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ramp-it-up · 1 month ago

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Say Yes

Peach Masterlist

Summary: Steve fills you up over and over for his birthday. And you keep saying yes.

Word Count: 4 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (Mob Boss) Steve Rogers x Dancer!Reader (Peach)

A/N: This fic is a Peach Fic and is connected to the Knock You Down AU, and comes about 15 months after the events in Pop Fly and also some time after the Bucky fic At Last. I'm trying to get Steve and Bucky caught up to the same point in time as Ari. This might be a little too much. 😬 Let me know if you like it by commenting & reblogging.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Steve and Peach (they are warnings unto themselves, Beloved), Angst, smut, fluff. Talk of trying for a baby, anxiety about fertility, it's Steve's Birthday! Established relationship, Steve is all dom, all day, consentual free use, Good Girl and heavy praise kink, oral (m receiving), thigh riding, shower sex, multiple positions, SIZE kink, BREEDING kink; raw p in v, pussy stuffing, dripping, cum play, over stimulation, after care, pregancy test. Basically porn for Steve's b-day!

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I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

You woke up before him.

Steve lay on his side, one arm draped heavy over your waist. His face was smooth in sleep, mouth parted, dark blonde hair shining in the sunlight.

He looked younger like this. Less like the man who used to run half the city from back rooms and more like the one you’d married one early December morning, your hearts too full to wait.

A year and a half of marriage.

You’d had an entire year of planes and trains and beaches. Bi-weekly trips to Atlanta to oversee things there, the other weeks in Brooklyn and monthly escapes away to someplace special.

It was a year of no expectations, no countdowns, no baby plans. Just you and him, learning each other.

Just being together.

But now, you were trying to have a baby.

And after six months of trying, some days felt easier than others. Some mornings you woke up sure it would happen.

Some mornings, you wondered if waiting had been a mistake.

But you’d decided to let go of all of that today, because today was special.

You studied the curve of Steve’s jaw as his hand instinctively tightened on your hip when you shifted.

God, you loved him.

Even if you never had a baby, you loved him more than you knew how to say.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple.

“Happy Birthday,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he just looked at you, hazy and warm.

Then a slow grin curved his mouth.

“Mornin’, Peach.”

You smiled. “Morning, old man.”

He groaned, pulling you close and burying his face in your neck.

“Not old.”

“You’re a year older today,” you teased.

“And I’m going to spoil you so rotten you’ll forget to be embarrassed about it.”

His breath tickled your throat.

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” you interrupted gently.

Because you did. You wanted this day to feel like proof that love could still be simple, even when everything else felt complicated.

You let him kiss you sweetly, your body already warming under his touch. When he pulled back, you rested your palm on his cheek.

“I’m yours today,” you said softly. “Anything you want. Anything.”

His pupils blew wide. His hand tightened on your hip.

“Anything?”

“Everything,” you promised, and meant it.

He exhaled, like he was steadying himself. Like he knew exactly how he planned to spend the day.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest loosened.

His hand went between your legs.

“Steve,” you whispered as your eyes fluttered closed, your breath already unsteady.

His thumb stroked slowly up the seam of your pussy, spreading the slick already gathering there.

“Eyes open.”

You blinked into the half-light, and his gaze was so hot it made you shiver.

“Say it again.”

“Anything you want.”

His mouth curved. “Good girl.”

Your heart stuttered.

God, he knew exactly what that did to you, how just those words made your body tighten, how that phrase made your pussy wet.

Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them deep. The slick sound of it made your face burn. Your hips jerked, and a ragged moan breaking from your throat.

“You’re already soaked,” he rasped. “You like this, don’t you? Lying here open for me?”

“Yes…”

His thumb brushed your clit, just enough to make your vision go white at the edges.

“You know what I’m gonna do to you today?”

You swallowed, breath shuddering out. “Yes?”

You didn’t know, but the answer would be yes all day.

He chuckled and leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“I’m going to fuck you as many times as I want,” he whispered.

