in your chest as you tracked the rise and fall of his stomach, the slow, deliberate pull of air into his lungs and the quiet release that followed.

Your other hand gripped his bicep beside your head, the same arm holding his weight suspended above you. Heat radiated from his skin into your palm, the muscle taut beneath your fingertips. He didn’t flinch at the sting of your nails, if anything, his gaze only deepened, locked on yours as though nothing else existed.

The space between you seemed to close in, the air thick and hard to pull into your lungs. Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, too fast and too loud, until it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that frantic rhythm.

The rise and fall of his chest no longer steadied you, it only reminded you how shallow your own breaths had become.

Your grip on his bicep tightened without meaning to, fingers trembling. A prickling heat spread across your skin, followed by a cold wave that made your stomach lurch. Your vision blurred at the edges, his face still in front of you but swimming in and out of focus.

“Shh,” he cooed, voice soft but urgent now, eyes searching yours. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. It's just noises.”

But the words seemed far away, muffled beneath the heavy thumps in your ears. Your body refused to listen to reason, lungs fluttering, chest locked tight, every breath an effort you couldn’t quite win.

“It’s just noises, baby,” Simon murmured, trying to reason with you. His fingers brushed over the apple of your cheek in a tender, grounding gesture.

He guided your hand more firmly against the steady rise of his stomach, cooing soft words into your ear. You could see how much he wanted to help, the effort in his eyes, but nothing was cutting through the storm inside you.

Then, without warning, his full weight eased down onto you, pressing you gently into the mattress. Heat radiated from him, his body moulding to yours in a slow, deliberate embrace.

By all logic, it should have been too much, too close, too consuming, but it wasn’t. Strangely, it worked. The weight anchored you, pulling you out of the spiral. The edges of the room began to sharpen again, your senses slowly returning. You could feel the mattress beneath you, the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth seeping through your skin. His deep voice in your ears.

Once your breathing steadied, your eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, which lit up with each flash of thunder. The noises no longer startled you, and the heavy rain against the windows had become almost soothing.

As if sensing the slight ease in your body, Simon pushed himself back up onto his hands, hovering gently over you. He looked fully awake now, the haze of whatever sleep-induced irritation he’d carried moments before gone.

“Sorry…” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “Didn’t mean to wake you… just wanted to get out…” Your breath still caught unevenly at the edges.

“All good, love,” he said softly, tilting his head in an attempt to catch your gaze.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows, and you flinched despite yourself. Simon eased down beside you again, but before he could say anything, you were already getting up. You quickly put the shirt he’d tossed aside hours ago on, clutching your pillow to your chest as you made your way toward the door.

“What are you doing?” he asked bluntly, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in his voice.

You hesitated, throat tight. When you finally spoke, your words were quiet, frayed around the edges. “I don’t think I’ll sleep much. Don’t want to keep you up.”

“Come back here.” His tone wasn’t a request, it was an order. The hardness in his voice was unfamiliar, sharp and commanding. It was the same voice he carried at the base. His lieutenant’s voice.

“Simon—” you began, trying to reason with him.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” he said flatly, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering.

The firmness in his tone left no room for argument, the weight of command settling heavy in the space between you. For a heartbeat, you froze, pillow clutched tight against your chest, the storm outside still rumbling low through the walls.

With a resigned sigh, you made your way back to the bed. Before you could even kneel onto the mattress, you felt his hard gaze on you again. Following it downward, you realized what he was staring at. Without a word, you tossed the shirt back onto the floor and slipped under the blanket.

In an instant, Simon pulled you against him, exhaling softly as though the simple act of having you close brought him peace. He used to do this whenever he returned late to your room, it was familiar, almost comforting, but tonight, you couldn’t shake the wish that he’d simply let you go.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, sensing how awake you still were.

Thunder rolled outside, low and mocking. His arms around you left no space to flinch, but your body went rigid for a moment all the same.

“I told you,” you whispered, your voice rough with exhaustion. “I’m not going to get much sleep.”

Groaning in your ear, he pulled you even closer. “I can get your mind to settle.”

You snorted humorlessly, rolling your eyes into the dark. “What, you gonna sing me a lullaby?”

“Nah,” he grunted behind you.

Before you could press him for details, his hand slid from your stomach and down between your thighs, cupping your cunt. One of his legs nudged between yours, parting them just enough to give him room to move.

“Simon…” you sighed, his warm hand enveloping you. “You don’t have to…”

“You want me to stop?” he asked, his hand pausing.

You should say yes. Not because you truly wanted him to, but because he needed the sleep. He’d been awake far too long for any human being, and ever since this whole mess began, he’d always put you first.

Still, you could feel the weight of your own exhaustion, and maybe, just maybe, a little distraction from the storm raging outside would help.

“No,” you whispered, your final answer.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Can’t believe you actually shaved…” he teased, fingers beginning to move again.

His rhythm was slow but intentional, each stroke designed to unravel you piece by piece. The rough pads of his fingers circled your clit with practised precision, teasing the bundle of nerves until your body betrayed you with little jolts of pleasure. Every so often, he slid lower, gathering the slick heat at your entrance before gliding back up to spread it over your swollen nub.

The contrast made you shiver, his touch hard, his pace steady, never faltering, never giving more than just enough to leave you aching for more.

Your thighs twitched around his leg as his steady pace wore you down, each circle pulling another shiver from deep inside you. The storm outside cracked against the windows, but all you could hear was the wet slide of his fingers and the rough drag of his breathing against your ear.

“Already so worked up,” he muttered, amusement lacing his tone as his palm pressed harder against you, fingertips circling with ruthless precision. His other hand slid upward, finding your breasts and teasing them with lazy confidence, pinching one nipple and then the other until you gasped.

The added stimulation erased the last threads of panic from your mind, replacing it with a haze of heat that left no room for anything but him, his hands, his touch, the way he pulled every response from your body without effort.

Your body arched into him, every nerve alight, and he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at you… so wet for me,” he murmured, his fingers slipping inside you, stretching and pressing with sudden urgency. He didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate, just kept driving, circling, teasing, until your hips began to buck uncontrollably.

The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm inside you. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your mind a dizzy haze of need, and all you could do was whimper, “Simon… please…”

He only smirked against your neck, moving faster, harder, expertly matching your mounting desperation with unrelenting precision.

His mouth trailed over your neck and shoulder, alternating between soft bites, teasing licks, and lingering kisses. Every movement of his lips whispered exhaustion, a lazy, almost sleepy devotion—but his fingers told an entirely different story. They moved with relentless precision, circling, pressing, and sliding inside you, demanding your full attention, making your body betray you despite the calm, languid cadence of his mouth.

The contradiction sent shivers through you, every nerve on fire, every gasp and tremble betraying how thoroughly he had you under his control.

His fingers worked with merciless insistence, sliding in and out, circling, pressing just right to make your knees buckle. The contrast—his seemingly tired, lazy mouth against the frantic, expert movements of his hand—drove you higher and higher, until every nerve screamed for release.

You clutched at his forearm, arching into him, gasping, whining, “Simon… I—”

He silenced you with a low, gravelly growl, fingers moving faster, harder, his hand teasing you closer and closer to the edge. Your body trembled uncontrollably, every push and flick of his fingers sending sparks straight to your core.

“Come for me,” he demanded softly, his mouth still tracing lazy patterns over your skin, the contradiction of his touch making the release inevitable.

And then it hit you, sudden, blinding, all-consuming. You came with a cry, your body folding into him, shaking, every nerve ending alight. His fingers didn’t falter, riding you through it, even as he whispered against your ear, lazy and hot, “That’s it… just like that, good girl.”

Your body trembled against his, every shiver from your climax mirrored in the tight hold of his arms. His fingers finally stilled, resting against you, but the warmth and pressure of him pressed you closer, grounding you in the haze of pleasure.

The storm outside raged on, lightning flashing against the windows, but inside, it was just the two of you, breathing, slick, and tangled. His lips trailed soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder and neck, whispering quiet murmurs that made your skin crawl in the best way.

It was getting harder to keep your eyes open as the rush of endorphins mixed with the past days exhaustion, finally coaxing your mind toward sleep. You tried to move slightly, or to say something, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Shhh,” Simon cooed softly in your ear. His hand settled back on your stomach while the other maintained a gentle hold on your breast.

“Just be a good girl for me and close your eyes, aye?” he whispered, his voice warm and steady against your skin.

You let out a soft, reluctant sigh, your body finally losing to exhaustion. Simon’s hands were steady, grounding you, while his breath warmed your neck. The storm outside had softened just a bit, and the tension in your muscles slowly dissolved under the weight of his touch.

Your eyelids drooped, and you nuzzled into your pillow while fitting perfectly against him. He hummed low and content, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before settling his cheek against your hair.

“That’s it… just rest now,” he murmured, voice a soothing anchor in the dark.

The rhythm of his breathing, steady and calm, matched yours, and for the first time in days, both your minds felt quiet. Sleep crept in, heavy and warm, wrapping you both in a cocoon of warmth, where the world outside didn’t exist.

As if just tonight, you both belonged to each other.

©sillyswriting 2025

i know it's been forever since the last chapter... my bad. hope you enjoy this one !

[pinksplace]

idk who this man is but I’m love with him

: ̗̀➛ Doomsday's luckiest

     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ zombie apocalypse simon 'ghost' riley x reader

03 : tonight you belong to me

cw : smut, slight dubcon undressing, panic attack, dead bodies, undead creatures, chubby reader. words : 7.7k

     ㅤ  collection - prev ⋆ next

Manchester was long gone.

It had been nearly a week since you arrived in Doncaster. The journey had taken you nine hours—seven more than it should have. The roads were a disaster. Simon had done everything he could to avoid Sheffield, afraid it would turn into another Manchester.

He’d grown wary of people. He didn’t trust anyone anymore.

For hours, you had passed desperate figures on the roadside, screaming for you to stop, shouting that you were killing them as Simon pressed harder on the gas. You had begged him to slow down, to at least hear them out. But he always said the same thing.

“No.”

It had been a really hard journey for the both of you. Simon was on the edge, always looking for danger, always ready to move to action.

You had asked him if you could stop by your own apartment, it wasn’t far from Manchester at all, but again, he had refused. He said it was too close to the city, that those monsters would be drawn to the explosions from kilometres away.

It was for your own sake, he’d told you.

Now you sat on the counter of a pharmacy, waiting for Simon to finish his sweep. He was making sure you had everything you might need for whatever journey he was taking you on : various pills, bandages, antiseptics, plasters, anything useful he would take. He’d found an empty backpack and was packing it to the brim.

You weren’t sure how he planned to carry it when the car inevitably broke down, but you didn’t doubt his strength. If he said he could manage, you weren’t going to question it.

He had sat you up on the counter once he had secured the place, locked the door and told you to sit pretty while he went on his little tour. You were still unsure about his behaviour toward others, but you couldn't do much about it. He was the only reason you were still alive, if he gave up on you, you were dead in no time.

It didn’t help that, when night fell, the former military man treated you like you were the last fragile thing left in the world. He made sure you ate, wrapped you in warm clothes, and let you rest with your head in his lap while he stayed alert in the dark. His hand would sometimes rest on your shoulder, heavy, possessive, just enough to remind you he was there.

You’d offered to keep watch so he could sleep, but he always refused. Said you needed the rest more. Said he’d learned a long time ago how to get by on almost no sleep. You weren’t sure if that was something to be proud of or something that had broken him.

Not that he could really switch off, even if he tried. Whatever was out there had dragged his mind back into soldier mode. He was all edges now : listening for footsteps that weren’t there, scanning shadows for movement, every muscle coiled tight. Even when his eyes closed for a second, he’d wake at the faintest shift of your weight, like the world outside was waiting for him to relax just once so it could take everything.

It was hard to understand the depth of Simon’s concern for you. You’d barely known each other, yet his attention was constant, unyielding.

He put your needs before his own, though you suspected he didn’t had any. The military had taught him to strip them away, replacing softness with discipline, emotion with control. The man you’d met in that bar was still there—confident, blunt, even capable of a certain rough gentleness—but something had shifted.

Something had darkened.

It was in the way his eyes tracked every shadow. In the way he always stood between you and the open space. His care felt less like kindness and more like possession, as if he were guarding something that belonged to him. Almost like a predator watching over its prey, not out of compassion. More because it wanted to make sure nothing else touched it before the moment it chose to kill.

Kicking your feet idly, you let your gaze wander around the place, lost in thought. The dynamic between you felt strange, but the idea of leaving him never truly crossed your mind. Something about him made it impossible to walk away, even in the case where you wouldn't doubt your ability to survive on your own.

Even if the world hadn’t ended that night, you knew you would have been obsessed with him all the same. He would have lodged himself under your skin, impossible to shake loose. The only difference now was that you weren’t just drawn to him, you relied on him. And in this new world, dependence felt a lot like surrender.

A sharp whistle pulled you out of your thoughts, followed by his deep voice. “Come here,” he said, tilting his head toward you.

You hopped down from the counter and approached, ready to leave, but he had other plans. Without a word, he turned back into the pharmacy, moving down the aisles with the quiet confidence of someone who always knew where he was going. You frowned and fell into step behind him.

“Take what you need,” he said, stopping and leaning casually against a shelf.

You glanced at the items in front of you : pads, tampons, menstrual cups, menstrual underwear. Oh. It clicked now, why he’d called you over to this particular section.

When you looked back at him, you found his eyes on you, hard, but not unkind. Gentle, in their way, though unflinchingly intense. They didn’t waver, not once. It was the same look he’d given you that night at the bar, like he was trying to read every layer of you at once.

“Come on,” he cooed, “don’t have all day.”

That got you moving. You reached for the pads first, then hesitated, wondering what would be the most practical in the end of the world. In the end, you took a little of everything, packs of pads and tampons, a menstrual cup you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to try, and about ten pairs of menstrual underwear.

Simon didn’t comment on the amount. He didn’t complain. He simply let you take whatever you wanted, carefully arranging each item in the backpack until everything fit in perfect order.

“Need anything else, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Hum…” You hesitated, unsure if you should say it. But one raised eyebrow from him was all it took. “Condoms?”

He let out a low, mocking laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, before zipping the bag closed. “Already took care of that, love.”

You nodded at his words and fell in step behind him when he started moving again. When he passed you, his hand came down on your hip, soft at first, patting, then lingered, gripping it with a brief, possessive squeeze before letting go and heading for the door.

It wasn’t like you had had sex again since that night. Even back at the military base, Simon was always gone or too exhausted for anything beyond the barest affection. You’d lived like a couple in fragments, cuddling into sleep, stolen kisses here and there, but nothing more.

And now, on the road, there was neither time nor want for intimacy. Yet in that small, deliberate grip, something unspoken lingered, something raw, tangled between need and restraint.

After loading the bag into the trunk and double-checking the doors were locked, Simon started driving back toward the main road. He didn’t want to linger in cities longer than necessary—only when absolutely required.

“Where are you from again? Whaley Bridge, right?” he asked, easing the car out of Doncaster.

“Yeah, why?” you glanced at him from the side.

He sighed, clearly reluctant. “We need to stay low for a while. Price mentioned a huge thunderstorm heading north fast this morning.” He always checked in with his team when you slept, staying updated on the situation down south. “You said it’s a quiet town, small population?”

“Yeah…” you replied. “But it’s close to Manchester. I thought you didn’t want to go back there?” You frowned.

“I don’t,” Simon said flatly. “But you need some clothes that fit you, and the comfort of your own home might do you good.”

After a few minutes of silence, you glanced back at him.

“How long?” you broke the silence.

“Hmm?”

“How long do you want to stay there?” you asked.

“A couple of days, until the rain stops. Then we head back to Birmingham. Hopefully before winter,” he said, though he knew the chances were slim.

“And if we don’t make it before winter?” you asked back quickly.

“I’ll figure it out then,” he replied dryly, not wanting to burden you with the worst-case scenarios. “Don’t worry about this, kitten.” He shot you a quick smile before taking the Manchester exit.

You didn’t know how long the drive from Doncaster to your house would take, but you hoped it would be quick. Heavy, dark clouds stretched across the sky, casting long shadows that only made your anxiety climb higher.

You’d never liked thunderstorms, and after everything in Manchester, you weren’t sure how well you’d handle the roar of thunder now. One thing was certain, you didn’t want to be stranded on the side of the road if the storm hit while you were out there.

Almost as if he’d studied the route, Simon drove toward your home like he already knew the way. You’d grown used to catching him poring over maps lately, but you hadn’t thought it was to find his way back to your place. The way his mind worked should have scared you.

He did it all in silence, leaving you out of the decisions, keeping his thoughts to himself. Always remembering. Always watching. He’d told you, that first night at the Manchester base, how he’d been programmed this way : trained to notice details, to memorize maps and roads so he would never be lost. And that was exactly how he was now.

Terrifying, and yet… fascinating.

After a few minutes of silence, you felt the urge to speak, if only to cut through the heavy, unbroken quiet he never seemed to mind.

“Isn’t this… I mean…” You hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “Doesn’t this set us back on the way to Birmingham?”

“No,” he said simply, without even glancing at you. No explanation. No room for follow-up.

You looked at him, waiting. The seconds stretched. Nothing. Just his profile lit in the dim, shifting light, jaw set, eyes locked on the road like they could cut through the storm clouds ahead.

That was how he was, answers stripped down to the bone, leaving you to fill in the rest. Sometimes you wondered if it was a habit from the military, or if he just didn’t trust you with the whole truth. Either way, the silence pressed heavier now, his presence filling the small space more than any conversation could.

You were about to answer back, but instead you sighed, surrendering to the silence of the car.

Outside, the sky was darkening fast, clouds swollen with rain, thunder rolling in sooner than expected. You fixed your eyes on the passing road signs, trying to figure out how close you were to Whaley Bridge.

As you neared Manchester, the devastation became impossible to ignore. The lane leading out of the city was a graveyard, cars crushed into each other, windshields caved in, shards of glass scattered across the road like cruel confetti. And bodies.

So many bodies.

Your brow furrowed as you tried to make sense of it : men, women, children, burned and broken, their limbs twisted in unnatural angles. A few meters ahead, even army tanks lay abandoned, their crews sprawled lifeless beside them, uniforms torn.

Then, at the sound of the car, some of those soldiers opened their eyes.

It wasn’t a slow, natural flutter, it was sharp, wrong, like a switch being flipped. Their gaze snapped to you, glassy yet aware, the dull grey of death staring straight into you. You could see the neat, blackened hole in the side of each skull, ringed with dried blood, the unmistakable mark of a bullet. Yet they moved.

Your stomach turned cold.

“Simon…” you whispered, the fear in your voice unmistakable.

The former lieutenant flicked his gaze toward you, then back to the road, then to the soldiers who were now standing. You could see it in his eyes, the silent maths he was doing. Calculating their speed. Yours. The stretch of open road ahead. Every possible outcome measured in seconds.

One of the bodies twitched unnaturally, head lolling before it snapped upright, eyes fixed on the car. Another took a step forward, slow at first, then faster, the jerky movements making your chest tighten.

Simon’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Hold on.”

The engine roared as he pressed harder on the accelerator, the car jolting forward. In the rearview mirror, you caught a glimpse of them breaking into a run, bullet wounds and broken bones be damned. The sound of their feet hitting the pavement carried faintly through the closed windows, swallowed almost instantly by the rising growl of the approaching storm.

“Don’t look,” he ordered, his voice low but firm, catching your jaw in one hand and guiding your face toward the road ahead. The pressure was gentle, but there was no mistaking the authority behind it.

A few cars were abandoned on your side of the road, crumpled and empty, but Simon steered around them without hesitation. Every movement was precise, deliberate, almost too smooth, as if he’d driven through scenes like this before.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror now and then, sharp and calculating, but never for long. No panic. No wasted motion. Just quiet, controlled efficiency. It was reassuring… and yet, in a way, unnerving.

He handled the chaos outside like it was nothing new. Like it was muscle memory.

Breathing heavily, you kept your eyes on the side of his face. He was the same as he’d been since the day you met him : cold, closed off, focused. Somehow, that steadiness eased your heartbeat, even when your gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and caught sight of them, far, but closing fast.

“What did I say?” he snapped, his hand finding your jaw again, turning your head firmly back toward the road ahead.

Not daring to look back, your eyes settled on the road ahead, straight into the heart of the thunderstorm the “Price” man had warned about. The faster Simon drove, the darker the sky grew, and the heavier the air felt around you.

It was almost as if God was mocking you.

A heavy thud echoed through the building as Simon kicked your front door open.

You were both soaked to the bone, rain hammering against the side of the building while the roar of thunder crept closer and closer. It made your skin prickle, but the familiarity of your home settled your nerves, if only a little.

Driving through town had brought tears to your eyes. You’d recognized some of the bodies by the roadside, people who’d been a part of your life. The old florist who always slipped you an extra flower. The sweet old man who’d ask you to walk his dog when he felt too tired. People you had liked.

You’d barely had time to process the sight before Simon had moved. His hand gripping a knife, the blade flashing once before sinking deep into their skulls. The sound, wet and final, made you flinch and let out a strangled scream. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t explain, just pulled the blade free and moved on, leaving their bodies still at last.

It was only afterwards that he spoke, voice flat and certain: it was the only way to kill them for good. The first death didn’t matter, they always came back. You only wished he had told you before so you could have shield yourself from the sight. It almost was as if he had wanted you to see him.

Wanted you to see how far he could go.

What unsettled you most wasn’t the explanation, but how easily he did it. Each motion had been precise, practised, as if this was second nature. In that moment, you saw the man he’d described in the bar, someone far darker than the one you thought you’d met. It was terrifying… and, in a way you couldn’t quite understand, comforting. He was doing it for you. To protect you.

You felt his hand on the small of your back, guiding, pushing, you into the flat. The flat made you a little uneasy.

The air inside was stale, musty, like it hadn’t been aired out in months, which, of course, it hadn’t. Still, the sight of everything exactly where you’d left it eased something in you. The town had been small enough that no one had bothered breaking in to take what they could.

It was strange, but comforting, to know that all your belongings were still here, untouched, waiting for you, as if the world outside hadn’t fallen apart.

As you wandered further inside, a heavy scraping sound made you jump.

You turned to see Simon shoving the tall cabinet from your entry hall across the floor, wedging it firmly against the door. Kicking it open earlier had already broken the locks and bolts, not that they would have been much use anyway.

With the cabinet in place, and the storm closing in outside, Simon was clearly hoping he could relax enough tonight to finally get a full night’s sleep.

He let all the bags drop by the front door and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of one of them. Even without him saying a word, you could see the exhaustion settling into his frame, shoulders low, steps slower. Maybe that was why he’d wanted to come here, to somewhere he was almost certain was safe.

And he’d been right. Your place was exactly the way you’d left it that night.

Making your way to the kitchen, you gagged the moment the smell hit you, thick, sour, rotting. You turned on your heel, ready to shut the door, but Simon’s hand caught it before you could.

“Gotta get rid of anything expired…” he muttered, voice low. Tired, yes, but still moving with that deliberate, unshakable purpose you’d come to expect from him.

The stench rolled over you again, and you gagged harder. You’d always been particular about things like that, mold on fruit, spoiled food, anything that smelled wrong. It made your skin crawl.

“Go sit down. Do something else,” he said, a hint of command in his sigh. “I’ll handle this.”

It wasn’t just an offer, it was a quiet dismissal, the same way he handled anything he didn’t trust you to deal with. In his world, he was the one who decided what you faced, and what you didn’t.

He gave you a gentle push before closing the door. You knew you had some food that was still good, some canned things but all your fruits, vegetables and everything in your fridge was gone.

Not forcing him to let you help, you turned toward your bedroom—opening all the windows as you passed—pulling out another bag and filling it with clothes and a few personal items. Simon had said you’d be here for a couple of days, but you knew better than to trust plans in this world. Better to pack now, just in case.

About ten minutes later, a loud splash echoed from outside. You froze. Heart kicking up, you rushed to the window, scanning the street for movement. Were there still people alive in town? Or worse… had the undead monsters found you?

Your gaze locked on a large trash bag, burst open and sprawled beneath your kitchen window.

Leaning out the open frame, you spotted Simon looking out the kitchen window, eyes sharp, gun in hand. He was still as a stone, watching, waiting for anything drawn to the noise.

Nothing came. And so his body disappeared back inside, letting the window open.

You thought you’d hear the kitchen door open as he came in to settle for the night, but no. The only thing that followed was silence. Then, a softer sound, and a deep exhale, curling low like the growl of distant thunder.

He was back at the window.

From where you stood, you could see him outlined against the storm, broad shoulders hunched slightly, the faint glow of his cigarette burning in the dark. Lightning flashed, etching every freckle and scar on his face in stark white for the briefest second. He looked almost unreal like that, danger wrapped in flesh.

The way he drew on the cigarette was deliberate, unhurried. Smoke drifted from his nose in slow streams, mingling with the rain-slick air, while the cigarette bobbed faintly between his lips. You couldn’t look away.

“Like the view, kitten?” he called, voice low but cutting clean through the storm. The smirk that followed was small, dangerous, and just for you, the cigarette hanging at a reckless angle as if it might tumble at any second.

Somehow, that simple sentence, mixed with the sight of him framed in the storm’s glow and the depth of his voice, sent a sharp, electric chill straight between your legs. This was the man you had met that dreadful night. The cocky, dominant man who had rocked your world without mercy.

You shook your head quickly. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not with the thunder creeping closer, each roll louder than the last. It was going to be a long night.

Turning back to your half-packed bag, your gaze drifted toward the bathroom door.

“Simon?” you called, raising your voice slightly. The apartment wasn’t big, but with the kitchen door closed, you weren’t sure he’d hear you.

Seconds later, the door swung open, and you almost laughed at yourself. Of course he’d hear you, he was trained for it. He didn’t speak, just tipped his chin toward you, eyes locking on yours.

“Do you think…” You glanced at the bathroom, then back at him. “The water’s still running?”

“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Just gonna be cold as fuck, is all.”

On one hand, you were soaked and freezing from the relentless rain outside, and on the other, it had been days since you’d last had a proper shower. Clutching some clothes in your hand, you gathered your courage and moved toward the bathroom.

Pausing just before the door, you glanced back at Simon. He looked so out of place in your pastel coloured bedroom, surrounded by soft posters. He, by contrast, was all black—military gear, combat boots, and that hardened mercenary build. In his hands, the big emergency light you had stored in the kitchen supplies closet.

“Want to go first?” you asked softly, feeling like he deserved the chance to relax before you.

“Yeah.” He answered simply. He slipped off his boots, then brushed past you, his hand settling quickly on your hip with a familiar, almost casual pat.

It had become a habit of his.

You quickly handed him a towel before he shut the bathroom door, leaving you alone.

Just as you were about to resume packing, you noticed the rain had picked up, wind driving droplets inside and wetting the floor. Rushing from room to room to close the windows, you ended in the kitchen last. The air still carried a faint sourness, but the counters were now neatly lined with what was salvageable, some fruits, canned goods, even a few packets of dried meat, all grouped and organized by type.

Almost as if Simon had a streak of OCD. Not that you’d put it past him.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, Simon was emerging from the bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips. His shower had been quick, military habit, you guessed.

“You can go,” he said simply, disappearing into the main room.

Grabbing an oversized t-shirt from your closet along with underwear and a pair of fluffy pants, you made your way into the bathroom. It wouldn’t be a pleasant experience, cold water and all, but you longed for the feel of clean skin and fresh clothes.

Shedding your soaked layers, you left them in the sink next to Simon’s. As you twisted the faucet, you heard your closet doors creak open in the bedroom. You frowned, guessing Simon was hunting for something to wear. You’d always kept a few men’s pieces in there, your own comfort clothes.

Large men’s clothes were the comfiest.

Thinking nothing of it, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the shock of the cold water. You made it quick, washing your entire body, running shampoo through your hair, and rinsing fast.

Just as you were about to step out, your gaze fell on your razor. It was silly, you knew, there were far more important things to worry about than body hair, but the intrusive thought stuck. Out of habit more than anything, you gave in. You shaved your legs, your armpits, and tidied the overgrown hair between your legs, working quickly before the cold could seep too deep into your bones.

Once out, you wrapped a towel around your hair, drying your skin in fast, brisk motions before pulling on the clothes you’d brought. The oversized shirt and fluffy pants were warm enough, but your bare arms still prickled in the chill, a sweater would help.

You lingered in the bathroom a little longer, towel still twisted around your head. One by one, you uncapped your skincare bottles, sniffing each to see if they’d gone bad. Some were brand new, untouched. The motions felt almost normal, almost like you were back in a world where this was just another night in.

Once your skin felt hydrated and your hair was more or less dry, you switched off the emergency light and stepped out of the bathroom.

You hadn’t expected the sight that greeted you.

Simon had changed your sheets, fresh ones pulled tight over the mattress. The clean scent of linen hung in the air, sharp, crisp, strangely comforting. He was sprawled across the bed, under the covers, the occasional flash of lightning casting sharp lines across his bare chest and freckled face. A notebook lay open in front of him, one hand holding a pen while the other kept a map steady. He looked good, almost too good, and you wondered how he wasn’t freezing without a shirt.

"Thought new sheets would do you—" he began, eyes still on his work. The moment he looked up, he stopped mid-sentence. His gaze dragged over you once, slow and deliberate.

"Take your clothes off," he said bluntly, eyes already dropping back to the map. His pen kept moving, like the request was nothing unusual.

"What? Why?" you asked, caught between confusion and disbelief.

"Because it’ll be warmer that way," he explained in that same calm, matter-of-fact tone. "Clothes just trick you into thinking you’re warm. Body heat works faster."

Your eyes went wide, taking in the way his pale skin stood out under the brief flashes of lightning. "Are you naked?" you asked, bewildered.

"Yes," he replied simply, still not looking up. "Nothing I haven’t seen before, kitten." He shot you a quick side glance at your hesitation, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When you didn’t move, he added a curt, "Chop, chop," before turning back to his notebook, jotting down a few more notes.

After a few seconds and with deliberate slowness, he closed the notebook, setting it and the map on your bedside table. Both yours attention shifted to the window just as a loud crack of thunder split the air, making you jump. The wind howled, rattling the walls, each violent gust making the building groan in protest. Leaves, dust, and debris smacked against the glass, the storm’s fury unrelenting.

It was like no storm you’d ever witnessed, wild, alive, and unnerving. In that moment, you were glad you wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight.

Another short whistle pulled your gaze from the window back to him. His eyes were locked on you, intense, unblinking, with just a hint of patronising amusement. "I’d like to have an early night, kitten, if you don’t mind."

You nodded softly and began stripping off only your pants, figuring your t-shirt and panties would be enough for the so-called “body heat” plan. Surely warmth would pass through them.

But that wouldn’t do for Simon.

The moment you slid under the covers beside him, he manhandled you into position, your back pressed firmly against his chest. Without a word, he pushed your shirt up, his hands brushing your breasts lightly before tugging the fabric over your head. Knowing you had plenty more tucked away in a drawer, he didn’t hesitate to tear your panties from your hips, pulling you flush against the heat of his semi-hard cock.

In an instant, his warmth enveloped you. You’d always known he ran hot, from that night in his bed, and all the others at the army base, but this felt different.

Better.

Maybe because you’d been freezing for hours, maybe because the heat rolling off him was such a welcome contrast to the storm raging outside. His slow breath fanned against your neck, the steady thump of his heart against your back lulling you toward sleep.

Just like that night at his flat, his bicep became your pillow, its solid weight grounding you. His other hand rested lightly on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh there for a brief moment before settling.

You could feel how relaxed his body was now, no trace of the tense soldier who kept watch while you slept, nor the stressed lieutenant from Manchester. This was the same man you’d ended up in bed with almost two months ago, on a reckless night out.

He had to be exhausted. Even a man used to short nights couldn’t outrun fatigue forever. The soft sound of his snoring told you everything you needed to know, and you finally let your own eyes drift shut.

A sharp clap of thunder tore you from sleep.

Your body tensed, confused by the surroundings, so familiar, yet distant enough to unsettle you. You were lying on your stomach, an unyielding weight pressed against your back. One large hand gripped your hip, the span of it reaching the curve of your arse, while messy hair tickled the back of your neck. The presence eased your panic, if only slightly.

Then another violent crack of lightning split the night, and your breathing quickened. The comfort of that weight was no match for the way your body was sinking back into panic.

Simon’s body, once comforting, now felt suffocating. His heat wrapped around you until you were overheating, trapped beneath both him and the sheets. Claustrophobia crept in, quick and merciless, feeding off the lingering fog of sleep.

Your mind flickered with unwanted images, civilians scattering under military fire, smoke thick in your throat, bodies pressed too close in the chaos. Each flashback made it harder to breathe. Another crack of thunder, louder than the last, rattled the walls and tightened the knot in your chest.

Wriggling beneath Simon’s weight was like trying to move under stone. He was heavy, heavier than you remembered, and for a surreal moment, you couldn’t believe this was the same man who used to wake at your smallest shift. His hand clamped harder on your hip, as if anchoring you in place. The arm beneath your head flexed, adjusting with your movements, his body moulding even closer to yours.

The storm roared outside, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, and the quickening pace of your breath.

“Stop,” he mumbled into your back, his voice thick with sleep, words muffled against your skin.

You could hear the fatigue in him, bone-deep, unshakable, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was escaping the heat, the weight, the noise that seemed to press in from all sides.

You wriggled forward, almost free, when his arm shot out and dragged you back. In one motion, he rolled you onto your back, looming over you. His face was a mask of irritation, jaw tight, eyes hard, until he actually saw you.

The anger dissolved instantly.

Your chest was heaving, each breath catching on a sob you couldn’t swallow. Tears streamed down your cheeks in hot, unsteady lines, your hiccuping breaths sounding too loud in the small space between you. The panic had you in its grip, and you couldn’t even speak.

“Fucking hell,” Simon sighed.

He knew this. The rapid breaths, the glassy eyes, the way the body tried to bolt without thought, it was a panic attack. He’d seen them before. Lived them before. Grew up with them. They were an old, unwelcome companion, one he’d fought in himself and seen in others more times than he could count.

You could see the confusion in his eyes, as he turned around swapping the room for any threats. A small whine left your lips at another clap of thunder, forcing his eyes back on you. His brown eyes calmed even more at the realisation of what you were afraid of.

Gently brushing the damp hair from your sweaty forehead, his hands anchored firmly on your cheeks, holding your gaze. “Breathe with me,” he murmured, guiding one of your hands to rest on his belly.

Your breath came uneven, every inhale snagging in your chest as you tracked the rise and fall of his stomach, the slow, deliberate pull of air into his lungs and the quiet release that followed.

Your other hand gripped his bicep beside your head, the same arm holding his weight suspended above you. Heat radiated from his skin into your palm, the muscle taut beneath your fingertips. He didn’t flinch at the sting of your nails, if anything, his gaze only deepened, locked on yours as though nothing else existed.

The space between you seemed to close in, the air thick and hard to pull into your lungs. Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, too fast and too loud, until it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that frantic rhythm.

The rise and fall of his chest no longer steadied you, it only reminded you how shallow your own breaths had become.

Your grip on his bicep tightened without meaning to, fingers trembling. A prickling heat spread across your skin, followed by a cold wave that made your stomach lurch. Your vision blurred at the edges, his face still in front of you but swimming in and out of focus.

“Shh,” he cooed, voice soft but urgent now, eyes searching yours. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. It's just noises.”

But the words seemed far away, muffled beneath the heavy thumps in your ears. Your body refused to listen to reason, lungs fluttering, chest locked tight, every breath an effort you couldn’t quite win.

“It’s just noises, baby,” Simon murmured, trying to reason with you. His fingers brushed over the apple of your cheek in a tender, grounding gesture.

He guided your hand more firmly against the steady rise of his stomach, cooing soft words into your ear. You could see how much he wanted to help, the effort in his eyes, but nothing was cutting through the storm inside you.

Then, without warning, his full weight eased down onto you, pressing you gently into the mattress. Heat radiated from him, his body moulding to yours in a slow, deliberate embrace.

By all logic, it should have been too much, too close, too consuming, but it wasn’t. Strangely, it worked. The weight anchored you, pulling you out of the spiral. The edges of the room began to sharpen again, your senses slowly returning. You could feel the mattress beneath you, the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth seeping through your skin. His deep voice in your ears.

Once your breathing steadied, your eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, which lit up with each flash of thunder. The noises no longer startled you, and the heavy rain against the windows had become almost soothing.

As if sensing the slight ease in your body, Simon pushed himself back up onto his hands, hovering gently over you. He looked fully awake now, the haze of whatever sleep-induced irritation he’d carried moments before gone.

“Sorry…” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “Didn’t mean to wake you… just wanted to get out…” Your breath still caught unevenly at the edges.

“All good, love,” he said softly, tilting his head in an attempt to catch your gaze.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows, and you flinched despite yourself. Simon eased down beside you again, but before he could say anything, you were already getting up. You quickly put the shirt he’d tossed aside hours ago on, clutching your pillow to your chest as you made your way toward the door.

“What are you doing?” he asked bluntly, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in his voice.

You hesitated, throat tight. When you finally spoke, your words were quiet, frayed around the edges. “I don’t think I’ll sleep much. Don’t want to keep you up.”

“Come back here.” His tone wasn’t a request, it was an order. The hardness in his voice was unfamiliar, sharp and commanding. It was the same voice he carried at the base. His lieutenant’s voice.

“Simon—” you began, trying to reason with him.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” he said flatly, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering.

The firmness in his tone left no room for argument, the weight of command settling heavy in the space between you. For a heartbeat, you froze, pillow clutched tight against your chest, the storm outside still rumbling low through the walls.

With a resigned sigh, you made your way back to the bed. Before you could even kneel onto the mattress, you felt his hard gaze on you again. Following it downward, you realized what he was staring at. Without a word, you tossed the shirt back onto the floor and slipped under the blanket.

In an instant, Simon pulled you against him, exhaling softly as though the simple act of having you close brought him peace. He used to do this whenever he returned late to your room, it was familiar, almost comforting, but tonight, you couldn’t shake the wish that he’d simply let you go.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, sensing how awake you still were.

Thunder rolled outside, low and mocking. His arms around you left no space to flinch, but your body went rigid for a moment all the same.

“I told you,” you whispered, your voice rough with exhaustion. “I’m not going to get much sleep.”

Groaning in your ear, he pulled you even closer. “I can get your mind to settle.”

You snorted humorlessly, rolling your eyes into the dark. “What, you gonna sing me a lullaby?”

“Nah,” he grunted behind you.

Before you could press him for details, his hand slid from your stomach and down between your thighs, cupping your cunt. One of his legs nudged between yours, parting them just enough to give him room to move.

“Simon…” you sighed, his warm hand enveloping you. “You don’t have to…”

“You want me to stop?” he asked, his hand pausing.

You should say yes. Not because you truly wanted him to, but because he needed the sleep. He’d been awake far too long for any human being, and ever since this whole mess began, he’d always put you first.

Still, you could feel the weight of your own exhaustion, and maybe, just maybe, a little distraction from the storm raging outside would help.

“No,” you whispered, your final answer.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Can’t believe you actually shaved…” he teased, fingers beginning to move again.

His rhythm was slow but intentional, each stroke designed to unravel you piece by piece. The rough pads of his fingers circled your clit with practised precision, teasing the bundle of nerves until your body betrayed you with little jolts of pleasure. Every so often, he slid lower, gathering the slick heat at your entrance before gliding back up to spread it over your swollen nub.

The contrast made you shiver, his touch hard, his pace steady, never faltering, never giving more than just enough to leave you aching for more.

Your thighs twitched around his leg as his steady pace wore you down, each circle pulling another shiver from deep inside you. The storm outside cracked against the windows, but all you could hear was the wet slide of his fingers and the rough drag of his breathing against your ear.

“Already so worked up,” he muttered, amusement lacing his tone as his palm pressed harder against you, fingertips circling with ruthless precision. His other hand slid upward, finding your breasts and teasing them with lazy confidence, pinching one nipple and then the other until you gasped.

The added stimulation erased the last threads of panic from your mind, replacing it with a haze of heat that left no room for anything but him, his hands, his touch, the way he pulled every response from your body without effort.

Your body arched into him, every nerve alight, and he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at you… so wet for me,” he murmured, his fingers slipping inside you, stretching and pressing with sudden urgency. He didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate, just kept driving, circling, teasing, until your hips began to buck uncontrollably.

The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm inside you. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your mind a dizzy haze of need, and all you could do was whimper, “Simon… please…”

He only smirked against your neck, moving faster, harder, expertly matching your mounting desperation with unrelenting precision.

His mouth trailed over your neck and shoulder, alternating between soft bites, teasing licks, and lingering kisses. Every movement of his lips whispered exhaustion, a lazy, almost sleepy devotion—but his fingers told an entirely different story. They moved with relentless precision, circling, pressing, and sliding inside you, demanding your full attention, making your body betray you despite the calm, languid cadence of his mouth.

The contradiction sent shivers through you, every nerve on fire, every gasp and tremble betraying how thoroughly he had you under his control.

His fingers worked with merciless insistence, sliding in and out, circling, pressing just right to make your knees buckle. The contrast—his seemingly tired, lazy mouth against the frantic, expert movements of his hand—drove you higher and higher, until every nerve screamed for release.

You clutched at his forearm, arching into him, gasping, whining, “Simon… I—”

He silenced you with a low, gravelly growl, fingers moving faster, harder, his hand teasing you closer and closer to the edge. Your body trembled uncontrollably, every push and flick of his fingers sending sparks straight to your core.

“Come for me,” he demanded softly, his mouth still tracing lazy patterns over your skin, the contradiction of his touch making the release inevitable.

And then it hit you, sudden, blinding, all-consuming. You came with a cry, your body folding into him, shaking, every nerve ending alight. His fingers didn’t falter, riding you through it, even as he whispered against your ear, lazy and hot, “That’s it… just like that, good girl.”

Your body trembled against his, every shiver from your climax mirrored in the tight hold of his arms. His fingers finally stilled, resting against you, but the warmth and pressure of him pressed you closer, grounding you in the haze of pleasure.

The storm outside raged on, lightning flashing against the windows, but inside, it was just the two of you, breathing, slick, and tangled. His lips trailed soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder and neck, whispering quiet murmurs that made your skin crawl in the best way.

It was getting harder to keep your eyes open as the rush of endorphins mixed with the past days exhaustion, finally coaxing your mind toward sleep. You tried to move slightly, or to say something, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Shhh,” Simon cooed softly in your ear. His hand settled back on your stomach while the other maintained a gentle hold on your breast.

“Just be a good girl for me and close your eyes, aye?” he whispered, his voice warm and steady against your skin.

You let out a soft, reluctant sigh, your body finally losing to exhaustion. Simon’s hands were steady, grounding you, while his breath warmed your neck. The storm outside had softened just a bit, and the tension in your muscles slowly dissolved under the weight of his touch.

Your eyelids drooped, and you nuzzled into your pillow while fitting perfectly against him. He hummed low and content, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before settling his cheek against your hair.

“That’s it… just rest now,” he murmured, voice a soothing anchor in the dark.

The rhythm of his breathing, steady and calm, matched yours, and for the first time in days, both your minds felt quiet. Sleep crept in, heavy and warm, wrapping you both in a cocoon of warmth, where the world outside didn’t exist.

As if just tonight, you both belonged to each other.

©sillyswriting 2025

i know it's been forever since the last chapter... my bad. hope you enjoy this one !

[pinksplace]

(stumbling out of the document covered in blood) ok i wrote 100 words

[pinksplace]

your vibe is pretty

thank you so much it took me forever and that genuinely means the world to me

[pinksplace]

bar #2 of the six bar bar crawl.

I am borderline black out

[pinksplace]

these three images are the biggest compliments thank you thank you thank you

Piano Fingers

Alternatively: Clark Kent and his big ass hands

MDNI 18+

Kind of inspired by this-

He feels so good, he always does. You swear his fingers alone are bigger than a few of the guys you’ve slept with. The first time you told him that Clark made you cum three times with just his hand.

From Afternoon Delight (A Very Professional Lunch Break)

Word Count: drabble, 1-1.5k (god forbid I write something long form)

Warnings: size kink!! fingering, reader has a personality and is implied to be shorter than Clark, nothing descriptive other than that though, cursing, mentions of Clark Kent’s gargantuan cock, mentions of cockwarming, overstim if you squint, 🤞 <- keep this in mind

Clark Kent x Fem! Reader (no use of y/n)

Clark is a big man.

You (and his tailor) know this with certainty.

The first thing that you ever noticed about Clark was his height, towering over everyone he passed on his morning commute. The ache you felt in the back of your neck after every conversation with him.

You still remember the first time you really noticed it though, it was a hopelessly mundane moment. You were flirting with him at the coffee station, and your eyes just happened to drift down and clock how his hips ended just where the counter-top began. You're only human, it's not your fault your first thought was about how easily he could fuck you while you sat on it.

You couldn't look him in the eye the rest of the day.

His size became even more obvious after you started dating.

"You know when I was a kid, my Ma signed me up for piano lessons." Clark says, his voice casual, like he's not knuckle deep in your cunt. Clark is sprawled on the couch beneath you, looking pretty as ever. His lips glossy and swollen from your kisses. You had done all the typical third date things, nice dinner, pretty dress, prettier lingerie underneath. He'd walked you home, taken up your entire door way and acted like he wasn't silently begging to come inside.

You were less patient, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling his lips onto yours.

You can hardly breathe, his finger curling inside as he speaks. "Really?" you ask, voice breathy. You knew his hands were big, you'd seen them hold his phone and make it look like a toy, watched with fascination as he struggled to hold the little teacups they gave you at the Chinese restaurant (first date).

Looking at his hands was a lot different than having them inside you.

You had rolled eyes when he talked about preparing you. ‘Not a virgin Clark’ you’d murmured against his lips.

Clark had hummed, pulling back to bag those pretty lashes you. ‘Gonna feel like, unless you let me open you up.’ He argued.

You scoffed, reaching for his belt but Clark grabbed your wrist. He fixed you with a look, or more accurately a warning. Then he dragged your hand down past his belt and planted it firmly on his bulge.

Oh.

‘Can I please finger you?’ Clark asked, his blue swimming with want. You could drown in them.

You swallowed, trying to save face. ‘Yeah.’ You croaked, voice cracking.

Which brings you to now. “I wasn’t into it.” Clark explains. His thumb is working your clit in slow circles, helping ease his finger out to the tip and then side it back down until he reaches the knuckle. “But one of ladies in town got it into head, kept telling her I had piano fingers.”

“What does that even mean?” You ask, fighting back a moan, doing your best to seem unaffected. Your body betrays you, a gush of wetness seeping down and drenching Clark’s palm.

“You’re so wet baby.” He coos, sliding another finger in. “Means I have big hands.” He continues, “Long fingers.” He curls them, for emphasis of course.

“Fuck.” You gasp. You feel yourself clenching, your hands gripping his shoulders and feeling nothing but steel, absolutely no give.

Clark makes a shushing noise, his thumb picking up pace and he drags his fingers in and out, over and over. His lips plant wet kisses along your neck, sucking on your pulse point as you whine.

He’s deeper inside you than you’ve ever been able to get with your own fingers, deeper than any of your exes ever reached. Forget about length, they’re thick too. You make a note to ask him about his ring size later, for reference.