“Fill you up until you can’t take any more. Until you’re so full of me it’s dripping out of you.”

Your whole body went tight, hips bucking helplessly into his hand.

“God. Steve…”

He smiled. “That’s it. Show me.”

He shifted over you, one arm beside your head. With the other hand, he guided himself to your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against your slick heat.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You did.

He pushed in slowly, inch by glorious fat inch, and you felt it, every thick stretch, every hot drag. Your back arched off the bed as a strangled cry tearing from your throat.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned. “Every time.”

His hips rolled deeper, bottoming out. You could feel every thick inch of him so deep it was almost too much.

“Say you’re mine,” he breathed, his thumb brushing your lower lip.

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

“Say you’re gonna take every drop I give you.”

Your breath caught. “I…I’ll take it…”

“All of it,” he growled.

“Every time I fuck it into you.”

You were already close, the heat building fast. But his words.

This man and his words.

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, I need…”

“I know,” he rasped. “Give it to me.”

His hand slipped under your knee, pressing your thigh higher, opening you wider. The new angle sent you spinning, pleasure crashing over you so fast you couldn’t even scream.

You came clenching tight around him, trembling all over, the sound of your slick cunt stretched around him obscene.

He held you there, hips grinding through every wave. And when he came, when he groaned your name, it felt like he was everywhere.

Flooding and marking you in the most primal way.

He stayed buried inside you, his breathing ragged against your neck. You felt the slow trickle of him threatening to slip free.

“No,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

One broad hand slid down to cup you, pressing you closed, sealing it in.

“Keep it,” he ordered softly. “All of it.”

Your breath hitched, tears prickling your eyes at how badly you wanted it too.

“Say yes,” he whispered, his thumb stroking where you were stretched around him.

“Say you’ll keep every drop.”

“Yes,” you choked out.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Good girl.”

And finally, finally, he eased out carefully. And despite yourself, you felt it slip free in a warm rush, and your face burned.

But before you could close your thighs, he caught your hip, holding you open.

He watched his cum slide down your pussy and gathered it on his fingers, pushing it back inside.

“Not wasting a fucking drop,” he intoned, the most serious he’d been about anything in his life.

—--

He didn’t let you out of bed right away.

Steve kept you in his arms and finally shifted onto his back, pulling you with him until you were sprawled over his chest. You felt the slow throb of him hardening again against your belly.

“Shower,” he murmured, voice still rough.

The water was warm, steam filling the space. You stepped under the spray, tilting your head back, letting the heat loosen the ache in your muscles.

Steve’s hands settled on your waist from behind. For a long moment, he just held you there, your back against his chest, the water rushing over both of you.

Then one palm slid up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked tight.

“You have no idea what you look like right now,” he rasped against your ear. “How perfect you are.”

You swallowed, your breath catching when his other hand moved lower, fingers stroking between your legs.

“Steve…”

“You said anything,” he reminded you, his mouth brushing your neck.

His fingers found your entrance, still so sensitive, still slick from everything he’d left inside you. He groaned low in his throat when he felt it.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping.”

You braced your hands on the tile, shivering as he worked two fingers inside you again.

“I can feel it,” he whispered. “Feel my cum inside you.”

Your knees went weak.

“Please…”

“Please what?”

“I don’t know…”

He smiled against your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there.

“I think you do.”

His thumb circled your clit, gentle but relentless. You gasped, your body already spiraling.

“Cum for me,” he ordered softly.

“Show me how much you love it.”

You came hard, clutching the tile, your whole body shuddering as he held you up with one arm around your waist.

When it was over, he kissed the side of your neck again, voice rough but tender.

“That’s my girl.”

—----

You were still shaky when you finished your shower.

He let you put on one of his softest shirts and nothing else. And when you padded into the kitchen, he lifted you onto the counter.

“I want to watch my Doll look pretty for me while I cook,” he said.

You smiled and watched him move around the kitchen, relaxed, in just grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips.

God, he was beautiful. And he was yours. Despite being skillfully used, you grew hot for him again.

When he finally brought your plate and set it on the counter beside you, you reached for his hand and pulled him in.

“Tell me what you want,” you said, your voice low.

He searched your eyes.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, the hunger there so raw it made you clench.

“I want you on your knees,” he said.

His voice was quiet, but it held no uncertainty.

“I want to watch you take me. I want to see your mouth around me.”

You swallowed. Your whole body went warm.

“Yes.”

“Here.”

He pointed to the floor in front of him.

You slid off the counter, the tile cold under your bare knees.

He stepped closer. One big hand cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking over your jaw as he looked down at you.

“Open,” he murmured.

You did.

He worked himself free of his sweatpants, and his cock was thick and heavy in his palm, already flushed dark with need.

“Look at you,” he said hoarsely.

“So fucking pretty like this.”

You flushed hot all over and looked up at him.

“Take it,” he whispered.

Your lips parted wider. He slid the blunt head over your tongue, groaning when you closed your mouth around him.

“Fuck…”

He let you set the pace at first, your hands on his thighs, your mouth moving eagerly, savoring the heat and heavy weight of him. But it didn’t take long before he threaded one hand into your hair, guiding you deeper.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Take all of it.”

You tried. But he was too big to fit all the way, so you worked him as deep as you could, your throat fluttering around the stretch.

He hissed, his hand tightening just enough to hold you in place as his hips rolled forward.

“Look up at me,” he rasped.

You did.

The sight of you, lips stretched wide, spit falling from the corners of your mouth, eyes shining, cheeks flushed, made his jaw go tight.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So fucking good for me.”

Your thighs pressed together at the praise. And when he felt you moan around him, Steve’s head fell back on his shoulders and he groaned low.

“You want it?”

You nodded as best you could, your tongue teasing the underside of his thick head.

“Then don’t stop.”

His hips rocked deep into your mouth, his free hand caressing your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

You took everything he gave you, every inch, every ragged breath, every curse whispered just for you. And when he finally pulled you off, your lips were swollen and wet, and you were gasping for breath.

He leaned down, kissing you hard, tasting himself on your tongue.

“Perfect,” he whispered against your mouth. “You’re fucking perfect.”

—-----

Steve didn’t let you stand right away. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked down at you. His breathing was rough, like he was trying to get control.

“You know how beautiful you are right now?” he rasped.

Your lips parted, but you didn’t know how to answer. You just looked up at him, flushed and trembling.

He smiled at you.

“The answer is yes.”

He swallowed, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Then lower.

“Get up.”

You rose slowly, your knees stiff from the tile.

“Sit,” he ordered quietly.

He turned you with gentle hands and guided you to sit your bare cunt on the hard muscle of his thigh. The warmth of his skin, and the way the strength of it flexed under you made your whole body go tight.

“Eat,” he murmured.

You looked up, wide-eyed.

“Eat,” he repeated, voice low and calm, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t filthy and tender all at once.

You reached for your fork with a trembling hand. He watched you bring the first bite to your mouth, watched you chew and swallow.

“Good girl,” he praised, and the muscle beneath you tensed.

You gasped, hips rocking instinctively.

“You gonna cum on my thigh while you eat your breakfast?” he asked softly.

Your breath hitched.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

His strong hands steadied you on his thigh.

“Keep going.”

You lifted another bite to your mouth. You could barely taste it. All you could feel was the relentless heat building between your legs, and the slick glide of your pussy against him.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “You’d let me do anything to you.”

Your hips rolled again, a slave to the feeling.

“Tell me.”

“Yes…” you gasped. “Anything. All of it….”

He flexed his thigh again, the hard muscle pressing right against your clit. You nearly choked on a whimper.

“Keep eating,” he ordered.

You did, one hand white-knuckling the counter, the other shaking as you lifted the fork to your mouth.

“You gonna cum?”

“Yes, please!”