“I got you, it’s okay.” Clark whispers into your mouth, his fingers picking up speed, his thumb increasing its pressure.

You already feel like jello, between his lips, and his fingers, and the coil pulling tighter and tighter in your stomach you didn’t stand a chance.

“Clark.” You moan, then force yourself to swallow the next one “If these are your fingers-” you gasp as he curls his fingers, as if on cue. Your thighs twitch around his hand, your train of thought completely lost.

Clark hums, his eyes are reverent, his free hand reaches up and cups your face, catching it as you try tuck into his neck. “What was your question pretty girl?” He asks, guiding your head so your forehead rests against his.

Despite the fact that it’s your world getting wrecked, Clark’s forehead is sweaty, his eyes glistening as they study your every reaction. You whimper, hips frantically grinding down onto his fingers. Clark curls them again.

“How big is your dick?” You pant.

Clark chuckles, and then because he can, he twists his fingers together inside you and thrusts them again.

“Let go baby.” He tells you, and you nod, your stomach burning with pleasure, so close. “Let go and I’ll show you.” He promises.

With one more hard pass over your clit, Clark is catapulting you over the edge. His fingers still wrapped together inside you as you squeeze him like a vice. He can’t wait to feel it again when he’s inside you.

In the meantime he helps you ride it out, letting your head fall into the nook between his neck and shoulder. Your entire body shakes with the force of your orgasm, your thighs clenched tighter than tight around his wrist.

After what feels like an eternity, you stop shaking, your breathing finally levels out. “Oh my god.” You groan into his neck.

Clark presses a to the side of your head, his dry hand stroking your hair. The other is still inside you. “That’a girl.” He whispers.

You squeeze his fingers, body reacting before you can tell it not too. The fucker smirks, surely filing that reaction away for later.

You kiss him, hard, hoping to distract, to finally get your hands, or better yet you, around what you want.

Clark groans into the kiss, matching your force with fervor. His tongue dances alongside yours, tracing the top of your mouth, doing his best to swallow you whole.

Then his fingers start again.

“Clark.” You protest, pulling away.

Clark tries to follow you, leaning off the couch and chasing your lips. You manage to stay just out of reach. “What?” He asks.

You pout, but grind down onto his hand nonetheless. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.” You whine.

Clark doesn’t answer, instead he takes the opportunity to unbuckle his belt (one handed- after all the other one is still busy). He only unzips enough to free himself.

You watch, silent, and stare at it. Clark ever so patient, takes your wrist, and this time he wraps your hand around him.

Once again, Clark Kent has made you feel oh so small.

He doesn’t break eye contact, but he makes a noise low in his throat that has you gushing around his hand again, for the umpteenth time tonight.

“Okay you can finger me a little more.” You say, as if it’s actually your idea, “If you really want.”

authors note: look at the scenes of him holding a phone and tell me I’m WRONG, anyway idk how I feel about this one so everyone tell me their thoughts! I insist

masterlist

love you! say it back <3

[pinksplace]

BABAHHAHA THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING IM SO GLAD YOU LIKED IT 😭😭😭😭

Piano Fingers

Alternatively: Clark Kent and his big ass hands

MDNI 18+

Kind of inspired by this-

He feels so good, he always does. You swear his fingers alone are bigger than a few of the guys you’ve slept with. The first time you told him that Clark made you cum three times with just his hand.

From Afternoon Delight (A Very Professional Lunch Break)

Word Count: drabble, 1-1.5k (god forbid I write something long form)

Warnings: size kink!! fingering, reader has a personality and is implied to be shorter than Clark, nothing descriptive other than that though, cursing, mentions of Clark Kent’s gargantuan cock, mentions of cockwarming, overstim if you squint, 🤞 <- keep this in mind

Clark Kent x Fem! Reader (no use of y/n)

Clark is a big man.

You (and his tailor) know this with certainty.

The first thing that you ever noticed about Clark was his height, towering over everyone he passed on his morning commute. The ache you felt in the back of your neck after every conversation with him.

You still remember the first time you really noticed it though, it was a hopelessly mundane moment. You were flirting with him at the coffee station, and your eyes just happened to drift down and clock how his hips ended just where the counter-top began. You're only human, it's not your fault your first thought was about how easily he could fuck you while you sat on it.

You couldn't look him in the eye the rest of the day.

His size became even more obvious after you started dating.

"You know when I was a kid, my Ma signed me up for piano lessons." Clark says, his voice casual, like he's not knuckle deep in your cunt. Clark is sprawled on the couch beneath you, looking pretty as ever. His lips glossy and swollen from your kisses. You had done all the typical third date things, nice dinner, pretty dress, prettier lingerie underneath. He'd walked you home, taken up your entire door way and acted like he wasn't silently begging to come inside.

You were less patient, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling his lips onto yours.

You can hardly breathe, his finger curling inside as he speaks. "Really?" you ask, voice breathy. You knew his hands were big, you'd seen them hold his phone and make it look like a toy, watched with fascination as he struggled to hold the little teacups they gave you at the Chinese restaurant (first date).

Looking at his hands was a lot different than having them inside you.

You had rolled eyes when he talked about preparing you. ‘Not a virgin Clark’ you’d murmured against his lips.

Clark had hummed, pulling back to bag those pretty lashes you. ‘Gonna feel like, unless you let me open you up.’ He argued.

You scoffed, reaching for his belt but Clark grabbed your wrist. He fixed you with a look, or more accurately a warning. Then he dragged your hand down past his belt and planted it firmly on his bulge.

Oh.

‘Can I please finger you?’ Clark asked, his blue swimming with want. You could drown in them.

You swallowed, trying to save face. ‘Yeah.’ You croaked, voice cracking.

Which brings you to now. “I wasn’t into it.” Clark explains. His thumb is working your clit in slow circles, helping ease his finger out to the tip and then side it back down until he reaches the knuckle. “But one of ladies in town got it into head, kept telling her I had piano fingers.”

“What does that even mean?” You ask, fighting back a moan, doing your best to seem unaffected. Your body betrays you, a gush of wetness seeping down and drenching Clark’s palm.

“You’re so wet baby.” He coos, sliding another finger in. “Means I have big hands.” He continues, “Long fingers.” He curls them, for emphasis of course.

“Fuck.” You gasp. You feel yourself clenching, your hands gripping his shoulders and feeling nothing but steel, absolutely no give.

Clark makes a shushing noise, his thumb picking up pace and he drags his fingers in and out, over and over. His lips plant wet kisses along your neck, sucking on your pulse point as you whine.

He’s deeper inside you than you’ve ever been able to get with your own fingers, deeper than any of your exes ever reached. Forget about length, they’re thick too. You make a note to ask him about his ring size later, for reference.

“I got you, it’s okay.” Clark whispers into your mouth, his fingers picking up speed, his thumb increasing its pressure.

You already feel like jello, between his lips, and his fingers, and the coil pulling tighter and tighter in your stomach you didn’t stand a chance.

“Clark.” You moan, then force yourself to swallow the next one “If these are your fingers-” you gasp as he curls his fingers, as if on cue. Your thighs twitch around his hand, your train of thought completely lost.

Clark hums, his eyes are reverent, his free hand reaches up and cups your face, catching it as you try tuck into his neck. “What was your question pretty girl?” He asks, guiding your head so your forehead rests against his.

Despite the fact that it’s your world getting wrecked, Clark’s forehead is sweaty, his eyes glistening as they study your every reaction. You whimper, hips frantically grinding down onto his fingers. Clark curls them again.

“How big is your dick?” You pant.

Clark chuckles, and then because he can, he twists his fingers together inside you and thrusts them again.

“Let go baby.” He tells you, and you nod, your stomach burning with pleasure, so close. “Let go and I’ll show you.” He promises.

With one more hard pass over your clit, Clark is catapulting you over the edge. His fingers still wrapped together inside you as you squeeze him like a vice. He can’t wait to feel it again when he’s inside you.

In the meantime he helps you ride it out, letting your head fall into the nook between his neck and shoulder. Your entire body shakes with the force of your orgasm, your thighs clenched tighter than tight around his wrist.

After what feels like an eternity, you stop shaking, your breathing finally levels out. “Oh my god.” You groan into his neck.

Clark presses a to the side of your head, his dry hand stroking your hair. The other is still inside you. “That’a girl.” He whispers.

You squeeze his fingers, body reacting before you can tell it not too. The fucker smirks, surely filing that reaction away for later.

You kiss him, hard, hoping to distract, to finally get your hands, or better yet you, around what you want.

Clark groans into the kiss, matching your force with fervor. His tongue dances alongside yours, tracing the top of your mouth, doing his best to swallow you whole.

Then his fingers start again.

“Clark.” You protest, pulling away.

Clark tries to follow you, leaning off the couch and chasing your lips. You manage to stay just out of reach. “What?” He asks.

You pout, but grind down onto his hand nonetheless. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.” You whine.

Clark doesn’t answer, instead he takes the opportunity to unbuckle his belt (one handed- after all the other one is still busy). He only unzips enough to free himself.

You watch, silent, and stare at it. Clark ever so patient, takes your wrist, and this time he wraps your hand around him.

Once again, Clark Kent has made you feel oh so small.

He doesn’t break eye contact, but he makes a noise low in his throat that has you gushing around his hand again, for the umpteenth time tonight.

“Okay you can finger me a little more.” You say, as if it’s actually your idea, “If you really want.”

authors note: look at the scenes of him holding a phone and tell me I’m WRONG, anyway idk how I feel about this one so everyone tell me their thoughts! I insist

masterlist

love you! say it back <3

[pinksplace]

I AGREE

Clark Kent can’t decide which part of you he loves more

alternatively: is Clark Kent an ass man?

18+ MDNI (fem! reader, no use of y/n)

Huh what’s this?? Oh just a little Clark Kent brain rot Drabble <3

word count? who’s to say

warnings: a lot of talk about tits and ass, potential cavities due to sweetness

Clark is half asleep when the question rolls of your tongue.

“Are you an ass man?” Your voice is casual. You’re tucked against his side, bare chested and still a little sweaty, utterly contented.

Clark (despite having been just inside of you) sputtered. “Am I a what?” He asks, voice cracking on the last syllable.

It’s not that he minds talking about sex so much, he isn’t prude despite what most of the office thinks. He just wasn’t vocal about it with most people. It came easy with you, he knows you don’t judge him, and ninety percent of the time you’re end up goading him on. Clark also knows that he could speak another language and you’d still melt under his hands.

You just surprised him.

“Y’know,” you giggle, turning onto your stomach so you can see his face. “Most guys have a preference, orchestra or balcony.”

If you had asked him before you started dating, well he wouldn’t have answered, he would have blushed up to his glasses and said how he didn’t feel comfortable objectifying women like that, even hypothetically. (His answer would have been ass).

But since you got together? The choice has been so much harder. Amongst other things that have been hard.

Clark loves all of you, there’s no doubt about that. If someone asked you, you’d tell them that he could have a second degree in body worship with the amount of hours he’s put into memorizing yours.

He’s kissed every part of you- twice.

Clark’s spent hours sucking on your neck, leaving hickies like a teenager. He adores your thighs, how plush and soft they feel under his hands, how tight they wrap around his waist. He loves your back, tracing your spine and watching you shiver. He loves your hands, so much smaller than his. How delicate they feel when he holds them, how capable they are of reducing him to putty in your hands. Don’t get him started on your lips.

Clark loves all of you. We’ve established that.

Clark just can’t help but feel torn because in all honestly his answer changes everyday.

If you ask him while wearing those flared blue jeans he loves, that hug your hips just right, and cling to you like a second skin. The ones with the back pockets that fit his hands perfectly. He’d have his answer, without hesitation.

But when you pull on his shirt, tug it closed without bothering to button it, letting him be taunted by the sliver of skin that lives between your breasts. When you wore those stupid barely there tank tops to bed. When you press your chest to his, lean up and whisper in his ear. Well, then things get a little cloudy.

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly, “What made you think of it?”

You hum, obviously not convinced. “You like me face down a lot.” You say, turning over to rest on your stomach. He can tell you’re trying to watch his expression.

Clark nods, you’re not wrong. He adores getting you on your stomach, slotting a pillow under your hips. A hand on either side of your head and his chest pressed flush to your back while he absolutely plows you. The angle made you grip him like a vice, and now he realized- it gave him an absolutely breathtaking view of your ass. The way it molded against him and the absolutely filthy sound of skin on skin.

Huh.

“I like when you’re on top a lot too though.” He argues.

Clark really likes when you’re on top actually. He can see your face, watch your thighs shake with the effort and he can watch them (your tits, obviously). The way they bounce, how they lift with each exhausted breath you take. He loves to place his hands just below the curve of your tits, over top of your ribs. He can feel each gasp, every sound you make, he can feel the way your heart beat races. He thinks you’re a vision, sex personified. His own personal Venus.

He also loves talking you through it when you’re on top too.

‘C’mon baby, use me.’

‘Take what you need pretty girl.’

Even outside of sex, half the time when you curled up against him on the couch, his hands would slip under your shirt and just hold them. “My hands are cold.” He’d joke. You let him, who are you to make Superman suffer?

You let him do just about anything now that he thinks about it.

“I think my favorite part of your body is the way you trust me with it.” Clark says.

You tilt your head.

It not like Clark manhandles you, okay actually maybe he does, but you love it. You go with his flow. He doesn’t feel like he’s taking anything with you, you give it all willingly.

You give him sloppy make-out sessions in dark corners, you give endless touches and access to all your softness. You give him passion, and heat, and ‘water saving showers.’ You give him your stories, your spare key and spine-melting smiles.

“You never pull back, or ask me too. Even when I get rougher than I should.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Clark puts a finger on your lips before you can.

“I’ve spent so much of my life walking on egg shells because of my strength, trying to find the right balance of not too little but also not too much. I never feel afraid of myself with you.”

The guess the best way to put it is: You give him all of your humanity, and never question his.

“Maybe I’m just a you man.” He finishes.

You smile and kiss the finger still pressed against your lips. Then you open up his palm and press it to your cheek. “I guess that’s a good answer too.” You grumble.

Clark smiles, thoroughly pleased with himself. He sits up just enough to press a kiss to your lips. You meet him halfway with enthusiasm.

Before Clark can take things any further (he suddenly feels as though maybe he could go for round two after all), you get up. Slipping out from under the sheet, you don’t bother putting anything back on.

Clark watches you bounce away, a little too much pep in your step for someone he swears he fucked all of the energy out of. With his eyes trained on one part of you in particular Clark quietly admits something else.

“Maybe I’m also an ass man.”

We’ll see if his answer changes when he watches you walk back though.

authors note: idk where this came from guys but I hope it’s not crap ❤️

Masterlist!

[pinksplace]

LITERALLY I ended up accomplishing exactly nothing

completely underestimated how hard it is to write while in a car

[pinksplace]

suddenly regretting going to a college without a hockey team 😔

False God

Pairing College!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis A story of stolen glances, forbidden touches, and the kind of love that’s impossible to ignore—between a boy who swore he wouldn’t, and the girl who makes him break every rule. As their worlds collide in quiet moments, lingering looks, and reckless temptation, neither can deny the pull that draws them together, no matter the consequences.

Based on “The Summer I Turned Pretty” Season 3, Episode 6 and “False God” by Taylor Swift.

Word Count 10K

Themes + Warnings Friends-to-lovers energy with teasing and banter , "Forbidden romance / off-limits love" , Public but secret affection , Emotional pining , Soft domestic , Emotional conflict over relationship boundaries , Sibling interference / banter that may come off as protective or overbearing , Soft angst w/ fluffy resolution , COLLEGE AU! , HOCKEY PLAYER! BUCKY (my favorite..)

— False God But we can patch it up good, make confession- And we're begging for forgiveness, got the wine for you

M. list | Request (Open but Slow)

You’d been at Brooklyn University for exactly three weeks, and you still couldn’t tell if the people here were standoffish… or if you just looked like the type who’d get lost trying to find the cafeteria. Which, to be fair, had already happened twice.

It wasn’t bad here — your classes were fine, your professors were fine, your friends were… well, acquaintances so far. You’d fallen into a loose group of friendly people from your Intro to Psych lecture — Yelena, Kate, and Peter — who somehow seemed to know everyone on campus. They’d been helping you get your bearings, but between textbooks, rent, and overpriced coffee, your bank account was starting to wheeze for mercy.

That’s when you saw it.

Pinned to the corkboard in the student center, surrounded by ads for study groups and lost earbuds:

Babysitter Needed — Good Pay, Flexible Hours. Call or text: [number]

No cartoon clipart. No desperate “please.” Just… straightforward.

You hesitated for all of thirty seconds before taking a picture. Babysitting wasn’t exactly your dream gig, but it beat mopping the dining hall floors for minimum wage.

By Friday evening, you were standing in front of a tidy little townhouse just off campus, clutching your tote bag like it was a shield.

The door swung open before you could even knock.

“You’re the babysitter?”

The girl standing there was not the sticky-fingered toddler you’d pictured. She was tall for thirteen, with sharp blue eyes, dark hair pulled into a messy braid, and an expression that suggested she’d already decided whether or not she liked you.

“Uh… yeah,” you said. “You must be Rebecca?”

“That’s me,” she said, stepping aside. “Shoes off, we have a no-shoe policy. Mom’s paranoid about dirt.”

You toed your sneakers off and followed her inside, bracing for some kind of awkward icebreaker. Instead, she plopped down on the couch, gestured for you to sit, and hit you with:

“So. What do you think about hockey players?”

You blinked. “Um… I think they probably smell like sweat and freezer burn?”

She smirked like she’d been given exactly the answer she wanted. “Noted.”

Rebecca was… a character. In the span of twenty minutes, she’d grilled you about your major (“Communications? Sounds fake but okay”), your hometown (“Never heard of it”), your relationship status (“Single? Excellent”), and your stance on pineapple pizza (“Wrong, but forgivable”).

You, in turn, discovered that she was startlingly smart, obsessed with cheesy horror movies, and had an alarming ability to roast you in a way that somehow felt affectionate.

Halfway through a bowl of popcorn, you realized you were actually having fun. Babysitting a thirteen-year-old was way easier than chasing a toddler around — Rebecca mostly just wanted someone to hang out with.

When her parents got home, you collected your pay, said your goodbyes, and walked back to your apartment thinking, Okay, this kid is great… but why does she even need a babysitter?

Upstairs in her room, Rebecca flopped onto her bed, phone in hand. She opened her messages and typed:

Rebecca: She’s perfect. Don’t mess it up.

The reply came back fast.

Bucky: What are you talking about???

Rebecca just grinned.

Brooklyn U was starting to feel… tolerable.

You had your schedule down, you knew which coffee shops had the cheapest refills, and, most importantly, you’d fallen in with a trio of people who made campus life a lot more interesting: Yelena, the Russian exchange student with the world’s most sarcastic sense of humor; Kate, who claimed she was “totally in the archery club” but had yet to show up to practice; and Peter, a science major who carried too many books and talked way too fast about molecules you’d never heard of.

They were chaotic, loud, and somehow made you feel like you belonged.

It was during one of your many treks between classes that you noticed him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Messy brown hair that looked like he’d just run a hand through it. Duffel bag slung over his back. He walked like he knew exactly where he was going — like everyone in the hallway should probably move out of his way.

You passed him once, then twice, then what felt like every other day. And each time, he’d glance at you — quick, like he wasn’t trying to be caught — and keep walking.

You figured he was just one of those familiar campus faces you’d never actually talk to.

What you didn’t know was that Bucky Barnes had been hearing about you for weeks.

Rebecca’s “babysitter updates” had become a regular feature in his life, sandwiched between hockey practice and late-night study sessions. According to her, you were “funny, but in a cool way,” “liked pineapple on pizza, which is a red flag but she’ll allow it,” and “had the best hair ever, don’t argue with me.”

Bucky had imagined you plenty of times — some sweet, wholesome babysitter who probably wore pastels and read storybooks. He didn’t expect you to be you — the new transfer student he’d been noticing in the halls since January.

Your first real almost-interaction was a total accident.

You were balancing a large iced coffee in one hand, your phone in the other, when the heavy door to the engineering building swung open right into your path.

He was holding it — that guy. Up close, you could smell a faint mix of cologne and… ice? Like the inside of a rink.

“Oh— thanks,” you mumbled, slipping past before your coffee could suffer a tragic fate.

He nodded once, watching you walk away, and then immediately hated himself for not saying something more.

It went on like that for over a week. Passing glances. Accidental near-collisions. The kind of thing where you were vaguely aware of each other but didn’t break the silent routine.

Until one Thursday night.

Thursday night, you were on the Barnes’ couch, babysitting as usual, helping Rebecca with her math homework (or at least pretending to — she spent more time trying to distract you with random trivia than actually solving anything).

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, and Rebecca scooped it up before you could reach it.

“Oh, it’s my brother,” she said casually, already answering. “Hey, Bucky. What’s up?”

Bucky was calling from his dorm — the nice dorms on the north side of campus, the ones with actual kitchens and single bedrooms. He usually only called to check in after practice, his voice still low and tired from skating drills.

“Nothing much,” he said, tossing his hockey stick onto his bed. “Just got back. Mom said you had the babysitter over tonight?”

Rebecca grinned, eyes flicking toward you. “Yeah, she’s here. We’re doing math—” She said the word like it was the most tragic thing imaginable.

From the couch, you leaned over and called, “Rebecca, can you hand me my notebook?”

You didn’t even think about it — you just hummed in confirmation when she passed it to you, distracted by trying to find your place in the problem set.

But on the other end of the line, Bucky went still.

That hum. That voice.

He’d heard it before — in the hallway, over the slam of heavy classroom doors, in passing when you mumbled a quick thanks for holding the door open.

Now, finally, it had a name.

Rebecca, oblivious to the weight of the moment, said it easily. “Here, Y/N.”

Bucky repeated it under his breath after they hung up, rolling it around like he was testing how it sounded.

You weren’t just the pretty girl he kept seeing on campus.

You were the babysitter Rebecca wouldn’t shut up about.

You didn’t know how Rebecca did it, but she did.

One second, you were sitting on the couch, flipping through Netflix options while she scrolled her phone. The next, the doorbell rang, and Rebecca sprang up like she’d been expecting it all night.

She came back with a gray cardigan draped over her arm.

“Bucky brought me my favorite cardigan from Mom’s,” she said innocently, tossing it onto the couch.

You glanced up in time to see him — tall, broad-shouldered, messy-haired — stepping inside, holding the door like he wasn’t sure if he should actually come in.

“Oh,” you said, straightening. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said, voice low, like it didn’t need to be any louder.

“This is my brother, Bucky,” Rebecca announced, somehow managing to make it sound like you weren’t already vaguely aware of his existence. “Bucky, this is Y/N.”

You smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.”

It should have ended there — polite hellos, a quick handoff, door closes. But Rebecca, master of manipulation, clapped her hands together.

“Oh! I left my charger upstairs,” she said, heading for the stairs. “You two can just… talk or something.”

And then she was gone.

Bucky lingered by the counter for a moment, hands in his hoodie pocket. You could hear her footsteps above, suspiciously slow for someone retrieving a charger.

“So,” you started, filling the silence, “you’re the hockey player.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. “She told you that?”

“She tells me a lot of things,” you said, smirking.

That made him chuckle — low, a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I play for the school team.”

You nodded. “I transferred here for my major, so I’m still figuring out who’s who. Apparently hockey is a big deal here?”

“Only when we’re winning,” he said, smiling just a little.

It was awkward at first, but not in a bad way — like you were both trying to find the right rhythm. Somewhere between discussing campus coffee spots and the absolute chaos of Rebecca’s movie tastes, you found yourselves actually laughing.

From upstairs, Rebecca yelled, “I heard that! My movie taste is excellent!”