“Do it.”

The next slow drag of your hips sent you over the edge. You came shaking, your cunt pulsing against his thigh, your body curling forward as your moan broke free.

His hands held you steady. His voice stayed low, warm, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So fucking good for me.”

You collapsed against his chest, your heart racing.

He kissed your hair, breathing you in.

“Finish your breakfast,” he whispered against your temple.

“We’ve got a long day ahead.”

—------

He told you to change into a dress before you left the apartment, but no underwear. You obliged and then rode the elevator down to the lobby, where you and Steve started the short walk to the Rebirth Gallery.

You laced your fingers through his as you walked, Brooklyn moving around you at a low hum.

He squeezed your hand, thumb stroking the back.

“You okay?”

You looked up and saw how serious he was. How careful he was of you.

“I’m okay,” you said.

He nodded, understanding what you were in your head about, then pulled you closer and kissed the top of your head.

And you just walked like that.

Like you hadn’t spent the last six months counting days.

—-----

The gallery was empty, closed to the public for the day. But you still felt exposed as you walked through the halls just a cream sundress that you bought in Positano, nothing underneath, his cum still sticky on your inner thighs.

Every time you stopped to look at a piece, he stepped close behind you, his hand sliding up under the hem to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

“Hands on the railing,” he murmured when you paused in front of a massive canvas.

Your palms pressed to the smooth wood. He lifted the skirt over your hips, baring you completely. The cold air made you shiver, and made you even wetter.

“Look at it,” he ordered, his voice rough. “I want you to see yourself while I take you.”

There was a tall glass panel beside the railing. Your gaze met your reflection, hair mussed, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. You looked ruined already.

“Beautiful,” he said, just before he slid inside you again.

You didn’t try to hide the way you moaned.

He fucked you there with slow, hard thrusts that made your reflection blur in the glass.

Every time you shifted, you felt the slick slide of him, the obscene wetness of your own arousal mixed with what he’d given you earlier.

You watched yourself take it, watched your own lips part with a helpless sound when he bottomed out. When he came this time, it was quieter. Just a shudder and a low groan against the back of your neck, his hands holding you tight.

You felt the spill of him again, thick and hot, your skin sticky again where it dripped down your thighs.

And God, you loved it.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just breathed with you, his cheek pressed to your hair.

Finally, he eased out, and you whimpered at the emptiness.

He caught your chin in one hand, tilting your face up until your eyes met in the reflection.

“You good?” he asked softly.

You nodded, your pulse fluttering.

“Turn around.”

You did.

He smoothed your dress down over your thighs like nothing had happened, like you weren’t still trembling, your cunt swollen and dripping.

When he pressed a kiss to your temple, it felt more intimate than anything else.

“Dinner,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

“Like this?”

He smiled, slow and devastating.

“Exactly like this.”

—---

The restaurant was just a block away, one of those low-lit places you never visited without him, because every table felt like it belonged to people who could buy and sell your entire life.

The maître d’ greeted Steve with that particular blend of respect and wariness that always followed him.

“Mr. Rogers. Right this way.”

Steve held your chair out, helped you sit and settled into the seat across from you like he hadn’t just bent you over a railing ten minutes ago.

The waiter came with water, menus, and the quiet question.

“The usual for you, sir?”

“Yes,” Steve said, not bothering to look away from you.

“And for the lady?”

“I’ll have the same,” you managed.

When the waiter left, Steve reached across the white linen, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmured.

You swallowed.

“That everyone can tell.”

His blue eyes sparked, wicked.

“They can’t,” he promised.

“But even if they could…”

He leaned closer, his thumb sweeping over your palm and your wrist, tracing the line of your pulse.

“They’d just know you’re mine.”

He watched you closely.

“Is that what you want?” he asked softly.

You met his gaze, your heart thudding.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he murmured.

“Because after this, I’m taking you home. And you’re going to spend the rest of the night exactly how I want you.”

You exhaled unsteadily.

“And how is that?”

His smile was lethal.

“Full of me. Until you forget how it felt to be empty.”

—---

Once in your bedroom, Steve didn’t rush undressing.

He never did.

He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, letting you watch the way each new inch of skin revealed the hard lines of his body. He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, slid his trousers down those powerful thighs.

When he joined you on the bed, you shivered at the heat of his skin against yours. His big hands traced over your hips, your belly, and up to cup your breasts.

“You remember what I promised?” he murmured, voice rough.

You nodded.

“That I’d keep you full all night,” he supplied, as his hand moved lower, sliding between your thighs. He found you slick and swollen, still messy with his last release.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “So ready.”

You made a helpless sound when he pressed two fingers into you, spreading you wide.

“Steve…”

He shushed you with a kiss. Then he pulled his hand away, lined himself up, and pushed inside in one slow, steady thrust.

You both groaned when he bottomed out, the thick weight of him filling you completely.

“God, baby,” he breathed. “Feel how deep I am?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

“Good.”

He set a slow, rolling rhythm, his hips grinding deep, making you feel every inch.

“Not gonna stop,” he promised. “Not until you come for me again.”

His thumb found your clit, stroking in time with his thrusts.

“Tell me whose you are.”

“Yours,” you panted, voice breaking.

“Say it again.”

“Yours…yours…”

“That’s right,” he growled. “Always.”

When you came, it was sharp and bright, a rush of heat that made your vision go white.

But he didn’t let up. He flipped you over and pushed his thick cockhead into your abused pussy again.

The angle was deeper this time, and every stroke punched a ragged moan from your throat. Your cheek pressed to the pillow and your body was boneless as he fucked you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice so tender it made your chest ache.

“Taking everything I give you.”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice raw.

He leaned over you, his chest warm against your back, his hand curling around your throat.

“You’re mine,” he breathed.

“Yours.”

“Forever.”

When he came, it was with a groan torn from deep in his chest, his hips pressing tight to yours as he filled you again.

He stayed there, breathing hard, hand still around your throat, the other over your heart.

And you just let yourself feel it. His weight, his heat, his love.

—--

He was gentler after, easing out of you slowly and gathering you against his chest as he tucked the blanket up around your shoulders.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just held you. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head against his chest.

“No.”

His hand smoothed over your hair.

“You sure?”

You looked up at him.

“I’m sure,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed, something unsteady in his eyes.

“You make me feel like…fuck. Like everything else is noise.”

Your heart fluttered.

“I love you,” you said simply.

His mouth curved, soft and a little sad in the way it always did when he didn’t have words.

“I love you too.”

“Best birthday I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped.

“Not because of the sex. Because you let me have you today. All of you.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

“I’m scared,” you admitted finally, voice small. “What if…?”

“Peach.”

He rolled you carefully onto your back, his gaze steady, so sure it made your chest ache.

“If it takes another six months… another year… ten years… I don’t care,” he said quietly.

“It’s you I want. Always you.”

Tears pricked behind your eyes.

“I know. And if it happens…”

He kissed you. “When it happens.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, collecting the single tear that escaped.

“You’re everything,” he whispered.

And you believed him.

—----

Two Weeks Later

You hadn’t planned to take the test today; you’d told yourself you’d wait.

But you’d woken up feeling different somehow.

And now here you were, sitting on the closed toilet lid in your robe, clutching the little white stick like it was a live wire.

You didn’t hear him come in, didn’t realize he was there until you felt his hand on your shoulder.

“Peach.”

His voice was so careful.

You looked up, and he was crouched in front of you, hair still rumpled from sleep, eyes searching yours.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “talk to me.”

You tried to swallow.

“I....I can’t look.”

Something in his face broke, just a little, but his hand never left you.

“Okay,” he said, so calm, so steady. “I will.”

Your heart was a hurricane. He reached for the test and turned it over.

And he went very still.

You felt your breath catch, your whole body strung tight.

“Steve?”

He swallowed.