That broke the tension completely — you both laughed, and suddenly the conversation felt easy.

When you left that night, Rebecca was already tucked into bed. Bucky lingered by the door as you put your shoes on.

“Bye, Y/N,” he said, and the way your name sounded in his voice did something weird to your chest.

After the door shut, Bucky wandered into the kitchen, where Rebecca was waiting with a smug look.

“…you didn’t tell me she was cute,” he muttered.

Rebecca smirked. “I literally did. Multiple times. And you’ve seen her around campus. Multiple times.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the faint smile stayed.

Bucky stayed in the kitchen a moment longer after you left, leaning on the counter like he was trying to piece something together. Rebecca sat across from him at the table, twirling a pen and looking far too pleased with herself.

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you planning?”

Rebecca blinked innocently, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes. “Planning? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “You ‘accidentally’ left your cardigan at Mom’s, I ‘just happened’ to bring it over, and you ‘forgot’ your charger upstairs. You think I don’t see through that?”

Rebecca gasped like he’d accused her of high treason. “Wow. Accusations. Hurtful ones.”

Bucky gave her the flattest look he could muster, but after a long pause, he sighed and shook his head. “Right. Whatever you say, Becca.”

She grinned as he grabbed his keys. “Drive safe!” she called after him, way too cheery.

The drive back to his dorm wasn’t long — ten minutes, tops — but it felt longer.

He’d been tired when he left practice earlier, but now his mind wouldn’t quiet down. You kept drifting into his thoughts — the way you smiled when you talked about your major, the way you’d laughed when Rebecca yelled from upstairs. That laugh had stuck with him. It was warm, easy, real.

By the time he pulled into the dorm parking lot, Bucky was already debating telling Steve. Not Sam — Sam would never let him live it down — but Steve? Yeah, Steve would probably just nod, maybe give some vague advice about “taking a shot.”

Not that Bucky was going to. …Probably.

–

Babysitting Rebecca had turned into… not really babysitting.

That Saturday, the two of you had spent the whole afternoon wandering — from a tiny café with too many plants, to a bookstore you promised you’d “just browse” (you didn’t), to a thrift shop where Rebecca insisted on trying on every ridiculous hat she could find.

By the time you got back to her house, your legs were tired, your bag was heavier, and you were convinced that Rebecca was part human, part Energizer Bunny.

Then she turned to you with that look. “We should go to my brother’s hockey game tonight.”

You blinked. “Your brother?”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Bucky. I’ve told you, like, a hundred times.”

Right. Bucky. The tall, broad-shouldered guy who showed up last week with the cardigan. The guy who, apparently, also played hockey. You’d filed that fact away and promptly forgotten it — until now.

“Come on,” she pressed. “Peter’s on the team too. You like Peter.”

You couldn’t argue with that logic.

By the time you and Rebecca got to the rink, the team was already warming up.

It took Peter all of three seconds to notice you. He grinned under his helmet, skated straight over, and practically slid to a stop in front of the glass.

“Y/N!” he called, tapping his stick against the boards. “Oh man, I didn’t know you were coming! You picked a good game, I’m feeling lucky tonight—”

You started laughing, because Peter’s energy was exactly the same on the ice as it was in class — frantic, excitable, and somehow still endearing.

Across the rink, Bucky heard that laugh.

It hit him like a shot of something strong — familiar and addictive. He glanced over, spotted you by the glass with Rebecca, and his stomach did a weird little flip.

Steve, skating by, noticed. “Go get your girl,” he teased.

Bucky gave him a look. “She’s not—”

“Wait, you have a girl?” Sam cut in from across the ice.

Bucky ignored them both and pushed off toward Peter, who was still talking your ear off.

Peter had barely finished his excited monologue when a shadow fell over you.

Bucky skated up, helmet under his arm, stick balanced casually in one hand. Up close, in full gear, he looked… huge. Broader, taller, like the pads weren’t just protective — they were made to make people like you lose coherent thought.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low but warm. “Didn’t know you were coming to the game.”

You tilted your head, pretending you weren’t affected by the sight of him. “Didn’t know you played hockey.”

That smirk — subtle, one corner of his mouth tilting up like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Guess we’re both learning things tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like the fact you have a whole fan section?” You gestured to the cluster of students in the stands already holding up handmade signs with his number.

He leaned in slightly — enough that you could catch the faint scent of ice and clean soap under the chill of the rink air. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to see if I’m worth cheering for.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m here for you,” you shot back, lips twitching.

He chuckled, gaze flicking from your eyes to your mouth for just a second too long. “Yeah? Then who are you here for?”

“Peter,” you said instantly, deadpan.

Peter, who was still standing right there, blinked. “Wait—”

Bucky shook his head, grinning. “Yeah, I don’t buy that for a second.”

“You should probably focus on warming up,” you teased, taking a step back toward the glass.

He held your gaze as he started to skate backward, slow and smooth. “Don’t worry, doll. I play better when there’s a reason to show off.”

Your cheeks went warm, and Rebecca immediately pounced on it, muttering under her breath, “Pathetic. Both of you.”

The game itself was a blur — lots of shouting, the thud of pucks against the boards, Peter making dramatic saves, and the crowd roaring when Bucky scored. More than once, you caught his eyes flick toward the stands. You didn’t look away.

After the final buzzer, the team flooded the ice. You waited by the exit with Rebecca until Bucky came walking over, helmet off, hair damp, jersey clinging in all the worst-best ways.

He looked good. Criminally good. And you shoved that thought deep, deep down before it could go anywhere dangerous.

Peter passed by, giving you a high-five and saying something about “celebration pizza.” The rest of the team wasn’t subtle — there were smirks, nudges, and at least one very loud “That’s her?!” that made Bucky glare.

You’d just stepped out into the crisp night air when you froze.

Your tote bag — the one with your keys — was still sitting on Rebecca’s couch, right where you’d dumped it earlier. You groaned. “Oh, no.”

Bucky, halfway to his car, looked over. “What?”

“I left my keys at your parents’ place,” you admitted, rubbing your temple. “And Rebecca’s with me so…”

Rebecca perked up, clearly already enjoying this. “Guess you’ll have to take us home, Buck.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a grin — soft, but with just enough teasing to make your stomach flip. “Sure, sweetheart,” he said easily. “But what’s the magic word?”

You groaned, half-laughing. “Really?”

He leaned his weight on one skate, still grinning. “What’s the magic word?”

You gave him your most exaggerated eye-roll, but the second your gaze met his, you felt the heat creep into your cheeks. “Please,” you muttered.

It wasn’t the teasing that got you — it was the sweetheart. You’d met him twice before tonight, and somehow, without warning, he’d shifted from awkward and quiet to casually flirty in a way that felt… dangerous.

The three of you piled into his car, Rebecca immediately stretching out in the backseat with her phone. You slid into the passenger seat, trying not to notice the way the cabin smelled faintly of his cologne and the lingering cold from the rink.

You both started the ride in easy conversation — talking about the game, how Peter had managed to block an impossible shot, Rebecca chiming in now and then with her brutally honest play-by-play.

But somewhere between the first red light and the turn onto his parents’ street, you realized you’d unconsciously shifted closer.

Bucky’s hands tightened on the wheel — not in frustration, but like he was keeping them there on purpose, steady, controlled. Like if he didn’t, one might end up resting casually on your thigh, and that… would change everything.

You kept your eyes on the road ahead, pretending you didn’t notice the way his jaw flexed every time you laughed at something Rebecca said.

If he noticed your flushed cheeks in the glow of the dashboard lights, he didn’t comment.

The drive back to his parents’ place felt shorter than it should have, and before you knew it, Bucky was pulling up in front of the familiar little townhouse.

Rebecca didn’t even wait for the engine to shut off before she was out the door, muttering something about a group chat emergency.

Bucky chuckled under his breath. “Guess she’s got places to be.”

You laughed quietly, watching her dart up the walkway. “Yeah, apparently she’s a very busy thirteen-year-old.”

The sound of your laugh lingered in the air between you — softer now without the noise of the rink or Rebecca’s commentary. That’s when it hit you.

It was just you two.

You turned to him slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks for the ride, Bucky.”

He met your eyes, and without even thinking about it, said, “Of course. Anytime, angel.”

The word slipped out so naturally that it caught him off guard — but not as much as it caught you.

Your brows lifted, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “So first doll, then sweetheart, now angel?” you teased. “You’re gonna have to be careful. I might start to think you like me, Bucky.”

It was playful — but to you, it wasn’t just a joke. And to him, it wasn’t either.

His mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “Yeah… I would have to.”

But then he was just looking at you. Really looking.

Noticing the way the streetlights caught in your eyes, how the corners of your mouth tilted up like you were trying not to smile too much. It wasn’t lust — it was… something deeper. Something heavier.

He was falling. And he knew it.

You broke the moment first, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Night, angel,” he said softly, watching you head up the walkway.

When he finally pulled away, the silence in the car was deafening.

He kept replaying it — the closeness, the way you’d teased him about the nicknames, the way “sweetheart,” “doll,” and now “angel” had rolled off his tongue like they’d always belonged to you.

And he had to remind himself — hard — that you were his little sister’s babysitter.

Nothing more. Nothing he could let himself want more.

But damn, he was in trouble.

It started small. A coffee here, a hallway there. Little things that didn’t seem like anything at first.

At least, that’s what Bucky told himself.

1. Coffee Shop “Coincidences”

The first time he saw you at the campus café, you were tucked into the corner by the window, laptop open, headphones in, sipping something pale green with a pinkish swirl at the bottom.

The second time, he asked Peter — casually, in the locker room — if he knew what you drank. Peter didn’t even look up from lacing his skates. “Matcha with raspberry syrup and oat milk. She gets it all the time.”

Bucky stored it away like a secret.

The next week, he timed his morning so he just happened to walk in as your drink was being made. When the barista slid it onto the counter, he picked it up before you could.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “On me.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “And how’d you know my order?”

He shrugged, smirking just enough to make your stomach flip. “Lucky guess.”

2. The Campus Gravity

After that, you started noticing him more — in the quad, by the library, passing through the science building you swore he had no reason to be in.

Kate caught you watching him once and just smirked. Yelena wasn’t as subtle: “You’re staring. It’s gross. Do it less obviously.”

Meanwhile, Steve had become Bucky’s personal devil on the shoulder. “You’re circling each other like you’re in a nature documentary,” Steve said after practice one day. “Just ask her out.”

Bucky shoved him. “She’s my sister’s babysitter, punk.”

Steve only grinned. “Uh-huh. And you ‘coincidentally’ ran into her three times this week?”

3. The Movie Night That Wasn’t Planned

It was a Friday, and you were sprawled on the Barnes’ couch with Rebecca, halfway through a cheesy romcom, when the front door opened.

You looked up to see Bucky, keys in hand. “Forgot something,” he said, though he didn’t actually pick anything up.

Rebecca, suspiciously unfazed, went back to watching.

Bucky hovered for a second, then nodded toward the TV. “What are we watching?”

“Some movie Becca picked,” you said with a small smile. “She says it’s a classic. I say she’s lying.”

He chuckled and sat down at the other end of the couch. “Just for a minute.”

The minute turned into two hours.

Somewhere between bad dialogue and Rebecca’s sarcastic commentary, the three of you fell into easy conversation — the kind where you didn’t notice time slipping by.

By the time Rebecca was curled up and dozing against the armrest, it was just you and him, voices lower, talking about music, favorite places in the city, little pieces of your lives you didn’t usually share.

At one point, your knees brushed. Neither of you moved them away.

When you finally glanced at the clock, your stomach sank a little. “I should go.”

“Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t sound like he meant it.

You grabbed your bag and offered a quiet, “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Night, angel,” he murmured — and this time, it wasn’t accidental.

Bucky couldn’t sleep.

Not because he wasn’t tired — hell, practice had wrecked him earlier — but because the moment he shut his eyes, he was back on the Barnes’ couch.

You were there, your knee brushing his. The TV was playing something dumb, and Rebecca was chiming in with commentary that had you laughing under your breath.

That laugh. God, it wasn’t even loud. Just soft and warm, and it stuck to him like sugar.

He remembered the way you leaned toward him when you said something quietly so Rebecca wouldn’t hear. The way your eyes lit up when he told you about his favorite late-night diner.

The way he almost didn’t want you to leave.

He shifted under the covers, dragging a hand over his face.

This was bad.

You were his little sister’s babysitter. Off limits. Too close. Complicated.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t.

Except… He already was.

He was memorizing your smile. The exact shade of your eyes when the light hit. The fact that your favorite drink was something he’d never even tried before, but now he wanted to.

He was already in too deep, and there was no pulling back now.

Bucky let out a groan, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

“You’re in trouble, Barnes,” he muttered to himself.

But all he could hear was that laugh. All he could feel was that brush of your knee.

And the worst part? He didn’t even want to forget.

By the time February rolled around, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t notice him.

It was impossible — he was everywhere. In the hallway outside your class, leaning against the wall with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. At the coffee shop, showing up exactly two minutes after you, drink already in hand. (Matcha, raspberry syrup, oat milk. He’d memorized it.)

And lately… the way he looked at you? It wasn’t nothing.

Your friends had noticed. Yelena and Kate didn’t even try to be subtle about it anymore — whispering, elbowing each other, passing actual folded-up notes in class like it was high school.

Peter? Peter was a disaster of a wingman. The kind that loudly mentioned, “Oh yeah, Bucky said you looked really good yesterday,” in the middle of the dining hall line.

On Bucky’s side, Steve and Sam had taken to exchanging the look every time your name came up.

“Barnes, you’re hopeless,” Sam said once, grinning like he’d just caught him doing something illegal.

You weren’t jealous.

Of course you weren’t.

You didn’t do jealousy — it was petty, it was messy, and besides… it wasn’t like Bucky Barnes was yours to be jealous about.

And yet—

You’d been halfway across the quad when you saw him. Standing under the bare winter branches, his hair damp from a morning shower, jacket unzipped just enough to show the hoodie underneath.

And next to him — Natasha Romanoff. She was stunning, obviously. Tall, red hair catching the light, laughing like he’d just told the world’s funniest joke.

You didn’t slow down. Didn’t even blink. Just took a sip of your coffee and kept walking like your chest wasn’t twisting up for no reason.

You weren’t jealous. You weren’t.

Then his gaze found you. It was immediate. The second he saw you, his smile changed — softer, warmer, almost private. Natasha said something else, but his eyes didn’t leave yours.

By the time you passed, you’d convinced yourself that funny little ache had been something else. The cold, maybe. Definitely not jealousy.

That night after the game, it happened.

The rink hallway was quieter than usual, echoing with the distant roar of the crowd. You’d been leaning against the wall, waiting for Rebecca, when he appeared.

Still in his gear — chest protector off, but the rest making him look impossibly tall. His hair was damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the cold, jaw still tense from the last period.

“You came,” he said, voice warm in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Rebecca dragged me,” you replied, smiling despite yourself.

He grinned, stepping closer. “Glad she did.”

Something about the way he said it — low, deliberate — made your pulse trip.

You were suddenly very aware of how close he was. The faint smell of his cologne mixed with the ice rink. The heat rolling off him. The way his eyes flickered between yours and… lower.

It was one of those seconds that felt like an hour.

Neither of you moved at first — just… existing in that fragile, humming space between almost and too much.

You could feel your breath catch, could swear his did too. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he should.

He leaned in — barely, just enough for the air to shift —

“BUCKY!”

The shout from Steve snapped the moment like a twig.

You stepped back instantly, your laugh coming out a little too fast, too casual. “Guess your ride’s here.”

His smile was small but knowing. “Guess so.”

Later, lying in bed, you told yourself it was better this way. Better to keep whatever this was tucked neatly away.

But you could still feel it — the ghost of what almost happened. And you weren’t sure denial would keep working much longer.

Bucky collapsed onto his bed, freshly showered, towel still clutched loosely around his waist. The warmth of the water hadn’t been able to wash away the thought of you.

The memory of your laugh in the rink hallway was lodged in his chest, twisting tight like a vine he couldn’t pry free. And the way your knee had brushed against his—innocent, accidental, but enough to ignite every nerve ending in his body.

He tried to deny it. No. You can’t. She’s Rebecca’s babysitter. But denial was useless. Absolutely useless.

His head hit the pillow, but sleep didn’t come. His mind replayed the near-kiss over and over, each second more electric than the last.

Finally, exhaustion won, and he drifted.

He didn’t even realize the bed was his dreamscape until he felt your warmth against him. Your hair fell in soft waves, brushing his chest. Your hands tangled in his wet hair, fingers tracing the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

“Bucky…” you whispered, but it wasn’t a question, it was a tease, a sound that made his stomach twist. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, memorizing the softness of your skin.

You laughed quietly against his lips, that sound that had haunted him all day, and he pressed closer, deepening the kiss. It was slow, tantalizing, full of restrained fire, like the world had shrunk to only the two of you.

Your hands roamed to his shoulders, then slid down his arms, feeling the warmth and strength beneath. He gripped your waist tighter, drawing you impossibly close. His lips traveled down your neck, leaving soft, desperate kisses along your jaw, your collarbone, the curve where your necklace rested.

Every inch of you was intoxicating, and every small gasp, every soft moan, made his pulse spike. He wanted to memorize every inch of you — not just your body, but the way you breathed, the way your eyes sparkled when you smiled in the middle of a kiss.

You tugged him closer by the back of his neck, and the world melted away. Time didn’t exist. It was just you, him, and the quiet, haunting melody of “False God” playing somewhere in the background:

I know heaven's a thing, I go there when you touch me Honey, hell is when I fight with you

He kissed along your neck again, soft but urgent, trailing down to your collarbone. You pressed into him, sighing, and Bucky felt a rush of heat he couldn’t control. His hands were on your waist, your hips, memorizing every curve, every movement.

You whispered something, but he didn’t hear the words. He only knew the feeling — the ache, the pull, the need. Your body fit perfectly against his, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself completely succumb to the desire, the longing, the love he’d been denying.

Every brush of your fingers against his skin was fire. Every soft laugh, every teasing word, was a spark that set him ablaze. He wanted to hold you forever, bury himself in you, and never let go.

Then, impossibly, the dream deepened — his lips found yours again, slow, teasing, then passionate, hungry. Your hands in his hair, his on your waist, his body molding to yours. Every kiss was soft but electric, tender but scorching.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that it was a dream. He felt you. He felt you like he had never felt anyone before.

When he finally woke, gasping, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart still racing, he realized it didn’t matter if it was real or not. Sweat clung to his skin, heart hammering in his chest. His feelings weren’t a dream. They were raw, undeniable, and unstoppable. 

The room was dark. The dorm was quiet. And yet… it all felt too real. Your laugh, your touch, your warmth pressed into him as if you’d never left.

Bucky sank back into his pillow, staring at the ceiling, panting slightly.

I can’t deny it anymore.

The name “you” was on his lips in a whisper, as if saying it out loud might make it more real — and maybe terrifyingly, he wanted it to be.

He wasn’t just thinking about you anymore. He needed you.

I’m completely… and utterly… done for, he thought.

It had been days since Bucky’s dream, but the way he couldn’t stop thinking about you? Yeah… that wasn’t fading. Every time he saw you on campus, heard your laugh, or caught a glimpse of you, his chest tightened. But the lines… the damn lines were blurred. Babysitter. His sister. And yet every glance, every small brush of your hand, set his brain on fire.

You weren’t innocent in this either. Stolen glances, subtle touches that lingered a beat too long, the teasing smiles — you both were in deep trouble, but neither of you would admit it.

Then came the thing that knocked your carefully curated denial out of the water. You saw him. With another girl. Not Nat, not anyone you knew — just some girl laughing at something he said, leaning close, his arm brushing hers. You froze, stomach twisting, heart hammering. And the worst part? He didn’t even look your way.

You swore you were not jealous. Absolutely not. Just… irritated. Irritated that you weren’t the one catching his attention. Yelena and Kate noticed the flash of something in your eyes and raised their eyebrows, clearly confused.

Later, you were with Rebecca, “babysitting,” which mostly meant walking her through snacks, doodling on the floor, and exchanging inside jokes. She was jabbering about Bucky, but you weren’t listening — too busy swirling the chocolate milk in your cup and replaying what you saw earlier.

Rebecca, being Rebecca, noticed immediately. Her sly smile appeared, and without saying a word, she texted Bucky: “Get your ass over here. NOW.”

Bucky saw it. He groaned because he had zero plans to come over to his parents’ place, but Rebecca was demanding, and you couldn’t refuse her. He slammed his locker shut after practice, muttering, “Fuck,” and started driving.

You were in the kitchen, expecting the pizza delivery Rebecca had promised, when you opened the door…

And there he was.

Bucky. Standing in the doorway. Hockey bag slung over his shoulder, hair messy, the faint smell of sweat and cologne still lingering. Your stomach did that stupid flip, the one that had been happening every time he was near.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, like he’d been holding it in all day.

You froze. Pizza forgotten. Heart pounding. Somehow, even without the dream, without the near kisses, the closeness in the car rides, he managed to pull all your attention into him.

He stepped inside, glancing around like he half-expected Rebecca to be back any second. “She sent me,” he muttered. “Apparently, I’m needed.”

You tried to play it cool, leaning against the counter, but your hands were shaking. “Yeah… apparently.”

And just like that, all the tension, the teasing, the unspoken feelings, the jealousy — it all hung in the air. Thick. Hot. Impossible to ignore.

Bucky’s gaze found yours, slow, assessing, and for a moment, it felt like he was trying to read every thought in your head. Your heart thudded like it was trying to escape your chest, and Bucky, oh god, Bucky — he looked just as wrecked.

“No pizza,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Just me.”

And you both knew… this was the moment. The moment all the tension, all the denial, all the teasing had been building toward.

And neither of you could ignore it anymore.

You’re still standing in the doorway, trying to keep your cool, when a tiny, bratty voice yells from upstairs:

“I’m not coming downstairs until whatever this is is fixed!”

Rebecca. Of course.

Bucky exhales, the kind of long, annoyed sigh only an older brother could pull off. “Ugh… seriously?” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

You can’t help it—you let out a small laugh, barely more than a breath, but enough to make him glance at you.

Rebecca, true to her word, stays upstairs. And suddenly it’s just the two of you.

The air between you is… electric. Scorching. Hands keep brushing, accidental yet purposeful, and every glance lingers too long. Your heart is racing, your chest tight, and your brain is screaming to do something before you explode.

Without even fully realizing it, you step closer, your hands reaching for him, and—pull him in.

Your lips meet his, and the world seems to vanish.

Bucky freezes for the fraction of a second… then melts. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck. The kiss deepens, soft but desperate, filled with everything you’ve both been holding back.

And somewhere upstairs, Rebecca screams: “YESSS!”

But the moment is shattered by reality. Bucky’s hand tightens slightly at your waist, then he steps back, his chest heaving, eyes full of torment.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice rough. “We… we can’t. You’re my sister’s babysitter.”

Your chest hurts, but you understand. You nod, and in a small, bittersweet gesture, you kiss his cheek. “I… I have to go. Pizza’s almost here.”

Bucky stands frozen, watching you go. He runs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. The room is quiet, except for Rebecca’s frantic voice from above:

“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED DOWN THERE?!”

And just like that, everything’s changed—but neither of you knows how to fix it yet.

The morning after that kiss, Bucky is lying in bed in his dorm, staring at the ceiling. Every detail is etched into his brain—the way your hands felt around his neck, the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way your laugh followed you even in his mind.

He runs a hand through his messy, still-wet hair and groans. This is impossible. He’s spiraling, because he knows he’s completely fucked, but also completely done denying it.

And it’s not just him. You’re spiraling too. Every time you see him on campus, your heart rate doubles. You find yourself walking past the café at odd hours, taking different routes to avoid running into him… and yet, somehow, the universe keeps colliding you two.