“It’s positive.”

The room spun.

“Don’t…” You shook your head, voice breaking.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

He looked up then, and you knew in your bones he wasn’t lying.

“It’s positive,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“Baby…it’s yes.”

You pressed a shaking hand over your mouth.

“Yes?”

He nodded, tears gathering in his eyes.

“Yes.”

Your vision blurred, a sob catching in your throat. And then you were in his arms, clinging to him like you were drowning. He held you so tight you could feel his heartbeat.

“You did it,” he murmured, voice hoarse against your hair. “We did it.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, tears slipping freely down your cheeks.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice small.

“I know.” He kissed your wet cheek. "I am too."

You swallowed hard.

“But I want it,” you whispered. “I want this.”

His hand curved over your belly, thumb stroking the soft skin there.

“Say it,” he asked, voice low and rough. “One more time.”

You met his eyes, and even though you were trembling, you said it without hesitation.

“Yes.”

His smile was all wonder. All love.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Me too.”

And when he kissed you again, it was confirmed.

#steve rogers #happy birthday steve rogers #peach fic #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x you #mob boss! steve rogers #chris evans #kyd verse #chris evans characters #mob boss!steve rogers #mob boss!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fluff

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infwects · 2 months ago

Text

kiss & make up ⋆ t. stark

pairing: boss!tony stark x assistant!reader

warnings: 18+ content, nsfw, minors dni, sexual tension, teasing, dirty talk, vulgar language, praise kink, oral sex (f), cunnilingus, little grinding, fingering, tony stark.

summary: you’ve been tony’s assistant for a few years now and have been cleaning after him throughout your career. one day, tony decided to throw an early spontaneous birthday party for himself, and like always, left you to clean it up. though, tony found a way to make it up to you.

word count: 2.2k

author’s note: this is my first fic on here so enjoy sjkdjsks please leave a comment & reblog <3

Being Tony’s assistant was one hell of a job. You thought it was a simple assistant position where you would file papers, get coffee, create meetings and schedules. Escaping death and running from terrorists or aliens was never in the job’s description; you couldn’t leave if you wanted to, you were far too involved to go now. So, you were stuck with Tony Stark for the rest of your life. You weren’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Another thing that wasn’t in the job description was cleaning up after Tony’s mess after he threw a spontaneous party and slept with a random girl there. You were exhausted. Tired of being his cleaner. Maybe you’d take your chances and leave this job. God bless whoever would come after you if you did succeed with leaving.

You were now standing in front of Tony’s mansion after Happy had informed you of another party that Tony threw. From what Happy told you, Tony decided to host a birthday party for himself three days in advance. He told Happy that he wanted to throw an early birthday party, and on the day of his birthday, he would host another one. You promptly ended the call after Happy informed you of Tony’s shenanigans. You didn’t want to deal with this if you hadn’t had your morning coffee yet.

You took in a deep breath before knocking on the door. A few moments of silence passed before the intercom made a staticky noise.

“State your name, please.” The familiar voice of Jarvis spoke through the intercom, and a loud sigh left your mouth as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“It’s me, Jarvis.” You answered tiredly, “Happy called me and told me what happened last night.”

“Ah, Ms. L/N,” Jarvis responded, his tone lighter. “Please come in.” The doors unlocked with a click, and you pushed through, met with the sight of balloons laid everywhere, red solo cups discarded across the floor and counters, and a large ‘Happy Birthday’ sign hanging from the balcony of the second floor.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You muttered under your breath as you continued to scan the area, “I don’t get paid enough for this.” You sighed before turning toward the stairs. “Jarvis, make a call to the usual cleaners and have them come in 15. Oh, and add an extra $300 for the inconvenience.”

“Yes, Ms. L/N. Will do.” Jarvis answered.

“He’s in his room?” You asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You took in a deep breath before you stopped in front of Tony’s room. You gave a knock before entering his room, and surprisingly, it was only him in the bed.

You walked closer to the bed and took in the sight of Tony’s sleeping figure, soft snores left his lips as his cheeks were smushed against the pillows. You grabbed a pillow from under him, causing his head to fall against the mattress, and threw it roughly on his head.

Tony jolted up with a surprised shout, and his right hand immediately thrusted out as a part of his Iron Man suit came flying to him and secured around his wrist and palm.

Tony’s suited hand made a whirring noise and shone brightly, ready to fire at anything and anyone. You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms over your chest, unfazed by his technology and gadgets now. Tony let out a relieved sigh, finally noticing that it was only you and not some assassin who had broken into his home to kidnap him.

“An early birthday party, Tony?” You asked in a bewildered tone, “Seriously?”

“What?” Tony smirked with a shrug, “There’s nothing wrong with celebrating early.”

“You—” You sputtered, “You’re ridiculous. Get dressed. The cleaners will be here soon and we need to leave. You have some paperwork to sign and you will come or so help me god.” You narrowed your eyes at him with a stern finger pointing at him.

Tony’s smirk grew wider, his tongue poked against the side of his cheek, “Or what?”

You glare at him and threw another pillow at his face, “Get dressed. I’ll be in the car.” With that, you turned on your heels leaving behind a laughing Tony Stark.

God, was he infuriating.

Tony didn’t take long to get ready. By the time he finished, the cleaners had arrived and were ready to clean up his mess. The car ride to the Avengers Compound was quiet. Tony could tell that you were pissed at him. He found it cute, he liked getting on your nerves.

“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t stay mad at me all day.” Tony smirked as he followed you into the tower.

“Watch me.” You answered immediately without looking at him. You reached the elevators and stepped in with him following inside. Tony chose to stand behind you and a chuckle left his lips at your snappy response.

“You should loosen up. Have fun.” Tony suggested, “You’re always so tense.”

“And whose fault is that?” You laughed humorlessly. You hear shuffling behind you, and suddenly, you feel a pair of lips brushing against your ears. You tense up, not daring to move a muscle.

“I’m sorry.” Tony’s warm breath fanned against your cheek, goosebumps rose on your arms, “Promise I’ll make up for it.” Just then, the elevator dinged causing you to slightly jump in place. A low shuddered gasp left your mouth as you turned to face Tony. A teasing look was evident on his face, but there was something else in his eyes that you couldn’t decipher. Something. . . dark.

You watched as he walked out of the elevator. He turned to look at you and raised an eyebrow, “You coming or what?” You let out a quiet squeak and quickly brushed past him, sprinting to where your office was located. You hear him chuckling and gulped, is this real?

Once you both made it to your office, you made Tony sit down and immediately made him sign the paperwork that you needed his signature for. You had him sign while you wrote emails to people who ranged from journalists, businessmen, investors, and more.

“Honey, you’ve been at that for hours. Take a break.” You glanced away from your laptop to see Tony putting down his pen and walking toward you.

You furrowed your eyebrows together and gave him a look, “Did you finish?” You asked him instead, choosing not to answer his question.

“I finished five minutes ago.” Tony raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against your desk, “Now take a break, I’m not asking.”

“Tony.” You began with a sigh.

“Nuh-uh.” Tony clicked his tongue. He moved to close your laptop, and your mouth gaped at his actions. “Break.”

“Fine.” You grumbled, leaning back against your chair.

Tony smiled with satisfaction, “Jarvis, place an order for a turkey sandwich with a side of potato wedges and a vanilla milkshake please.”

You look at him in surprise, “You know my order?”

“Please.” Tony scoffed, “You’ve been with me for what—five years now? Of course, I know your order. I know you. Just like how you know me.”

“Really?” You asked with a laugh. “Enlighten me, Mr. Stark. What do you know about me?”