Rebecca, ever the instigator, finally drops the bomb: “I don’t care that he’s dating my babysitter. I want him too.”

Bucky’s brain immediately combusts. Fuckkkk.

But then reality hits—he sees you and Rebecca didn’t come to his next home game. He notices you avoiding eye contact in the halls, sitting with Yelena, Kate, and Peter, or arriving at the café at totally unpredictable times. Every little absence is a gut punch. He knows he has to make it right. He can’t let you think he doesn’t care… he just doesn’t know how to fix this without overstepping.

Meanwhile, everyone else has noticed. Steve and Sam are watching him like hawks.

“You’re spiraling, man. Just shoot your shot,” Steve says casually, arms crossed, smirking.

“Dude… you can’t, you can’t…” Bucky protests, but Sam just clowns him with a grin: “Oh, you can, Buck. You just need a plan.”

Bucky glares but knows they’re right. He’s been hiding behind “I can’t” for far too long. The teasing, the stolen glances, the brush of hands, the words unsaid… it’s all building, and something’s gotta give.

So he starts planning. Not a grand gesture yet, but little things. A coffee you like when he knows you’re coming. A way to “accidentally” run into you between classes. A message, carefully crafted, to remind you he still cares.

The tension is unbearable, but for the first time, Bucky is ready to fight for it.

And you? You’re feeling the pull too. Confused, flustered, heart racing… wondering why he can make you feel like the universe is spinning faster just by looking at you.

The stage is set. The tension is thick. And both of you are dangerously close to losing control entirely.

Bucky had tried. He really had.

Messages left unread, small gestures unnoticed, little notes that never got through… it was driving him insane. The more he tried, the more it felt like he was invisible. And that frustration? It turned into a spark of defiance.

“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath after practice, hair still damp from a quick shower in the locker room, hoodie half-draped over his sweats, low enough that you could see the way he moved with the effortless strength you’d been noticing for weeks.

He drove straight to his parents’ house. And when he pulled up, he realized—you were there. With Rebecca. He hadn’t expected it, and the sudden surprise only made his heart beat faster. Rebecca had tipped you off, grinning slyly before slipping away to her room, leaving you two alone.

Bucky didn’t wait. He stepped forward, all confidence and nerves bundled into a single surge.

“I… I like you,” he blurted out, words tumbling fast, breath still catching from practice. “I like you too much. And I—” he ran a hand through his wet hair, hoodie sleeves brushing his knuckles, “I’ve been an idiot, hiding behind the whole… you’re my sister’s babysitter thing. But I can’t anymore. I’m sorry. Just… one more chance. I swear I won’t fuck it up.”

Your heart was racing, thudding so loudly it almost drowned out his words. You’d liked him, sure—but hearing him admit everything, seeing him standing there, flushed from exertion and emotion, your chest tightened.

You didn’t hesitate. You leaned forward, brushing your lips softly against his. Just a kiss—but it was everything. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and he melted into it like he’d been holding his breath for years.

Then, just as the world narrowed to the two of you, Rebecca burst in.

“FINALLY!” she yelled, hands on her hips, eyes sparkling like mischief incarnate.

You and Bucky froze for a second, hands still intertwined, lips parting, cheeks flushed like fire. And then, you laughed softly, eyes on each other, hearts synced in a way neither of you could deny.

Bucky’s grin was sheepish, shy—but triumphant. And you? You knew nothing was ever going to be the same again.

It was late—well past the hours you were supposed to be watching Rebecca—and the air was quiet in that soft, spring-night way, where even the wind seemed to hush.

Bucky insisted on walking you to your car. “It’s dark,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The streetlight above spilled golden light over you, painting your skin in warm tones that made his chest ache. You were talking—something about Rebecca’s homework, or maybe about Kate and Yelena’s latest chaos—but he wasn’t really hearing the words.

Half of him was listening. The other half? Was locked on the way your lips moved, the curve of your smile, the way your lashes caught the light when you glanced up at him.

His hand settled naturally at your waist, warm and steady. His other hand found yours, fingers threading together with ease like it had always been meant to happen.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked suddenly.

You stopped mid-sentence, eyes lifting to meet his. Your lashes dipped, your voice soft but certain: “Yes… you can.”

He didn’t hesitate.

The kiss started soft, careful, like he was testing the edges of something sacred. But then your fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a low groan from him—and that was all it took for the restraint to shatter.

Bucky kissed you deeper, hungrier, like he’d been waiting far too long for this exact moment. He pressed you gently but firmly against your car door, the metal cool against your back, his body warm and solid in front of you.

He chased your lips like a man starved, each kiss melting into the next. One of his hands stayed tangled in yours, the other firm at your waist, pulling you closer.

By the time you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing like you’d run a marathon. His forehead rested against yours, and there was that smile—the one that looked like it belonged to you now.

And you knew, without a doubt, that Bucky Barnes was a damn good kisser.

The next morning was supposed to be ordinary.

It wasn’t.

You’d woken up with the taste of his kiss still lingering, like some beautiful secret you couldn’t wash away. The way his hands had held you—firm, certain, like he knew exactly where you belonged—was imprinted in your skin.

Every time you caught yourself smiling, you’d scold yourself. But it didn’t work. He was everywhere—in the way your lips still tingled, in the way your chest tightened when you remembered how good he’d felt pressed against you.

Bucky was no better.

Practice felt like a blur. He kept zoning out—stick idle in his hand, eyes unfocused—because all he could see was you. The way the light had caught in your hair, the little hitch in your breath when he’d leaned in, the way your fingers had tugged at his hair like you’d known exactly what that would do to him.

And the lyrics kept looping in his head, uninvited but relentless:

Religion’s in your lips. Even if it’s a false god, we’d still worship.

He thought about that dream—the one where you’d been on his lap, where your hands had been in his hair and your laugh had been soft against his mouth. And now, after last night, it wasn’t just a dream. It was real. You were real.

It was terrifying.

It was addicting.

He caught himself in the locker room mirror, wet hair dripping into his eyes, and muttered under his breath, “I’m so fucked.”

The tension between you didn’t ease. If anything, it tightened, humming in the air like a live wire.

A glance across the café when you both happened to be there. The brush of his hand against yours when you passed by him in the hallway. That almost-smile when he caught your gaze before quickly looking away.

Every small touch, every lingering look—it was worship in its own way. Quiet. Dangerous. Consuming.

And neither of you wanted it to stop.

It happened in the middle of a Tuesday.

You were with Yelena and Kate, tucked into the corner of the student lounge while Peter was off at the vending machine, swearing he’d return with snacks.

Across the room, Bucky was with Sam, Steve, and Nat. He wasn’t even pretending to listen to their conversation. His eyes kept flicking to you—like he was starving and you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

It was torture. It was magnetic.

You were leaning back against the wall, earbuds in, lost in whatever playlist had gotten you through the day. The world around you was noise—until you felt it.

The shift. That pull.

When you looked up, he was already moving. Bucky Barnes—hair a little messy, jaw tight like he was fighting something inside himself—cutting through the crowd like there was no one else in the room.

Sam was saying something. Steve glanced over like he knew. Nat’s smirk was too knowing.

And then his hand was on your wrist. Warm. Firm. Not asking, but not rough. Just—needing.

“Hey—” you started, but he was already steering you toward the quiet, down a side hallway most people forgot existed.

The air back here was different. Close. Private.

You laughed under your breath, half in disbelief. “Is this your idea of romance, Barnes?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, slow and lazy, but there was a storm in his eyes. “Maybe. Maybe not. Whatever you fancy.”

He noticed the cord dangling from your hoodie, brushing his knuckles against it before tugging gently. “What’re you listening to?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but he didn’t wait. He leaned in, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath, and slipped one earbud into his ear.

Taylor’s voice spilled into the space between you.

But we can patch it up good, make confession And we're begging for forgiveness, got the wine for you…

He stilled. Like the song meant something to him before you even knew it existed. Like now it would mean even more.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. And that was it.

The kiss started soft—careful, almost reverent—but it built in seconds. Like every moment you’d both held back had been loaded into this one, waiting to go off.

His lips moved with yours in a rhythm that felt dangerous and safe at the same time. Your fingers found the collar of his hoodie, tugging him closer until your chest brushed his.

That small tug on his hair made him groan—a low, quiet sound that made your knees feel unreliable.

Bucky deepened the kiss like he’d been starved for you. Like he wasn’t sure when he’d get to taste you again, so he was making every second count.

One of his hands stayed on your hip, thumb brushing over the fabric of your hoodie like he was memorizing it. The other found its way to the small of your back, pulling you just enough that your bodies fit together.

You could feel his smile against your lips, feel the way he lingered like he didn’t want to stop, like maybe stopping was going to physically hurt him.

When he finally did, it wasn’t to let go. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, eyes still closed, breath uneven.

You teased—soft, but unable to help yourself. “You always steal girls into empty hallways to kiss them?”

He let out a quiet laugh, but instead of answering, he tucked his face into the curve of your neck, his stubble brushing your skin. The sound of his chuckle was low, warm, and it sank into your bones like something you’d crave forever.

You’re the West Village You still do it for me, babe…

In that hallway, it didn’t matter if anyone else knew. The only thing that existed was the feel of his hands on you, the taste of his lips, and the knowledge that you’d both just crossed a line you’d never want to go back from.

–

You should’ve known something was up the second you saw Bucky’s beat-up car in the driveway when you pulled in. It wasn’t a holiday. It wasn’t a family dinner night. And judging by the fact that he was leaning against the counter with a smug little smirk when you walked in, this wasn’t a coincidence.

Rebecca noticed too. “Seriously?” she deadpanned. “What are you even doing here?”

Bucky just shrugged, that casual, oh-I’m-innocent act that fooled no one. “What, I can’t visit my kid sister?”

“You never visit me,” she shot back, arms crossed. “You only show up when she’s here.”

You felt heat climb up your neck, but before you could say anything, Bucky pressed a hand to his chest like she’d wounded him. “Wow. Rude. You think I’m here for the babysitter?”

Rebecca didn’t even blink. “You are here for the babysitter.”

“Maybe I just missed Mom’s cooking,” he tried again.

“She’s at work,” Rebecca deadpanned.

You had to bite back a laugh. “I’m just gonna… start on dinner.”

You didn’t make it three steps before Bucky’s arm hooked around your waist, pulling you back against him. “Nope,” he said, voice low in your ear. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Bucky…” you warned, but you could hear the smile in your own voice.

“Rebecca’s old enough to take care of herself,” he said.

“I’m thirteen!” Rebecca shouted from the couch.

“Exactly,” Bucky said, not missing a beat. “Practically grown.”

Rebecca groaned, flopping back dramatically. “I miss when my babysitter wasn’t my brother’s girlfriend.”

“We’re not—” you started, but Bucky cut in with, “You heard her. Girlfriend.”

You elbowed him lightly, but he just laughed, tightening his hold on you like you were the only anchor he needed in the room.

The rest of the night was hopeless. Every time you tried to move—whether it was to get Rebecca a snack or grab something from your bag—Bucky was there, finding some excuse to keep you close. Sitting beside you on the couch, his arm draped over the backrest until it found your shoulders. Following you into the kitchen under the guise of “helping” but really just leaning against the counter and watching you like you were the most interesting thing in the world.

Rebecca groaned through all of it. You laughed through all of it. And Bucky? He just looked like a man who had no intention of letting you out of his sight.

The kitchen was warm, the soft simmer of pasta sauce filling the air while you tried—emphasis on tried—to focus on cooking.

Bucky, fresh from God knows where, was leaning against the counter like he owned the place. His hair was still slightly damp, his hoodie sleeves pushed up in that effortlessly dangerous way, and his eyes? Yeah, they weren’t on the sauce.

You were mid–stir when you felt his hands on your waist. “Bucky…” you warned without looking up.

“What?” he said, voice dripping with fake innocence. “Can’t I make sure the chef’s doing okay?”

“You mean check on me,” you corrected.

“Mmm,” he hummed, dipping down before you could even move, stealing a kiss despite your tomato-covered hands. His lips lingered, soft but smug, like he’d been waiting all day for that moment.

And then— “OH MY GOD, GET OFF MY BABYSITTER!”

Rebecca. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed like she was about to shut down illegal activity.

Bucky didn’t move an inch. “No.”

“Yes,” she shot back.

“No,” he repeated, pulling you closer like you were about to be wrestled away from him.

“Yes—”

And just like that, it was on.

Rebecca stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “Remember when I texted you to come over because she was upset? When I played wingwoman for your sorry ass?”

Bucky scoffed, one arm still locked around you. “Oh, you mean after I suggested to Mom and Dad that they get a babysitter in the first place?”

Rebecca gasped, pointing at him like she’d been betrayed. “You’re acting like you invented her!”

“I’m saying,” he began, holding his chin high like this was a courtroom battle, “that if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have the best babysitter in the state—”

“—That YOU’RE trying to steal!” she interrupted.

“It’s called sharing, Becca. Look it up.”

At that point, you sighed, sliding out of his arms for just long enough to hand Rebecca a lollipop from the jar. Then you turned, reached up, and kissed Bucky’s cheek.

Silence. Rebecca froze mid-rebuttal. Bucky melted instantly, a dumb grin taking over his face.

You went back to the stove like nothing happened, but Rebecca wasn’t done. “You better ask her out soon or I will,” she threatened.

“Oh, don’t worry, Becca,” Bucky said with a smirk only a Barnes could pull off. “I have plans.”

And by plans, he meant the secret notepad on his phone filled with ideas for dates—late-night drives, bookstores, that little pier by the lake.. Because Bucky Barnes,  hopeless and clingy and lovesick, and honor-bound in battle against his little sister, was yours.

Your hopeless, loving loser.

EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA!!

Bucky sat hunched over the booth table, phone in hand, jaw clenched in deep concentration. Across from him, Steve, Sam, and Nat sipped their coffees, watching like he was diffusing a bomb.

“Okay,” Bucky finally said, scrolling. “Hear me out—Option One: sunrise at the pier. Coffee from that place she loves, fresh croissants, maybe a blanket because mornings are still cold.”

Nat raised an eyebrow. “That’s… shockingly thoughtful.”

“Shockingly?” Bucky shot her a look. “What, you think I’m some animal?”

“Yes,” Sam said without missing a beat.

Bucky ignored him. “Option Two: bookstore date. She told me once she likes that cozy one downtown. We could grab books for each other, then get lunch at the café next door.”

Steve smiled faintly, clearly impressed. “That’s actually—”

“Option Three!” Bucky cut in, eyes lighting up. “Rooftop movie night. I’d set it up at my place, get fairy lights, a projector, popcorn, and…” He scrolled. “Her favorite candy. Even the weird ones nobody else likes.”

Nat was staring now. “Are you… keeping a list?”

“Yes,” Bucky said like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Title: ‘Operation First Date — Don’t Screw It Up.’”

Sam leaned over the table, peeking at his phone. “Barnes, this is like… twenty-seven ideas. You got horseback riding on here? A pottery class? A road trip to the coast?”

“She mentioned she’s never seen the lighthouse,” Bucky said defensively.

Steve leaned back, arms crossed, grinning. “You’re gone for her, man.”

Bucky just shrugged, scrolling to yet another idea. “I just… want it to be perfect, y’know? I’ve liked her for so long, I’m not screwing this up.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Sam snorted. “You’ve got it bad. Like, Conrad Fisher in season two bad.”

Bucky frowned. “Who the hell is Conrad Fisher?”

Nat smirked. “Don’t worry. Just… pick the date where you can’t chicken out.”

Bucky stared down at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I think I know which one.”

(You've got mail!) BUT WE COULD PATCH IT UP GOOD. This is was SO SO SO SOOOO SOLEY BASED OFF THE NEW TSITP EPISODE TEAM BONRAD. WE RIDE AT DAWN. FUCK JELLY!!! And also the fact this song played in the background was everything BUT THAT WASNT THE REASON WHYY I CHOSE IT, the real reason….was because it was based off a Edward Cullen edit. BUT YESSS I’m lowkey giggly over this!!! And YES I 100000% BELIEVE BUCKY IS LIKE A CONRAD. 100000000000000%. Here’s the TikTok link tho LOLLL

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck @peanutbutt3rcup @piatosniathenie @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @star-yawnznn @the-salty-asian

[pinksplace]

completely underestimated how hard it is to write while in a car

[pinksplace]

300 you guys are incredible I am just absolutely speechless thank you thank you thank you

200 followers??????????????

you guys are insane I am so touched and overwhelmed and grateful 😭❤️ Thank you thank you thank you thank you

[pinksplace]

oh my god 😭😭😭😭

I need HIM I need HIM this one specifically oh my god I fucking need him

distractions - bucky barnes

nerdy!bucky barnes x cheerleader!reader

summary. when you asked for help, bucky the genius was more than willing to help you out with your assignment. you definitely had no underlying motive. none at all. 3k words.

cw. um.. fingering/rubbing. heavy makeout. a little bit of dry humping/grinding. some nipple play. touching?? i dunno i think that's it. minors dni

a/n. hey guys. this was supposed to be a drabble while i work on the long fic. this is like a fun little fic i have that teases some stuff in that long ass prequel. also is 3k words long for short fic? idk if this classifies as a short fic or not. this is really just.. because i was bored. absolutely not proofread.

taglist. @54nboo @demiebarnes @kararchives @1dluver13xx @devililithh @iownguns @loki-licious-945ad @ruexj283 @henrywinterreincarnate @biggestfangirl @buckybuckybuckysstuff @mrsalexstan @pretty-girl-rock-3 @riot-sounds @ambervanth @hiraethmae @btwbaureidrc @overwintering-soldier @fluorjscent @sweetserendipity65

sorry if i missed anyone! just remind me in the comments :) /nf

part of this | masterlist

bucky was hunched in his fortress – the corner table 27 paces diagonally across the main aisle. completely engrossed in a massive tome on cognitive neuropsychology. the world had narrowed to the page, the dance of neurons and behaviours.

you moved like a ghost through the stacks and shelved in your red, white, and blue of your cheer uniform. your sneakers made no sound against the floor, not that he'd ever notice when he was nose deep into a book.

you reached his table, standing right behind his chair, watching the focus in the set of his shoulders under his grey cardigan, the way his dark hair flopped over his forehead.

a slow smile curved your lips. you leaned down for a split second before you placed both hands firmly on his shoulders and whispered, "boo!"

he yelped – a short, almost inaudible sound that broke through the library quiet – jerking violently in his chair like you'd just tried to rob him, causin the pen to go flying from his fingers.

"jesus-" he whipped his head around, eyes wide with genuine alarm.

then he saw you. trouble. the uniform, the smile on your face, the proximity between you two.

instant. nuclear. meltdown.

a tide of red flooded his face, sweeping from his hairline down his cheeks. even his ears.

he stared, mouth agape, poleaxed. "y-you!" he stammered, voice too loud before he remembered where he was and clamped his mouth shut, looking around to see if anyone noticed. "w-what... you scared me!"

"mission accomplished," you grinned, letting your hands slide slowly off his shoulders, feeling the tension in the muscles beneath the cardigan.

you pulled out the chair beside him and sat down, leaning close. you purposely let your knee brushing his under the small table. "missed me, smartypants?"

he flinched at the contact, pulling his knee back an inch, but couldn't tear his gaze away from yours. "i... uh... was... working," he managed, gesturing weakly at the pile of textbooks on the table. "concentration... requires... quiet." his blush deepened impossibly.

"oh, i'll be quiet," you murmured. you saw his breath hitch. "mostly. actually... i need your genius brain."

you pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper – a psychology worksheet on classical conditioning you'd barely glanced at.

"this assignment's kicking my pom-poms. pavlov? salivating dogs? rings a bell, but..." you shrugged, batting your eyelashes just a little because you know that drives him wild. "help a girl out?"

bucky stared at the paper like it was radioactive. then back at your face, then down at your knee close to his again. he swallowed hard enough to make his adam's apple bob.

"i... uh... pavlovian conditioning... it's... fundamental," he stammered, pushing his glasses up nervously with a knuckle shove.

"s-sure. i can... explain. sit." he gestured vaguely to your chair, as if you weren't already sitting. "the neutral stimulus... paired with the unconditioned stimulus..." he trailed off, his eyes snagging on the way the red and blue fabric of your uniform top stretched across your shoulder.

you let him flounder for a few seconds, watching the blush spread and the stammer worsen. then you sighed dramatically, checking the slim watch on your wrist.

"oh, shoot. look at the time." you stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. his head snapped up, filled confusion and lingering panic from the successful attempt at scaring him. "cheer practice. coach sarah'll have my head on a pike if i'm late for drills. ugh, more conditioning,"

he just blinked, still processing your movement. "b-but... the assignment?"

"right!" you leaned down, bracing one hand on the table near his elbow, putting your face level with his. you saw his pupils dilate slightly behind his lenses.

"how about... you come by my dorm? say... in two hours?" your voice was low, smooth, holding his gaze.

"you know where my room is. hawthorne hall. you can explain the whole... salivating thing... properly. and privately." you let the implication hang. your smile is pure, innocent trouble. "much quieter than here. fewer... distractions."

bucky froze. completely. the blush wasn't just on his face now; it seemed to engulf his entire fucking body.

he stared at you, lips slightly parted. his genius brain had visibly short-circuited. the invitation, the location, your proximity in that fucking uniform, the suggestive tilt of your head – it overloaded his system.

he opened his mouth. closed it. swallowed again. "y-your... dorm?" he squeaked.

"mmhmm," you hummed, straightening up but not breaking eye contact. "two hours. psychology tutoring. strictly academic. you know the drill." yet your tone was anything but academic. "you'll be there, right, jamie? my smartypants saviour?"

he was still staring, stunned, caught between terror and a dawning, flustered awareness. the stammer was gone, replaced by shock.

finally, he managed a nod, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to the safety of his textbook. "i... uh... yes. okay. i... i'll be there." the words came out rough, and barely audible.

"perfect," you smiled. you gave his shoulder one last squeeze. "don't be late. or i might start salivating out of sheer boredom." you turned, the vibrant colors of your uniform flashing against the dull colour of the books around him.

this leaves him sitting in his chair with face burning and heart pounding out of his chest, staring blindly at pavlov's dogs on the sheet of paper you left while the scent of your vanilla shampoo and the promise of room 312 in the hawthorne hall hung heavy in his mind.

the library fortress felt suddenly very small, and the path to your dorm loomed large and exciting.

bucky stood outside room 312 of hawthorne hall. his heart hammered a quick rhythm against his ribs.

he'd spent the last two hours in a state of near-paralysis, trying to review the psychology worksheet. the words eventually blurred into meaningless shapes as thoughts of you in that uniform, whispering about your dorm, flooded his mind. he'd changed his cardigan twice, dithered over which textbook to bring, nearly turned back three times.

now, he stood there, fist hovering inches from the painted wood, knuckles pale. he took a shaky breath, steeling himself to knock.

then there was you. you'd spent the last two hours with anticipation, even during practice. the image of him hunched in the library, flustered by your invitation, fueled your impatience further.

now, you watched through the peephole – his fist hovering inches from the wood, taking a breath as he prepared himself to knock.

cute. adorable.

before he could knock, you yanked the door open.

your fingers closed around the cotton of his shirt collar. with a tug, he stumbled forward.

the door slammed shut behind him with a thud, plunging you both into the dim, warm light of your dorm with the scent of your vanilla perfume, clean laundry, and shared excitement.

"wh—" he managed to say before it cut off as his back hit the door.

the psychology worksheet fluttered from his fingers, forgotten before it hit the floor.

you were pressed against him instantly. the red, white, and blue of your cheer uniform was a stark contrast against his grey cardigan and brown pants.

your hands flew up, framing his face as you tangled your fingers ar the hair on his temples. your eyes locked onto his for a split second – his shock magnified by his glasses.

then your mouth was on his.

it wasn't gentle. it was desperate, needy. lips crushing against his with insistent demand.

a shocked sound escaped him, muffled against your mouth. he froze for a moment, filled with pure, flustered terror.

then bt instinct, his hands, which had been hanging uselessly at his sides, came up clumsily, landing on your hips. his fingers dug softly into the fabric of your skirt.

he kissed you back, hesitant at first, then with a clumsy urgency that matched yours, his lips moving against yours with inexperience. or hesitation.

he tried to pull back for air, for sanity. "w-wait—" he gasped against your lips, "the— the assignment— pavlov— you n-need to—"

you cut him off with another kiss. one hand slid from his face down to fist in the fabric of his shirt over his pounding heart.

"shhh," you breathed against his mouth. "shut up, james." you kissed him again, deeper. your body presses him harder against the door. "just kiss me. stop thinking so much, genius."

he whimpered soft and flustered, lost in the kiss. his glasses were askew, fogging slightly as his hands on your hips shook slighly. "b-but... conditioning... the neutral stimulus... and paired responses..." he mumbled against your lips, the academic terms comng out in a nonsensical stream. his brain desperately clung to the familiar framework that his body fought against.

you pulled back just enough to look at him. "i don't care about the dogs right now," you murmured as you lifted your thumb to brush his cheek.

"i care about this." you leaned in again. "kiss me back. properly."

he shuddered. "o-okay," the word came out shakily. "okay." he surrendered, leaning into you this time. his kiss lost its clumsiness, gaining a tentative confidence. his hands tightened on your hips, and pulled you closer until there was no space left between you.

you hummed your approval, your fingers sliding from his shirt to the back of his neck, tangling in the hair at his nape.

"good," you whispered against his lips. "now touch me." you guided one of his trembling hands from your hip, sliding it slowly up your side, and under the hem of your top. his palm encountered the warm, smooth skin of your waist and he gasps, his fingers trembling against your skin.

"l-like this?" he stammered, his eyes were wide behind his fogged lenses, searching your face for permission, for guidance –  sweet, flustered idiot.

you let out a soft laugh against his mouth. "you know how to touch me. don't play dumb, genius." your other hand found the buttons of his cardigan, fumbling them open, pushing the soft wool off his shoulders.

it pooled on the floor behind him, forgotten.

your fingers traced the line of his collarbone through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. "touch me everywhere, bucky."

he obeyed, driven by your words. his hands still shook but they were bolder now, exploring the warm skin of your waist that he's so familiar with.

his thumb brushes the lower curve of your ribcage, while his other hand slid up your back, fingers tracing the line of your spine through the fabric of your top, before tangling them in your soft hair.

he kissed you less hesitantly now, more desperate than anything. his earlier ramble about classical conditioning was now forgotten, replaced by the overwhelming sensory input of you – the taste of your lips, the feel of your skin under his touch, the soft sounds you made against his mouth.

the library, the textbooks, the world outside room 312 ceased to exist.

there was only the door at his back, your body pressed against his, your mouth on his, and the desperate, consuming need to keep touching, keep kissing, just as you commanded.

his palms smoothed over the soft fabric of your skirt, coming to rest firmly on the outside of your thighs. "up," he breathed against your lips, barely audible amidst the kiss. "wrap... wrap your legs..."

you understood instantly. you hooked your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at his back. he groaned softly at the sudden intimacy, his hands instantly shifting to cup your ass, holding you.

the strength in those arms, hidden beneath the cardigan, was undeniable as he effortlessly took your weight. he broke the kiss just long enough to take a breath, pupils blown wide.

without a word, your arms looped tightly around his neck. you buried your fingers deep in his dark hair. he walked across the small dorm room. the only sounds were your kisses and the purposeful steps he took.

he reached your desk, cluttered with textbooks and discarded ribbons. he didn't hesitate, simply lowering you, gently but firmly, until your ass met the wooden surface. your legs remained locked around his waist.

he didn't step back. he leaned in immediately, reclaiming your mouth with another kiss that even surprised you, less hesitant now, with the new position.

his hands roamed. one slid back up your thigh, under the skirt, tracing the sensitive skin along the seam of your panties.

his other hand, those surprisingly strong, capable hands that usually danced across equations or traced lines in textbooks, were shaking under your top. but they weren't retreating. if anything, his hands seemed fueled by a desperate need of you.

"here?" he mumbles against yours lips. his thumb brushed experimentally, just beneath your breast where the fabric of your sports bra began.

his eyes behind the fogged lenses of his glasses, searched your face, terrified he'd crossed a line, even as his hand remained.

you arched into the touch, letting out a soft gasp, "yes," you murmured. "exactly there, genius. stop asking." you slid your own hands under his t-shirt, feeling the planes of his stomach. "touch me like you mean it."

he whimpered against your mouth. "i... i do... i just..." he stammered.

his fingers traced the lower edge of your sports bra, mapping the territory with hesitantation before sliding higher. his palm encountered your breast through the supportive fabric. "oh god... s-sorry... is this...?"

"don't you dare apologize," you commanded, pulling back just enough to see the panic with raw desire in his eyes.

you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his soft pants, tugging him closer against you, feeling the hard evidence of his arousal press against your clothed cunt. "you feel that? that's how much i want you to touch me. stop thinking. just feel."

the academic facade was crumbling, replaced by a needy hunger.

"f-feel," he echoed. his other hand, which had been tangled in your hair, slid down, fingers tracing the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your skirt near the small of your back. his touch was still hesitant, exploratory, like he'd never touched you before.

he leaned in, burying his face your neck. "you smell... so good," he mumbled against your skin. "like... vanilla."

you tilted your head, granting him better access as your fingers tightening in his hair. "then taste me," you whispered.

he obeyed, his lips moving down your throat, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses that grew less hesitant as he went on. his hand under your top grew more confident as his thumb finds your nipple through the sports bra and circling it slowly.

"bucky..." you said, lost in the sensation.

he pulled back slightly, hair messy where your fingers had gripped it. he looked wrecked, and undone.

"l-like that?" he asked, his thumb still circling your nipple. his eyes were pleading for confirmation, for permission to keep going. "does... does that feel...?"

you silenced him with another kiss, pouring your answer into it. your hands slid down his back, gripping his back under his t-shirt and pulling his hips harder against yours. the friction drew a moan from him, swallowed by your mouth. he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours.

"talk less," you ordered. "touch more. everywhere." you guided his exploring hand lower, past the waistband of your skirt. "show me how smart you really are, smartypants. figure out what i want."

he stared at you, the blush on his cheeks deepened impossibly. the flustered stammer was gone, replaced by a focus that mirrored the look he has when solving complex equations.

the pad of his thumb brushed the bare skin just above the elastic band of your panties, making you arch instinctively into him.

he kissed you deeply, desperately with books nudged aside and his hand under your skirt. his palm flattened against your inner thigh, sliding higher, touch searing through the cotton of your panties.

his thumb found the dampening fabric at the very center, rubbing slow circles that drew another gasp from you. your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging.

he pulled his mouth away from yours, forehead resting on yours. "the... the assignment..." he panted, his thumb still moving in those maddening circles. "pavlov... you... you really should... understand the... the responses..."

you cut him off with a kiss, "shut up, jamie," you shifted your hips against his hand, increasing the pressure. "kiss me. touch me. that's the only response i care about right now."

he whimpered. the mention of the assignment died instantly. "okay," he rasped, surrendering completely. "okay." he kissed you again, deeper and messier this time.

his hand followed your guidance, slipping beneath your underwear. his fingers encounter your cunt, already wet and nearly dripping for him.

his hand slid over the front of your panties, cupping you firmly. his fingers traced the outline of your heat through the soaked cotton.

he gasped, eyes snapping to yours. "oh... oh god... you're..." he couldn't finish the sentence. the words dissolved into a  moan as his fingers explored your pussy.

"yes," you arched into his touch. "like that. don't stop. don't you dare stop thinking about this." you tangled your hand back in his hair, holding him close.

he was clumsy at first, then he finds a rhythm guided by your gasps against his lips and the rocking of your hips against his hand.

he was driven by your response like operant conditioning, by the way your legs tightened around him.

the "conditioned response" was happening right here, right now, and bucky barnes, your brilliant, flustered genius, was proving to be a very quick, very eager learner.

the flustered genius was gone, replaced by a boy consumed by learning a new language written only on your face and expressions. his name became plea falling from your lips, and the only psychology that mattered now was the consuming connection between your bodies, pressed against the wall of room 312.

that 'assignment' was the furthest thing from either of your minds.

[pinksplace]

i’m gonna put him in my pocket

edit: ajkoqunam

[pinksplace]

just feel to my knees this was gorgeous and so well written and his characterization was so perfect and I loved it and wow

Oral History

clark kent x reader

Summary: Clark Kent is sweet. Respectful. Barely swears. Which is why you cannot stop thinking about what his ex drunkenly told Jimmy Olsen at trivia night: that Clark, apparently, is an oral god.

You try to ignore it. You spiral. You investigate. For journalism. Obviously.

Word count: 12k

T/w: 18+, mdni, reader is down horrendous lmao, Slow burn, friends to lovers, investigative journalism, a very thorough confirmation of the rumor, oral f. receiving, fingering, journalism banter, penetrative sex, overstimulation, mild dom!Clark, praise kink

“Wait. Clark?” You ask, staring across the bullpen unsure if you misheard or if Jimmy Olsen really just said what you think he did.

He doesn’t even look up from his slice of sad, congealed pizza. Just shrugs casually like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your conversation. “That’s what she said. The man’s apparently… gifted.”

There’s a full moment of silence where even Lois stops typing and starts processing what just left Jimmy’s mouth.

You slowly set your pen down. “Gifted,” you echo. “As in…?” But you already know. You’re just stalling. Hoping there’s a punchline. A twist. A clarification that doesn’t make your brain combust.

Jimmy, ever the menace, waggles his eyebrows. “Orally gifted.”

Lois makes a strangled sound behind her monitor. “Jesus Christ. Smallville? Really?”

“Right?” Jimmy says, too pleased with himself. “Trivia night. That bar over on Ninth. His ex got three margaritas in and just—boom. Confession central. She said she’s still not over him. Said no one compares. Said she…well, I won’t quote directly, but it involved sobbing and phrases like ‘life-altering’ and ‘transcendent tongue.’”

You stare at him.

“Clark Kent?” Your voice cracks on the second word.

Jimmy grins. “Clark ‘Aw Shucks’ Kent. Wouldn’t’ve believed it myself, but she was very convincing.”

Across the room, Lois mutters, “My therapist is going to love this.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy staring down at your notes, except your eyes are unfocused and your brain is a runaway train with no brakes.

Clark Kent.

Your coworker. Your friend. The man who still says “golly” unironically. Who blushes when the vending machine snacks get stuck and he has to ask for help. Who holds doors, compliments dogs, and types like he’s afraid the keyboard might get its feelings hurt.

That Clark Kent?

Gifted?

Like… mouth gifted?

You shift in your chair. Something about the word makes heat crawl up your neck.

You remember the way his lips part when he’s concentrating, when he’s reading a copy upside-down or over your shoulder. The way he bites his pen cap when he’s thinking. The way his mouth wraps around his spoon at lunch, slow and absentminded, like he’s not even aware of what he’s doing.

You shake your head. No. Absolutely not. This is a trap. A weird joke. There’s no way your sweet, clumsy, six-foot-four cinnamon roll of a coworker is secretly a sex god. It’s Clark. He blushes when you compliment his ties.

He says gosh darn it when he drops things or accidentally says something that could be perceived as even slightly mean.

But still…

Now you’re picturing it.

Clark on his knees, glasses slightly askew and fogged over, mouth open and reverent. Hands steady and strong. His voice low and coaxing. You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let me do all the work—yeah, just like that. So good for me.

You press your thighs together under the desk.

Lois is watching you. “You okay?” She asks.

You nod too fast. “Fine. Great. Normal. Completely normal.”

Jimmy keeps talking. Something about how the trivia night spiraled, how the bartender had to cut the ex off after she started rating Clark’s technique by category: pressure, consistency, enthusiasm.

You barely hear it. Your ears are ringing loudly. It’s like your brain is buffering.

You suddenly remember every time Clark has murmured something soft near your ear, every time his voice dipped an octave when he said your name. The time he caught you in the rain without an umbrella and insisted on walking you home, water soaking through his shirt, hair curling against his forehead. And you didn’t even look. Like a saint.

But you’re looking now. Retrospectively. And respectfully (sort of). In high definition.

Lois snaps her laptop shut. “Okay, I’m leaving before this spirals into something I can’t un-hear.”

Jimmy is laughing. You don’t move.

Clark texts the group thread a few minutes later:

Press conference ran long. Want me to bring back snacks?

You stare at the message. It might as well say Want me to ruin your life with my mouth?

Lois types back chips and anything chocolate. Jimmy sends a GIF of a raccoon stealing an entire pizza.

You don’t reply. You literally can’t. Your hands are slightly shaky and your brain has conjured up a very detailed image of Clark Kent’s head between your thighs under your desk, barely fitting his large frame beneath the wood, and now everything’s ruined.

-

Later, when Clark shows up holding a grocery bag, rain-damp and smiling like he didn’t just waltz into the middle of your psychological unraveling, you can barely look at him.

The newsroom door swings open with a quiet hiss, wind curling at the threshold. He steps through it like something out of a slow-motion montage. Glasses fogged at the edges, dark curls damp and clinging to his forehead, coat shoulders darkened by rain. He’s flushed from the walk, a faint red climbing his cheeks, and he’s got that same boyish, bashful look he always wears when he thinks he’s done something thoughtful.

He’s holding a grocery bag like it’s an offering.

You sit very still behind your desk, fingers stilling over your keyboard as he approaches.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still here,” he says, voice warm and slightly breathless, like he jogged the last block. “But I figured… just in case.”

He reaches into the bag, rustling plastic, and pulls out a bottle of your favorite drink. The obscure seasonal one you can never find. The one the gas station down the street practically only stocks one of since you can rarely get your hands on it.

“They were almost out,” he says, smiling as he hands it to you. “Got the last one.”

(What you don’t know is that he flew to several different gas stations just to find you that one drink.)

His fingers brush yours when you take it. Just the barest contact. Skin against skin, warm and calloused and impossibly gentle. Like even now, even after however many late nights and coffee runs and shared glances across the bullpen, he’s still afraid he might hold you too hard and scare you off.

And that shouldn’t do anything to you. It’s just Clark. Sweet, considerate, hopelessly dorky Clark.

But your brain, traitorous and hungry, flashes to the way Jimmy said it. Gifted. The way she apparently sobbed at trivia night. The way Clark’s mouth looked just a little pinker than usual, lips parted as he caught his breath.

You don’t meet his eyes. Your grip on the bottle tightens like it might anchor you back to sanity.

“Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong in your own throat. Too soft. Too high. Like someone caught in the middle of a daydream they really weren’t supposed to be having. “That’s… really nice of you.”

He smiles wider. “You always look for it when we do snack runs. Figured I’d do the legwork.”

You nod and think you might pass out at the thought of giving him some leg work.

You don’t hear what Lois says as she stands to pack up, taking her snacks from Clark. You don’t hear Jimmy teasing something under his breath. Your ears are filled with static and Clark’s presence. His warmth, his scent (something clean, like rain and cedar and laundry detergent), the faint scrape of his nails against the paper bag as he adjusts it in his arms.

“I’m gonna…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Bathroom.”

He nods, stepping aside. Ever the gentleman.

You practically flee.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you press your palms flat to the cool porcelain of the sink and lean in hard. You don’t look up yet. Not when your chest is still heaving like you ran a mile and your thighs are clenched tight in a desperate, involuntary ache.

You turn the faucet on and thrust your hands beneath the water, cold and sharp as it rushes over your wrists. It bites your skin, a jolt to the nerves, but it does something. Not enough to make you sane again, but enough to stop your knees from giving out.

The mirror mocks you when you finally dare to look.

You’re flushed. Lips parted. Eyes glassy with thoughts that have nothing to do with press conferences or deadlines or articles still sitting in your drafts folder.

You breathe in deep.

You are not going to think about it anymore.

You are not going to let a dumb rumor derail your professionalism. You are not going to picture his mouth anywhere near your thighs. You are not going to think about how big his hands are or how good he is with them or how they’d look spreading you open or how his ex apparently still cries when she thinks about the way he—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You are a grown woman. You are a professional journalist. You have deadlines and standards and no time for spiraling horniness over your best friend’s mouth.

You are not going to fantasize about Clark Kent.

You open your eyes and stare yourself down in the mirror.

You’re a liar.

And your hands are still trembling.

-

“You’ve been weird around Clark lately.”

“Have I?” you ask, too fast.

You sip your coffee to avoid elaborating. It’s cold. Empty. You’ve just been pretending to drink it for three minutes. You can feel Lois’s stare over the rim of your mug like a sniper scope.

You try to play it cool, but cool is a word you no longer understand. Not when Clark shows up each morning with damp curls and soft smiles and low “mornin’, sweetheart” murmurs that hit you like a fucking tranquilizer dart to the spine. Not when he hums while stirring sugar into his coffee or pushes his sleeves up to the elbow to carry a box of papers and you catch yourself staring at the veins in his forearms like a woman unhinged.

He hasn’t done anything wrong. Not really. If anything, he’s being his usual Clark self! So sweet and soft-spoken, relentlessly considerate. And maybe that’s the problem. You’re not used to your best friend occupying space in your head like this. Not used to the way your thoughts stutter every time he bites into something juicy. A peach, a plum, the fucking cherry from Lois’s yogurt cup. You’re not used to the way your thighs ache when he accidentally sucks a bit of pen ink off his finger and you catch the briefest glimpse of tongue, pink and wet and God-fearing.

You try to be normal but you overcompensate. Hard. You bring him drinks. Compliment his shirts. Tease him for being a square like you always do, except this time, when you say, “God, you’re such a Boy Scout,” it comes out breathless and weird and he looks at you sideways like he heard something you didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’re careful. Okay. You try to be careful. But it only takes a few days for your brain to short-circuit permanently.

At one point, you and Clark are drafting headlines side by side, shoulders brushing, low banter, his voice soft in your ear, and when he leans in behind you to whisper a suggestion, your whole body shivers. Visibly. Pathetically. Like a haunted Victorian maiden.

He pauses, his voice warm at your nape as he whispers, “You cold?”

You bolt. “Bathroom. Sorry!”

He doesn’t press. He never does. He’s too polite. Too good. Too Clark.

The mirror is once again your enemy. Cold water on the wrists doesn’t help this time. Nothing does.

You try to last a few more days. You try not to think about it. You fail every hour. Every time he smiles at you. Every time he tugs his glasses down a little to rub at his brow or frowns in concentration or licks the salt off a pretzel. You are haunted. You are in hell. You are wet at work and it is his fault.

That night, you fold. You press your face into your pillow and slip your hand beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts and imagine. His voice. His mouth. His hands gripping your thighs, firm and reverent. Whispering things into your skin. I got you, baby. You just let go for me. Want to be good for you. And when you cum—fast, hard, embarrassingly desperate—you feel the shame roll in like thunderclouds.

Clark is your friend. Your coworker. He looks out for you when you’re sick and once helped your grandma reset her water heater because he just knows how to do stuff like that.

And apparently other stuff.

With his mouth.

Fuck.

You are so. Incredibly. Doomed.

But then your brain does what it always does when it can’t stop obsessing. It reframes. It rationalizes. It weaponizes curiosity.

You are, after all, a journalist.

You chase leads. You vet your sources. You fact-check until your eyes bleed. You are trained to notice patterns and contradictions, to sniff out truth from noise, to dig through dirt and disinformation and find the core of something. And what you have now? What you’ve been given?

Is a lead. A whispered rumor. A salacious, staggering, potentially life-altering claim.

Clark Kent. Clark, your walking golden retriever of a coworker, the man who once blushed because you said he looked “nice” in navy blue, is apparently a legend with his mouth. A God-tier, Olympic-caliber, “no one else compares” type of lover.

You’ve heard it now. Can’t unhear it. Can’t unknow it.

You’ve run the mental diagnostics. Tried to make the data match the subject. Tried to rewatch the internal slideshow of Clark in his natural habitats: pressing his glasses up his nose, saying “golly,” covering your coffee tab with a sheepish shrug like it’s a felony.

None of it aligns. None of it should align. And yet…You’ve seen his hands. Long fingers. Gentle touch. Steady grip. You’ve seen his lips. Full. Soft. Focused. You’ve heard that voice, when it dips low and careful, when it wraps around your name like it’s something holy.

And maybe, maybe, the puzzle pieces do fit. Not in the way you’d expect. Not in any way you’re prepared for. And that’s when it hits you like the crash of a wave you didn’t see coming: the sheer, staggering need to know. Not want. Not wish. Need.

It’s practically professional at this point.

You sit at your desk in the ghost-quiet newsroom, half-eaten takeout beside you and the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, and your brain starts composing headlines like it’s on deadline.

“Mild-Mannered Reporter, Midnight Mouth Maestro.”

“Clark Kent and the Case of the Devastating Cunnilingus.”

You rub at your temples. You’ve lost it. You’re gone. Broken. The Pulitzer’s never coming now. God, at this rate you might never come either. Not without thinking about Clark Kent’s mouth.

But still, you lean back in your chair, heart thudding against your ribs like a warning bell, and let the thought settle. There’s only one way to know for sure. No secondhand testimony. No assumptions.

You need evidence. A primary source. First-person observation.

For science. For journalism. For the truth.

The phrase echoes in your skull like a siren song: Clark Kent eats pussy like a champ. And somewhere in the deepest, most depraved corner of your mind, a little voice. your inner editor, probably, says, Well… if you don’t report this story, someone else might.

You close your eyes.

You inhale.

You exhale.

You whisper it like a prayer. Like a plea. Like a final descent into madness, God help me.

Because you are going to seduce your best friend.

You are going to investigate his mouth and you are going to write the hell out of this story.

Even if it ruins you.

Especially if it ruins you.

-

You start small.

A skirt hem an inch shorter than usual. Nothing scandalous, just enough to make you feel aware of the breeze against the backs of your knees. A touch of lipstick, warmer than your usual shade. The kind that makes your lips look just a little bit bitten.

You start brushing your fingers against him in passing, accidental, then… less accidental. A casual hand on his forearm when you pass him a printout. The press of your fingers at his wrist when you reach for the same notepad. A palm flat between his shoulder blades as you squeeze by behind him, your body lingering just a second too long before you move on.

You stretch at your desk, arms overhead, spine arching. Completely overexaggerated, very theatrical. You sigh dramatically. He glances up and you pretend not to notice.

You lean over his desk during edits, purposefully slow, aware of how your blouse dips, how the fabric gapes just a little at the neckline when you angle your shoulders forward. You feel his eyes. See them flicker, just for a moment to your breasts, and then dart back to his screen.

It’s subtle at first. Barely a flutter in the newsroom’s carefully balanced ecosystem, but it’s deliberate. Calculated. A controlled experiment in desire.

You lace conversations with carefully planted landmines. A well-timed, “I just think communication is everything, you know? Especially when it comes to giving, not just receiving. It’s important when writing, too, duh, Kent.”

A “good partners are the ones who really listen. Just like good interviewers.”

A “sometimes, it’s not about how fast you go. It’s about how thorough you are. In an investigation, what else would I be talking about?”

All dropped like casual observations. All while sipping from your coffee cup like you haven’t just flung a match into dry brush.

Clark always blinks. Always takes just a moment longer than necessary to respond. He hums, or nods, or tilts his head like he’s considering it. Like he knows you’re playing a game and hasn’t quite decided whether or not he wants to play it too.

Clark plays dumb. At first.

He says things like “Gee, you think so?” when you compliment him in front of Lois. Grins when you call him charming, like he’s never heard the word and is still trying it on for size. He shifts in his chair when you lean close, laughs under his breath when you call him a goody two-shoes, and taps his pen against his knee like he’s working something out.

But then he starts doing things back. He starts calling you sweetheart again, but slower now. Smoother. He says it when no one else is around. Says it like it’s a question, like he’s waiting to see what it does to you.

He starts brushing his hand along your lower back when he passes you in the hallway. Not every time. But when he does, it’s always just enough for you to notice and ache.

And one day, after a long stretch of shared silence, you’re chewing on your pen cap, brow furrowed over copy edits and legs crossed tight in your chair, and he leans over your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck.

“Careful with that,” he murmurs, voice low, soft as felt. “Dangerous habit.”

You freeze. The pen slips from your teeth. His voice curls around the back of your neck like smoke.

You turn your head, look up, and he’s smiling. Soft. Knowing. The kind of smile you’ve seen him use exactly once before when a source lied straight to his face and he already had the receipts.

Your stomach flips.

Because he knows. He knows. And what’s worse? He’s letting you think you still have the upper hand. He has to be. There’s no way he doesn’t.

You spiral. Quietly. Elegantly. Desperately. You start watching him even more closely. The way his mouth curls around vowels. The way his tongue darts out when he’s thinking. The way he drinks from his water bottle, tilting his head back, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow. You stare at his hands when he types. When he peels an orange. When he passes you a napkin with one corner folded like a triangle for no discernible reason.

You start dreaming about him.

Not always dirty. Sometimes it’s just him. Holding your hand. Brushing your hair behind your ear. Whispering your name in the dark.

But other nights it’s his mouth. Hot and firm and everywhere. Between your legs. On your stomach. Lapping into the soft place where your thigh meets your hip and telling you things like you taste so good, sweetheart, and don’t you dare run from me now.

You wake sweating and shaking, your sheets twisted and damp.

You think about calling in sick. But then you think about Clark, warm and smiling in the elevator, holding your favorite coffee, saying “morning” like it’s a secret, and you go in anyway.

You’re in too deep. You’re too far gone. And the thing that’s unsettling you the most is that you’re starting to like it.

-

You keep pushing.

A weekend happy hour turns into one too many drinks, one too many shared plates, one too many half-flirtatious “cheers” that clink too close to comfort. You’re buzzing, warm and slow in the limbs, your body syrupy with good whiskey and bad decisions, slouched into a booth with Lois and Jimmy while the bar spins softly around you.

Clark had been invited but he’d been sent on a last-minute assignment and couldn’t make it. You’d pretended not to be disappointed. You’d definitely pretended not to imagine what it would’ve felt like to slide into the booth beside him, legs pressed together, your thigh warm against his in that tiny, accidental way that would’ve driven you insane.

Instead, you’re nursing your third drink and laughing too loud at something Jimmy said about a printer jam when your phone buzzes in your hand. A text from him. Clark, asking if everything went smoothly with the event write-up.

You glance at the screen and smile.

You mean to text Lois. You really, truly mean to text Lois.

Your fingers are slow. Sloppy. Buzzed and traitorous as they move across your screen. The keyboard slides a little and autocorrect isn’t on your side and… your drunken hands are no longer attached to your fucking brain. They’re attached to your traitorous cunt.

Clark Kent texted me. The Oral God. It’s the glasses. I know it is.

You hit send.

Your brain doesn’t process what’s happened at first. It takes a second, two, maybe three, for the fog of whiskey to clear just enough to read the blue bubble again.

And then you see it.

The name at the top.

Clark Kent.

You freeze. Horrified. Paralyzed. You stare down at your phone like it’s just grown fangs. Your entire body flushes with heat. Scalp prickling, chest clenching, stomach plummeting like a trapdoor just opened beneath you.

“No,” you whisper. Out loud. “No no no no no.”

Jimmy’s talking. Lois is laughing. The world carries on like you haven’t just detonated a bomb in your own lap.

You watch the message sit there. Taunting. Bright and unedited and unmistakable. And then the fucking typing dots appear. Three little dots. Bouncing. Mocking.

You press a hand to your mouth like that might somehow physically keep the scream in. You are going to pass out. You are going to combust. You are going to become legendary newsroom lore.

Your phone buzzes again.

Is this about that trivia night thing?

You make a sound. It’s not human.

You want to melt into the floor. Crawl under the table. Launch yourself into the sun. Anything would be better than sitting here red-faced and holding your phone like a live grenade.

You try to fix it. You fire off a string of panic-texts that only make it worse

LMAO

joking

meme reference

I saw a TikTok??

Ignore me hahaha

whiskey brain!!!

that was actually Jimmy not me you know he his hahahahahahahahah

You punctuate the shame spiral with not one but two cry-laugh emojis. Two. A war crime. Something you’ve never done in a professional setting. You should be disbarred from journalism on principle.

Your phone buzzes once more.

One final reply.

Got it 😉

You stare at it. A single winky face. So casual. So simple. So loaded. You don’t know if you want to scream or faint or cry into your mozzarella sticks.

He doesn’t follow up. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t drag you. But he also doesn’t let you off the hook.

You toss your phone face-down onto the booth bench and press your hands to your eyes. You are never drinking again. You are never texting again.

And most importantly? You are never showing your face at the Daily Planet again.

-

And after that? The game changes.

Clark starts really teasing back.

Not crudely, he’s still Clark, still gentle, still maddeningly polite in that Kansas-boy kind of way, but there’s a new edge to it. A weight behind the way he says your name. A flicker in his eyes when you lean a little too close. He lets your touches linger now and doesn’t shy away. Doesn’t flush and stammer and change the subject. No, now when your hand brushes his arm or rests against the small of his back in passing, he holds still. Leans into it. He lets it happen long enough to feel it.

There’s something else, too.

A change in his voice when you talk about relationships, especially when you let your sentences trail, when you say things like “I just think… being understood is more important than anything. In a relationship, I mean. Someone who listens, someone who pays attention to details. Someone who…”

You don’t have to finish the thought because when you look up at him, his gaze is locked on your mouth. Focused. Intent. Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your lips, like he’s picturing them parted. Open. Responding.

It rattles you. But worst than that? It excites you.

The tension stretches between you like something alive. Something volatile. You poke at it with your words, and he starts poking back.

And then, one afternoon, it breaks a little more.

You catch him in the hallway, fresh off a phone call, tie loosened, hand raking through his hair in quiet frustration, and something in you tips. Maybe it’s the way he exhales. Maybe it’s the way his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing as he cradles his phone in one hand. Maybe it’s the residual heat of that winky-face text still echoing in your bones.

You press your palm to his chest, flat. It’s curious but it’s more than that… it’s deliberate. Not playful anymore.

The cotton of his dress shirt is warm beneath your hand. You can feel the slow, steady thump of his heart under your fingers, so solid and unbothered. Like he’s entirely in control. Like you’re the one who needs a reality check.

“Why do you always disappear during breaking news, Clark?” you ask. Your voice is light, but there’s something behind it. Something quiet. Something investigative.

He freezes, but not in panic. Not in fear. No, it’s calculation. For a second, something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Not surprise. Awareness. Sharp. Focused. Like a wire pulled taut.

His brow lifts slightly, mouth quirking at the corner. “You asking as a friend…” His voice dips. Just a touch. “Or a reporter?”

You tilt your head. You’re still touching him. Your palm is still flat to his chest, your fingers curled slightly against the fabric. He smells like clean soap and newsroom paper, like rain and static and something inherently Clark. Familiar. Steady.

Dangerous.

“Both?” you offer, smiling sweetly.

He chuckles, but it’s quieter than usual. Rougher. The sound curls low in your stomach. “Thought you were investigating the mouth thing, Bernstein.” He smirks a bit, leaning closer to your personal space, “Or Woodward. Whichever one was better at getting to the bottom of things.”

Your hand drops like it’s been burned.

He grins. Sharp. Easy. Devastating.

“So you do know about that,” you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“Hard not to,” he replies. “After the wrong text thread.”

The silence between you thickens. You swear he’s looking at your lips again. Or maybe that’s your imagination. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s—“It was for science. Or, investigative journalism?” you blurt, cutting off your mental reverie.

His grin doesn’t falter. “I’m sure it was.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t tease or press. But as you start to walk away, your pulse still thrumming in your ears, you feel his heavy gaze slowly land on your back.

And when you glance back over your shoulder you catch him looking. Boldly, openly. His eyes flick down your body, then lift to meet yours. No apology. No embarrassment.

Just interest.

Intention.

It’s subtle, but it undoes you. Because Clark Kent knows.

And he’s starting to enjoy it.

-

Then comes the charity gala.

It’s a haze of champagne flutes and low lighting, all glittering gowns and polished marble floors. The kind of evening where you’re supposed to make nice with board members and whisper the right things to the right people and maybe snag a quote for Monday’s column. You’d worn something new, sleek and dark and fitted, maybe a little too bold for a work event, but tonight feels… different. The air is charged, and Clark’s in a black suit that fits too well and smiles too softly every time someone compliments your dress.

You lose him for most of the night. You’re working the room, laughing at half-interesting jokes, trying not to check the door every time someone walks in.

You don’t remember how it happens. Who reached first. Who asked.

One moment you’re sipping the last of your champagne near the edge of the dance floor, your heels aching and your body buzzing from a flirtation that’s been running on fumes for weeks and the next, there he is.

Clark Kent. In his tux. Glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. A crooked smile on his mouth as he holds out a hand.

“You look like you need rescuing,” he says. His voice is warm. Steady.

“Wow, a real superhero,” you tease and take his hand before your brain can catch up to your body.

The music is soft. Something old-fashioned and slow. Strings and piano and a rhythm that tugs you gently into his space. His hand slides to your waist, broad and warm through the fabric of your dress, and your palm finds his shoulder as he pulls you in, easy and unhurried, like you’ve danced together a hundred times before.

He hums along under his breath. Not words, just the melody. Low and rich and dangerously close to your skin.

You’re close enough to smell him. Something like cedar and soap and quiet rain. Something that sinks into your bones and stays.

With every sway, your chest brushes his. Barely there. Barely touching. But it makes your breath hitch all the same. His thumb traces a slow, absent pattern over your hip, lazy, circular, grounding, and it should be innocent. It should be.

But it’s not.

Your skin is on fire. Your lungs are tight. You can feel the heat of him everywhere, seeping through the thin fabric of your dress, blooming low in your stomach, dizzying and slow.

“Careful,” you murmur, not quite looking at him. Your lips barely move. “You keep holding me like this, people are gonna talk.”

Clark’s hand shifts slightly at your waist, holding you closer, firmer. Still gentlemanly. Still polite. But there’s a message in the way his fingers press through the fabric. A message you’re desperately trying not to file under Exhibit A: Intent to Destroy Me Gently.

“Let ’em,” he says, smiling like it’s harmless, dimple popping cutely. Like you’re not melting from the inside out. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. People might already be talking.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how your knees are already halfway to gone. “Just doing my job.”

“That so?”

“I’m a journalist, Kent.” You tighten your grip on his shoulder, lean in like it’s casual. It’s not. “It’s my duty to investigate rumors.”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

“Mm-hm.” Your voice drops, low and pointed. “I’m looking into a particularly… compelling story, as you know.”

He hums. “You gonna quote your source?”

“Only if he consents to an interview.”

A flicker of something darker shines in his eyes. He leans in, mouth brushing just behind your ear now, and you can feel him smile.

“Well, then,” his voice is velvet. “On the record… I’m a very good listener.”

Your heart skips. You keep your voice steady, but barely. “And off the record?”

His breath hits your skin. “Off the record…” His grip tightens ever so slightly. “You’d never doubt it again.”

Your knees buckle. It’s involuntary. Embarrassing. Heat rushes to your face, down your spine, straight between your legs, and he knows. He catches you instantly without faltering, without blinking, like he was waiting for it.

You’re clinging to his suit jacket like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

You manage, somehow, to breathe out, “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, lips still too close to yours. “Off the record,” he murmurs again, “I can say whatever I want, Ms Journalist.”

And then the song ends.

He releases you slowly, deliberately, like he’s rewinding time. Like it never happened. Like he didn’t just crack open your ribcage and whisper into your soul.

He smiles politely. Bids you goodnight and walks away.

And you stand there, dazed, vibrating, ruined, clutching your recorder of a brain and praying it got it all down.

-

Later that night, you find yourself nursing your drink at the edge of the ballroom, your body still humming from the dance and doing your absolute best not to replay every second of it on loop like some starry-eyed teenager with a crush.

It’s not working.

“Okay.” Lois slides up next to you, wine glass in hand, smirk firmly in place. “You’re gonna let him take you to dinner at least, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Jimmy appears on your other side like a devil on your shoulder, expression matching Lois’s far too well. “She means Clark,” he says, popping a grape from the cheese table. “Mild-mannered reporter. Looks like he belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting. Just slow-danced you into a different dimension.”

“I-,” you start, then stop, heat crawling up your neck. “It was just a dance.”

Lois raises her brows. “Sure. And I’m just a Pulitzer finalist.”

“She was glowing,” Jimmy says, eyes wide like he’s narrating a true crime reenactment. “I’ve seen less sexual tension in French film noir.”

“Her knees buckled,” Lois adds helpfully. “I saw it happen.”

You groan, bury your face in your hands. “You guys are the worst.”

“Wrong,” Jimmy says brightly. “We’re your friends.”

“And friends don’t let friends ignore when their soulmate’s ready to risk it all in front of a nonprofit board of directors.”

Before you can respond, snark, deflection, a halfhearted plea to please never say “soulmate” again, Clark reappears.

His cheeks are flushed. His curls are damp at the temples. His bowtie is slightly askew. And there, thank God, is the version of Clark you recognize: the one who looks like he’s never felt fully comfortable in formalwear, who gets bashful under group attention, who still straightens his glasses like a nervous tic.

“Hey,” he says, ducking his head as he approaches. “What’d I miss?”

Lois practically pounces. “Nothing major. Just Jimmy and I dissecting the devastating sexual chemistry between you and our dear friend here.”

Clark stammers. “Oh. I, uh…Lois!”

Jimmy claps him on the back. “Relax, Kent. We’re just saying, if this journalism thing doesn’t pan out, you’ve got a solid backup career as a ballroom heartthrob.”

Clark’s face turns scarlet. He fiddles with his watch. Shrugs. “I-I was just trying not to step on her feet.”

You bite your lip. Something inside you aches.

Because this is the Clark you know. The one who gets flustered when you compliment his writing. The one who nervously adjusts his tie at press events. The one who talks to dogs on the street like they’re people and never lets you carry your own coffee if your hands are full.

This is your best friend.

But tonight, on that dance floor… that wasn’t just your best friend. That was someone else too. Someone confident. Grounded. Intentional. A man who pulled you into his arms and whispered things that still have your thighs clenching hours later. A man who knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted.

And suddenly it hits you.

Not a flutter. Not a nudge.

A crash.

You like him.

You really like him.

And not just in a he’s hot and sweet and might be secretly incredible at oral way. Though, yes. That is a factor. But it’s more than that.

It’s everything.

It’s the way he dances. The way he listens. The way he catches you before you fall, even if he’s the one who made your knees go soft in the first place.

You want to know all the pieces of him. Not just the sweet ones. Not just the blushing, too-big-suit-jacket-wearing-wearing ones. You want to know what else he’s been hiding. What else he’s capable of. You want to know the man behind the glasses and the one behind the whisper.

You want all of it.

You’re so fucked.

Clark smiles at you then, small, warm, a little nervous, and your heart actually stumbles.

You smile back.

But god help you, you might be in love with your best friend.

-

The night after the gala, you don’t go home right away.

Instead, you and Clark end up where you always seem to find yourselves when everything else quiets down. Up high, away from the newsroom chaos and the noise of the city below. The rooftop of the Planet is half-rusted and windswept, the skyline cut clean against the dark. You’re both coming down from a half-botched stakeout. No source. No leads. Just cold fingers and coffee gone stale in your thermos.

The wind tugs at your coat, slipping under the hem to bite at your legs. You burrow into it a little tighter, eyes on the streetlights far below.

Beside you, Clark stands with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, coat unzipped like the chill doesn’t touch him. You wonder if he feels it at all. Probably not. His cheeks are pink from the air, hair tousled from the wind, but he looks relaxed. Calm. Like he could stand there all night.

Which is annoying.

But also hot.

Infuriatingly hot.

You glance sideways at him. “You’re holding out on me.”

He turns his head, brow furrowed, lips twitching. “About what?”

You lean back against the ledge, arms crossed. The city stretches behind you like a live wire. “Your legend,” you say simply. “Oral God Kent. I’ve yet to confirm any findings.”

For a second, his expression doesn’t change. But then his mouth curls like he’s surprised you’re still playing the game and maybe a little impressed that you haven’t flinched yet.

He looks away again, back toward the skyline. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.”

You pretend to take notes. Flip your little pocket notebook open dramatically and click your pen. “Clark Kent: evasive source. Potential deflection tactic,” you glance up at him, all mock-seriousness, “flirtation.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. It’s low and short and curls in your stomach like smoke.

“I don’t flirt.”

“You do with me.”

That silences him. For a minute, all you can hear is the wind rushing over the rooftop, rustling the collar of your coat, tugging at the edges of the moment like it wants to unravel it completely.

Then he looks at you. His eyes are soft. Glasses catching the reflection of a passing plane. Lips parted like he wants to say something he hasn’t let himself say before.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe it’s the stillness around you. Maybe it’s the honesty in his voice, calm, certain, without bravado.

He flirts with you. You know that. You’ve been baiting him to. You’ve been bending this line so far for so long you almost forgot you were the one holding the tension.

But this? This isn’t teasing. It’s a confirmation.

An invitation.

You feel it in your throat. Tight. Hot. You hold his gaze. “You know I’m not gonna stop until I get a quote.”

He tilts his head. “A quote about what?”

“Your performance,” you smile slowly.

His breath catches, just barely. You catch the shift, the subtle way he stands a little straighter. The faint glint of something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

“You want me to… verify the rumor?”

“I’m a journalist,” you say, voice light, tone not. “I believe in sourcing my claims.”

“And you think I’m going to just give that to you?” he murmurs, stepping a little closer. “Off the record?”

“Not give.” You look up at him. “Prove.”

The wind swirls between you, sharp and cold, but you barely feel it anymore.

Clark’s close now. Not touching, but enough that the air feels thinner. His coat flutters around his knees. His hands are still in his pockets. He’s not doing anything. And yet, you can feel him.

The warmth radiating off him. The pull of him.

The want.

And then he does something that makes your pulse spike. It’s barely a movement, but enough. He tilts his head slight and smirks.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and careful and ridiculously effective, “If I gave you that story…” His eyes drop to your lips. Stay there. “You wouldn’t have the words left to write it.”

You swallow loud and hard. Your voice is hoarse when you speak again. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Does it?”

You nod. Barely.

His gaze doesn’t leave your mouth. “You sure you’re ready to find out?”

Your heart stutters. And then, as if some cruel part of him knows you’re right at the edge, right at the tipping point, he steps back half a pace. His hands are still in his coat pockets. Smile soft. Eyes gleaming.

“Let me know when the story’s ready to run,” he says simply. Then he turns, walking back toward the stairwell.

You’re left at the ledge, breath shallow, body trembling, notebook still open in your hand. The wind cuts across your cheek.

You don’t move for a long time because Clark Kent just flirted with you like it was breathing. Because Clark Kent just promised something without touching you.

Because you want him.

And now? There’s no pretending otherwise.

-

It was supposed to just be your weekly run. Perfectly innocent, your regular post-work run. Originally it had been Clark’s idea after you complained about not enjoying running alone because of nerves. And it wasn’t his first idea either. He’d had plenty of others, especially recently. Like walking home instead of taking the train. Like splitting a coffee and pretending it isn’t a date. You’d said yes too quickly, barely thinking, like your body trusted him more than your brain did.

You’d forgotten what it feels like to run next to someone like Clark. Like gravity shifts to make room for him.

The first half is completely harmless. You’re sweaty and breathless. The run is filled with the kind of laughter that feels safe in your chest. You keep pace with him on principle, even though it’s killing you.

And then the storm breaks. No warning. No distant rumble. Just the sky cracking open above the skyline, sharp, fast, and angry.

Sheets of rain slam down, soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your tank top sticks to your skin. Your sports bra gives up entirely. Leggings glued to your thighs. Your shoes squelch with every step. Water beads down your face and into your collarbones.

Clark doesn’t flinch. He just reaches for your hand, quick, firm, and steady, and pulls you with him.

You’re laughing as you run. Laughing because this is so stupid and so cold and so unlike you. But he’s laughing too. Mouth wide, glasses fogged, hair darkened and dripping across his forehead as he tugs you around a corner and into his building’s stairwell, both of you panting, soaked, and more alive than you’ve felt in a long time.

By the time you make it to his apartment, you’re shivering. The door clicks shut behind you, and your whole body jolts from the sudden change. The heat inside presses close, wrapping around your limbs like a towel just pulled from the dryer.

His place smells like him. Cedar. Warm laundry. A faint note of books and something darker, something earth-deep and low and safe. You’ve been here before, but tonight it hits different. Tonight, it feels like stepping into his chest. His heartbeat. His gravity.

“You’re gonna freeze,” he says, already moving, always moving. He disappears down the hall and you hear him rummaging through drawers. You picture him pulling out towels and clothes until he returns with something soft that looks like a flannel in one hand and a towel in the other. “Here. Get out of those. I’ll throw them in the dryer.”

You start to protest. Some nonsense about modesty. Boundaries. Sanity.

But he turns to you, his eyes soft behind fogged lenses, hair curling at his temples, holding out the flannel that’s threadbare and worn at the collar. “I won’t peek,” he says earnestly, voice so kind it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

So you do it.

Like an idiot in love.

You peel your clothes off one piece at a time, the fabric sticking to your skin. You keep your back to him, just in case, even though he’s already disappeared into the other room. You towel off quickly and slip into the flannel. It’s soft and worn, sleeves long enough to swallow your hands. The hem hangs low enough to skim the tops of your thighs. It clings in places from the leftover rainwater on your skin. You don’t bother with pants. It doesn’t occur to you to feel shy in this moment as your damn ovaries seem to override your rational thought processes.

You roll the cuffs up and sit on his couch. You try to breathe through it. Down girl, you think to yourself. But the scent of him is everywhere. On your skin, in your hair, wrapped around you like a second body.

His body could be wrapped around you, an evil little voice whispers in your mind. It sounds suspiciously like Jimmy Olsen, who started this whole damn mess.

Taking a loud deep breath, you tuck your legs under you, fingers pressing into the fabric at your stomach like maybe if you hold it tight enough, it’ll quiet your heart.

When he returns, he’s drying his hair with a towel. His sweats cling low on his hips, and the shirt he’s wearing is the same soft gray cotton, rain-soaked top he had on outside. And it’s clinging. It’s so thin it might as well be a second skin. It outlines the lines of his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the cut of muscle along his arms like a sketch.

He stops in the doorway when he sees you.

You look up, flannel riding high on your thighs. Your legs bare. Damp in places that have nothing to do with rain and everything to do with him.

His breath catches.

You stare at each other, and the silence hums between you. It’s electric.

You could speak. You should. You could joke. Could make a crack about the weather. Could talk about how soaked your socks were, or the way your mascara probably looks like war paint. You could thank him. You could ask for your clothes.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve been pretending for weeks. Laughing through it. Flirting through it. Circling this thing like it hasn’t been waiting for you to make the first move.

But now? Now your skin is buzzing. Your lungs are tight. And the way his eyes flick from your face to your bare legs and back again makes you ache.

Because this is the moment. You feel it. Something inside you snaps and this time, you don’t stop it.

So, you say it outright.

“I want to know.” It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be. The words come softly, barely above the crackle of rain still ticking against the window, barely enough to cross the space between you. But they land like a drop into still water.

Clark stills, and for a moment, you think maybe he won’t move. That maybe you’ve said too much. Pushed too far.

But then slowly he crosses the room. His steps are quiet. Unhurried. Like he doesn’t want to spook you, like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes never leave yours, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t speak. He just sinks to the edge of the couch beside you, body close but not crowding, and lifts one hand to your jaw. His fingers are warm and steady. They brush against your cheek like he’s checking to see if you’re real. His thumb drags along your bottom lip, feather-light. You feel his breath before you feel his mouth, and by the time he leans in just enough for his forehead to touch yours you’re already shaking.

“I don’t want to wonder anymore,” you say, quieter now. “I don’t want to guess.”

He’s so close now, his knee brushing yours, his other hand settling carefully on your thigh. You feel the weight of him. The warmth of him. The way the air around you seems to shift just from his presence.

He searches your face slowly. Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s trying to find the edge of your breath. The line between teasing and truth. He licks his lips and swallows. His thumb strokes once more over your cheek before his hand drops to your waist, firm and steady.

“If we do this,” he says gently, “we don’t go back to pretending we’re just friends, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. It doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a vow. A choice you’re both making now that the thread between you has been pulled too tight to ignore.

You can’t think about anything except his hand on your leg. The way he’s watching you. The memory of your fantasies about his mouth between your thighs is like a livewire just beneath your skin.

“Okay,” you say.

His brow lifts, just slightly. “Okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He studies you for another second. “You’re sure?”

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t flirt. You don’t deflect. You just meet his gaze and say the only thing that feels true.

“Yes.”

And then you kiss him.

It starts slow, tentative, and testing. A soft press of your lips to his, like a question you’re terrified to ask. He’s warm, gentle, steady beneath your mouth. Familiar in the most unfamiliar way.

And then he answers. With his hands. With his mouth. With the quiet groan he lets slip as he deepens the kiss.

His grip tightens on your waist, and you gasp softly as he shifts, pulling you into his lap. One smooth movement, like it’s instinct, like he needs you there. Your knees come up to either side of his hips, and suddenly he’s beneath you, solid and sure, and your chest is pressed to his.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this. Like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to do since the moment he met you.

You roll your hips once and he groans against your mouth, full-throated and unrestrained, like the sound’s been buried deep for too long.

His lips drag along your jaw, down the slope of your neck. “You don’t know,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You have no idea what you’ve started.”

Your breath shudders out of you. “Then show me,” you whisper. “Please.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown. His cheeks flushed. His glasses are fogged at the edges and slipping down the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Off the record?” he asks.

You nod. You’re light headed already and barely breathing.

“Then lay back,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, voice low and certain. “And let me give you the evidence you’ve been looking for.”

Your body obeys before your mind does. You shift back onto the couch cushions, heart pounding, limbs loose with want. The flannel slips down your shoulders and pools beneath you like soft surrender. You’re left in just your panties, chest rising and falling as he kneels between your legs like you’re something he’s about to worship.

He takes his time. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t gloat. Just eases his hands up your thighs like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His glasses are still on, slipping slightly down his nose, fogging faintly, but he doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t even seem to consider it. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s been dying to see you like this. Like he’s starving.

He bends and kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher. Then again. Again. The kisses climb your thigh, slow and warm and open-mouthed, until his breath ghosts over the thin, damp fabric of your panties. You jolt. His grip firms on your hips.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice steady.

“Clark,” you whisper. “Please.”

That’s all it takes. He mouths at you through the fabric, and you gasp, body arching, hands flying to his hair. The first long lick sends a bolt of heat down your spine, and the second has your thighs clenching around him instinctively. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t falter. Just licks again, slow and certain, like he already knows exactly what you like.

Then he pulls back, eyes dark behind his glasses.

“Can I…?”

You nod frantically.

He slides your panties down, slow and careful like he’s unwrapping a gift before tucking them into the pocket of his sweats. And then he sees you, completely and totally bare, and groans. It’s a low and wrecked sound. Like he wasn’t prepared.

“Gosh,” he whispers. “You’re…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just lowers his head and presses his mouth to you like he’s been aching for it, like the world won’t spin right until he gets his tongue on your cunt and learns the shape of your pleasure by heart.

Your gasp isn’t just a sound. It’s ripped from you, involuntary, like the air itself gave out. Your hips jerk. Your legs tense. Your hands scramble for something, anything, to hold on to.

His tongue licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and your whole body arches like it’s being tuned to him. He groans at the taste like he’s just had the first bite of something forbidden and holy.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again, until you’re shaking, until your thighs are trembling against his broad shoulders, until your head tips back and your breath leaves you in soft, shattered little moans that don’t even sound like you.

When his mouth closes over your clit, it’s gentle at first, testing, teasing, reverent. But the flicks are so precise. So rhythmic. So confident. Like he’s listening to your body, your breath, your broken little cries and following each one like sheet music.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug. He groans into you and the vibration makes you see stars.

His hands tighten. One anchors your hip, grounding you with strength that borders on desperate. The other presses firm and steady against your lower belly, holding you down like he knows you’re about to fly apart. That you need something to keep you tethered when it happens.

And it does.

You shatter.

Not slow. Not soft. You come like he’s pulled the truth out of your body with his mouth. Like your soul recognized his tongue and decided to rise to meet it.

It hits like heat lightning, sharp and sudden and white-hot, flashing behind your eyes and ricocheting through your limbs. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your fingers claw at his shoulders. Your back bows off the couch as his mouth never leaves you, riding the wave with you, through you, for you.

And even as your breath hiccups, as your muscles spasm and your voice breaks around a ragged moan of his name, he doesn’t stop.

His mouth lowers. His fingers slip inside you.

It’s slow and careful. The thick press of one finger first, his thumb stroking your hip, voice low and grounding, “Breathe, sweetheart.”

Then a second, stretching you open so gently you feel like you might fall apart just from the patience in it.

And when he curls them, your hips buck. The pressure is perfect. Devastating. His tongue finds your clit again in the same moment, suckling, circling, teasing you until your thighs shake and your mouth falls open with a choked sound that could be a sob.

He hums when he hears it. He likes it. You feel the low vibration of it in your core, feel it echoing against his fingers buried deep inside you. His pace doesn’t change. It builds. Grows. Deepens. Like he’s tuning you to the edge of something greater.

You’re clinging to his hair now. His shoulders. The couch. Yourself. But it’s too much and not enough and please don’t stop, and he doesn’t, not even as you pant, “Clark, oh my god, Clark! Please! ”

He lifts his head just a fraction, lips slick, voice hoarse.

“One more.”

You don’t think you can. You try to tell him, your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Your body is already shaking. Too much. Too sensitive. Too everything.

But he just whispers again, mouth hot against your thigh, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you can. You’re doing so good. Just one more. Give it to me.”

You break again. The second orgasm tears through you. bigger, deeper, dizzying. Your spine arches. Your thighs quiver. Your eyes blur with tears you hadn’t even realized were coming. You cry out for him, gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember how to say, like it’s your anchor to the earth.

He doesn’t stop. Not yet. His fingers keep curling inside you, working you through it, coaxing more and more and more until you’re sobbing, full-body, hiccuping sobs that melt into moans.

You think he says your name then. You think he kisses your hip. You think you say something too, about wanting him, but it’s a blur, everything soft and shuddering and electric.

And then he lifts his head. His glasses are fogged, hair mussed, lips red and wet and slightly parted. His hands are still on you. One at your hip. One cupping your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

He looks at you and brushes his thumb gently beneath your eye. “You just said…” he starts, voice hoarse, quiet, wrecked. “You said you’ve wanted this forever.”

You freeze. Your heart stops in your chest. You blink. Blink again. “I did?” you breathe, barely above a whisper.

He nods, gaze steady. Gentle. “You did.”

You should lie. Say he must have misheard you. You should laugh. You should say it was the orgasm talking, that you didn’t mean it, that this was just about the rumor, the curiosity, the investigation. But the truth is in your skin. In your chest. In the way you’re still trembling beneath his hands.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I have.”

His smile is soft. Not cocky. Not surprised. Relieved. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally, finally, gets to exhale.

“You should’ve said something,” he murmurs.

You look at him. This man who knows your take out orders at more restaurants than you can count. Who saves your favorite snacks from the vending machine. Who leaves notes in your desk drawer when you’re having a bad day. Who just brought you to your knees without asking for anything in return.

“I did now,” you say, voice cracked and full of something else now.

You reach for him again and this time when he kisses you, slow and deep and filled with promise, you don’t pretend it’s about anything else. You’re the one who sighs into him this time. Loosens. Melts. Your fingers curl at the nape of his neck, and his arms slide around you. The heat of him seeps into your skin like sunlight.

He pulls back, forehead to yours, and whispers, “Come with me?”

Your nod is barely there, but it’s all he needs. He lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than a breath. One arm under your knees, the other across your back, and his eyes never leave you as he carries you down the hall. You tuck your face into his neck and inhale him, letting yourself be held.

His bedroom smells more like him than the living room did. The rain still taps against the windows, soft and rhythmic now as opposed to the heavy sheets earlier, as he sets you down on the mattress with the kind of care that makes your chest ache.

He kneels beside you. Fingers brushing your cheek. Still a little breathless. Still looking at you like you’re a miracle he didn’t believe he deserved.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says quietly, like it hurts to get out. “You. Us. For a long time.”

You blink, throat tightening. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh, and ducks his head, sheepishly. “Because you’re… you. And I’m just… well, me.” His hand curls at the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you saw me that way. And then…” He looks at you, brow furrowed with a tenderness that floors you. “You started teasing about the rumor. And I didn’t know if it was real. If you wanted me, or just… the idea.”

“Clark,” you start but he silences you with a chaste kiss.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we have.” His voice is low now. Barely there. “Didn’t want to give you a reason to leave.”

You sit up and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “I didn’t want to risk it either,” you whisper. “But I’ve been falling for you the whole time we’ve been friends.”

His blue eyes go soft, shining lightly behind his glasses. He leans in and kisses you like the world outside the bedroom doesn’t exist. And when he pulls back, voice wrecked and reverent, he whispers, “Let me love you now.”

“Please,” you nod.

He kisses you again like he’s learning your mouth from the inside out, deep and slow and filthy. Tongue sweeping against yours, steady and patient, even as your nails catch at the hem of his damp t-shirt. You’re reminded in that moment how you’re already bare and trembling. Still wet with everything he’s already given you. And he’s… completely clothed.

And now, you want him. All of him.

“Too many clothes,” you whisper against his lips, panting as your hands tug his shirt up.

But he doesn’t let you pull it off just yet. Instead, he pins your hands to the bed, gently and firmly, and drags his mouth down your throat.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips warm against your pulse. “I like seeing you like this.”

You shiver.

“Completely bare,” he says, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Completely mine.”

You groan, arching up into him. He still hasn’t taken a single piece of clothing off, and the contrast is killing you. Your naked body against all that soft cotton, his glasses still on, his shirt sticking to the curve of his back.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he says, dipping his mouth lower. Kissing between your breasts. Down your ribs. “Every time you smiled at me like you didn’t know what you were doing. The shorter skirts. Touching me in the office.”

“I did,” you breathe. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

He laughs quietly, the sound coming out completely reverent, and kisses your hipbone. “Mmhm,” he murmurs. “Knew you did.” Then he moves back up, crawling over you with slow, deliberate grace, until he’s above you again, his body a solid heat over yours.

“You’re so beautiful,�� he says softly. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. How many nights I had to stop myself.”

You reach for him again, fingers dipping under the waistband of his sweats. “Then stop stopping,” you whisper. “I want you inside me. Now.”

His breath hitches but he listens. He stands, eyes never leaving yours, and finally strips. T-shirt peeled off over his head. Glasses set gently on the nightstand. His sweats and boxers sliding down long, muscular legs until he’s completely bare in the low lamplight.

And God. You’ve imagined, sure. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him like this. All smooth skin and broad shoulders. His hard cock is standing flushed and heavy against his stomach, thick and aching, curved and already leaking at the tip.

Your thighs fall open instinctively.

He groans at the sight.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

He kneels on the bed again. One hand stroking his cock with slow, lazy pumps, while the other caresses up your thigh.

“I’ve thought about this every night for so long,” he says, breath ragged. “What you’d feel like. Sound like.” He lines himself up and looks at you, one last question in his eyes. One last chance to stop.

“Please, Clark,” you whisper with a nod.

And then he slides in, one slow inch at a time. So painfully slow, stretching you open like he’s trying to carve his name into your body.

You gasp. legs trembling, hands clutching his back. He moans as he bottoms out, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus baby, you’re so tight. So, so wet. Fuck,” he pants. You’ve never heard him swear like that. It wrecks you almost as much as his mouth had earlier.

He stills inside you, breath trembling, body shaking. “I’m not gonna last long,” he whispers. “You feel too good. too perfect, I’m sorry. I want to last longer for you.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, his words making you clench around his thick cock, causing you both to let out loud groans. “Just move. Please, Clark.”

And when he does it's not fast. It’s not rough. It’s everything you’ve ever needed. Each stroke is deep and slow and reverent, like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His mouth never leaves your skin, pressing kisses to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. One hand cradles your head. The other slips between your bodies to rub slow circles over your clit again. And it’s too much. It’s perfect.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he murmurs. “Been in love with you since the first time you smiled at me.” Your heart stutters. Your body arches. He thrusts deeper. “Wanted you every damn day,” he says, voice shaking. “And now…now you’re under me, around me, and I just,” you clench harder, nails digging hard into his back as you arch up into him, legs wrapping tightly around his hips, ankles locking against his ass. “Fuck, sweetheart, don’t… don’t do that, not if you want me to last.”

You gasp his name. Tears prick your eyes again not from pain, not from pleasure. From everything. From him. “I love you,” you whisper, the words falling out like a confession you didn’t mean to speak. You cling tighter to him, snapping your hips to meet his in perfect time.

“I know,” he whispers, eyes soft and devastating. “Me too.”

And then he kisses you through your next orgasm. Kisses you like he’s sealing it in your skin. Like he’ll never let it go.

His thrusts start to falter shortly after your orgasm. You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath catches on a broken moan against your throat. His hands tremble where they hold you, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

“Oh gosh,” he gasps, “baby…sweetheart, so good. Feels so good, all for me.”

You press your heels into the backs of his thighs, pulling him deeper, wrapping around him tighter, wanting to feel every second of him unraveling.

“Cum for me,” you whisper, voice frayed and reverent, your fingers stroking up the nape of his neck, threading through damp curls. “Want to feel you. Want to keep you.”

That does it. He breaks. With a choked cry, your name torn from his throat, he buries himself to the hilt one final time and cums hard, his whole body tensing above you as he spills inside you. Heat floods you, thick and warm, and you hold him through it, clutching, kissing, whispering his name over and over until the tension melts from his limbs.

He collapses on top of you, full-bodied and shaking and undone, forehead resting against yours, sweat-slick skin pressed to yours, breath ragged as he tries to catch it.

You stay like that for a long time. Breathing each other in. Letting the room tilt gently back into quiet.

Eventually, he kisses your cheek. Then your nose. Then your jaw. He shifts off of you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll break, but only long enough to pull you against him again, your back to his chest as he spoons around you.

You sigh in content. You’ve never felt so warm, or full, or safe. And then he moves you again a few minutes later, like that wasn’t a good enough way to feel you against him. He turns you, gently guiding you onto his chest. You go willingly, melting against him like it’s your favorite place in the world. Which it might be now that you’ve experienced it.

His arm wraps around your back, hand stroking lazy, soothing lines up and down your spine. His other hand rests on your thigh where you’ve thrown it across him like you’re staking a claim.

He huffs a soft laugh when he feels it.

“Yours now, Ms Journalist?” he murmurs, teasing.

“Was there ever a question?” you mumble, lips brushing against the curve of his pec as you press a slow, possessive kiss there. He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost a prayer. His fingers slide into your hair and stroke gently. Lovingly.

You close your eyes.

The rain outside softens to a whisper and somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, you fall asleep on his chest, warm and full and his.

-

The morning unfolds in amber. Sunlight pours through the slats of the blinds, casting lazy golden stripes across the room and over the tangled mess of limbs on the bed.

His skin is warm under your lips. Muscle and softness and the kind of impossible heat that still hasn’t left your bones. He smells like sleep and cedar and you. Like the sweat and slick and sweetness of the night before still clinging faintly to his skin.

He’s already awake.

You can tell by the way his thumb is tracing the bare line of your hipbone in slow, lazy loops. The way his chest rises and falls with practiced calm, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your ear, strong and grounding, like it always is.

“You drooled on me,” he says, voice gravel-rough and low.

You smile against his chest. “Price of admission.”

A soft chuckle rumbles beneath your cheek, not just amused, but fond. Full of something heavier. Something real. His hand slides higher, smoothing over your back, fingertips drawing invisible shapes along your spine.

Eventually, he coaxes you out of bed with a promise of hot coffee and warm breakfast, his flannel shirt exchanged for one of his oversized tees that swallows you and smells like him. You grumble. He grins. And while he disappears to the shower, you wander barefoot into the kitchen, already planning to steal another kiss the moment he returns.

You don’t have to wait long.

He heads straight to the stove when he’s done, barefoot on the tile, hair wet and curling softly over his forehead, the collar of his tee damp from where he towel-dried in a rush. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, clinging just enough to be unfair. The hem of his shirt rides up every time he stretches for the spice rack, revealing a strip of golden skin and the faintest trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband.

You cross the room without a sound and your arms around his waist from behind. Then you stretch on your toes and press your lips to the side of his neck, right where his pulse kicks up immediately beneath your mouth.

Clark drops the spatula.

You smile against his skin, teeth just barely grazing. “Oops.”

“You’re distracting me,” he says, breath catching mid-word.

“And what are you going to do about it?” You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Just because you can. Tongue darting out to taste salt and warmth, breath pooling over damp skin. You feel him shiver.

“I’m trying to make you breakfast,” he mutters.

“And you’re doing amazing, sweetie,” you whisper, words curling with amusement as your hands slide up under his shirt, palms skimming hot skin. “Five stars for effort.”

He exhales slowly. Then turns. There’s that smile again, sleep-soft, crooked, so damn pretty it makes your stomach flip. You can still see the crease from the pillow on his cheek. His lashes are wet at the tips. His eyes, though, are clear. Bright. Fixed only on you.

“You always this handsy after Pulitzer-worthy investigations?”

You bat your lashes up at him. “Just trying to… fact-check my findings.”

One brow arches. He steps in closer, nudging you gently against the edge of the counter, towering over you, voice dropping an octave. “Anything I can help clarify?”

You drag your fingers down the front of his shirt, stopping just above the waistband of his sweats. “Might need a follow-up interview.”

He hums, like he’s thinking about it. Then lifts you in one smooth, effortless motion, hands warm under your thighs as he settles you onto the counter like you weigh nothing at all. The marble is cold beneath you, but he steps in between your legs, and suddenly all you feel is him, his thighs, his hands, his heat.

Your legs fall open around him without a second thought.

He kisses you then, slow, teasing, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt. His mouth is warm, familiar now, but it still makes your stomach flutter like the first time.

“I have excellent retention,” he murmurs against your lips, “if you want to review last night’s data.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, and bite his bottom lip. “You’re cocky.”

He leans in closer, nuzzling your jaw. “I’ve been reviewed. Oral God confirmed.”

You smack his shoulder. “Stop reading my texts.”

“Mmhm, like you actually mean that,” he grins and kisses you again. Deeper, this time. Filthy and slow. Like you’re the only thing he wants to taste for the rest of the day.

Behind him, the toast burns. Something beeps. Neither of you notice. Or care. Because Clark’s hands are on your hips. You’re tugging at his shirt. And breakfast, apparently, can wait.

-

Weeks later, you’re back in his lap on a Sunday morning, both of you tangled up on the couch with the news playing in the background, a half-drunk mug of coffee cooling on the table.

You’re thumbing through one of his old notebooks, pretending not to read his scribbles, even though they’re suspiciously detailed for a guy who always claims he “just got lucky” with the Superman exclusives. His arm tightens around your waist. You glance up.

“You still investigating me, Bernstein?” he asks, eyes warm behind his glasses.

You smile and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Always,” you say. “But don’t worry. This one’ll take me a while.”

And maybe it will, because right now, you have no idea he’s Superman.

You just know he’s your best friend and the man you’re in love with. But you will.

Eventually.

[pinksplace]

need him beyond comprehension

nsfw, face sitting

clark kent was a very self-indulgent man. it was probably one of the first things you noticed about him.

if you ever asked him for anything, it was yours before the words could even finish leaving your mouth. you would always get the bigger piece when you shared a treat and your side of the bed was the one where the mattress felt softer. sometimes you joked he was purposely spoiling you to ruin you for future partners.

yes, he was ruining you, for sure. because when it came to give you pleasure, it was a task he took way too seriously. even when he was inches deep inside you, making sure you were feeling good was simply not enough to clark, he needed you to reach the point of tears from how much pleasure he was giving you.

but that could also mean clark could often get so caught up in giving you pleasure, that it made it hard for him to voice his own wants.

one of the few times he actually bringed himself to do it, you were almost too far gone to even properly register. your hands were tangled in his curls, thighs trying to squeeze together but blocked by his own form between them while you squirmed on his lap. you were already completely bare, and the friction caused by the contact against the fabric of his boxers made it impossible to do anything but moan shamelessly into his mouth.

when you started to rock your hips against him, a straining, rock hard bulge already pressing against your cunt—that was when clark released a shaky exhale, like he was trying to gather up courage, and quickly mumbled under his breath: "iwantyoutositonmyface."

you pulled away, head tilting to the side as you tried to make sense of what he had just asked you. your head spinned. "i—you what?"

but then clark looked up at you, and the expression on his face was like he was begging you not to make him ask again. you said no more then, only nodding your head and gently pushing his chest to make him lie down on the bed.

now, legs already positioned against both sides of his head, you still couldn't help but feel a small pang of worry. you didn't want to hurt him. "but what if i... suffocate you?"

clark's shoulders shook slightly with a chuckle, dimples showing. "sweetheart, you're not going to suffocate me, i swear."

you swallowed. then slowly started to lower your weight towards his mouth. he held your gaze, deep blue eyes glinting with a hungry, foreign emotion that made your walls clench around nothing.

only a few inches away from his mouth. you hesitated. "clark, i—"

"baby, did i say hover? sit."

you barely had time to squeal in surprise before he was tugging you by your hips, finally aligning his lips to your dripping cunt. and when he did, you swore your eyes rolled all the way to the back of your skull. a hand desperately clutched his hair, tugging the strands in an attempt to brace yourself.

clark groaned against you, eyes fluttering shut. the vibrations shot a sharp spark of pleasure right to your core, and you couldn't help the way your hips involuntarily rocked against his tongue.

his glasses were tilted to the side and already fogging up with your own heat. you reached to pull them away from clark's face, only to bring up a trembling hand to place them over your own eyes. his eyes shot up at that, and the vision seemed to do something to clark.

at the sight of you wearing his glasses and nothing more, one arm wrapped even more tightly around your lower back. his other hand gripped your ass and possessively pulled you impossibly closer to his face, like he was scared someone would try and snatch you.

his chest rumbled with a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a moan, eyes still locked to your face as his tongue swirled around your clit, then moved back down to push against your wet hole.

and when the coil already forming in your stomach threatened to snap, when your head fell back with a long, pleading whine, the intensity in clark's gaze while he watched you fall apart on his tongue told you he wasn't planning on letting you go any time soon.

[pinksplace]

I wish my body knew the difference between going on vacation and being held at gun point