Tony smirked, his foot reached over to slightly turn your chair so you would be facing him, “You like order. Hate disorganized things. You like to be clean, hate being messy. It shows in your outfits, too. You’re always wearing a white button-up and a long skirt. You leave your hair down, though, because you’re too lazy to style it. You like simple things, sometimes if you’re feeling bold, you go beyond your usual style.” You froze. It seems that Tony Stark does know you better than you thought, “Oh, and you’re a complete brat, but I like that about you.”

“Why?” You asked breathlessly.

Tony’s smirk grew wider, he tilt his head to the side as he held your gaze, “Cause I would have so much fun fucking the brattiness out of you.”

Your eyes grew wide, and a quiet gasp left your lips at his statement. What the actual fuck.

“Why are you so surprised?” Tony inquired teasingly. He lifted himself off your desk and walked toward you. You gripped on the armrests of your chair tightly, “You don’t think I noticed the way you would look at me? You’re not really discreet.” You continued to stare at him in shock, completely at loss of words, “You always look at me like you want to devour me whole, but don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual.”

“Tony. . .” You muttered breathlessly.

Tony’s eyes dropped to your lips, and his pupils seemed to darken and dilate. “God, you have such pretty lips. Can I kiss you? Would you let me, pretty girl?”

You gasped. Oh my god. This can’t be real.

“Honey?” You glance up to see Tony looking at you in concern, “You still with me?”

You nodded meekly, “Mhm. I—You can kiss me.”

Tony smiled, and he brushed his thumb against your bottom lip, “Yeah?”

“Please.” You pleaded. Tony grinned and pulled you up from the chair and into him. A satisfied moan left him as his lips made contact with yours. He softly licked your bottom lip, and you parted your lips, allowing him entrance. Tony reached behind to grip the back of your head, pulling you closer to him, and causing you to gasp against his mouth. You felt him smirk, and he pulled back, a string of spit was visible, and he reached up to wipe your bottom lip.

“Pretty girl,” Tony mumbled. His eyes trailed over your face before he pulled you into another kiss, “C’mere.” You moaned against his lips as his tongue immediately shoved in your mouth. He flipped you over, flinging everything on your desk off and onto the floor. You gasped and arched your back as Tony’s kisses began to trail down your neck, one hand held down your hips while the other gripped your neck softly. You parted your legs for him, and he immediately began to grind against you, which caused a groan to leave his lips, “God, you’re addicting.”

“Tony. More.” You whined, scrunching up the fabric of his shirt. Tony chuckled between his kisses; he pecked up your jawline to your cheeks.

“More what?” Tony whispered, “Use your words, honey.”

“Want more of you.” You muttered, grinding against his thigh that was wedged between your legs. “Want to feel you.”

“Where?” Tony teased. His fingers trailed dangerously close to your center. You felt like you were on fire, and his touch wasn’t helping at all. “You gotta tell me where, sweetheart.”

“Here.” You moaned as you moved his fingers directly on your clothed panties.

A hum emitted from Tony, he left a peck on the corner of your mouth, “Good girl.” You felt the warmth of his body leave, and you perched yourself up by your elbows to see that he was kneeling down, face to face with your heat. A whimper leaves your lips at the sight, and you wanted to combust in that moment. Tony’s eyes darkened, and he gave you a raised eyebrow before he began to place kisses on your inner thighs, “What do you want? My fingers or tongue.” You only whined in response, “You gotta tell me what to do here, honey. I’m just following what you want.”

“Your tongue.” You gasped. You felt your eyes tearing up from desperation and want, “Tony, please.”

Tony chuckled, “Aren’t you a needy little brat?” He leaned closer to place a soft kiss on your clothed heat, and your hips stuttered forward, but Tony was quick to hold you in place. He slowly pulled off your panties and groaned, “Fuck, look at you. So pretty and perfect for me.” Without hesitation, he dove in, licking up your center like a man possessed.

You moaned loudly and gripped on his hair tightly, your back arched off the desk, “Tony!” He moaned against you, the vibrations causing your eyes to roll back. He sucked on your clit harshly making you grind against his face with a whine, the feeling of his nose brushing against you made you tighten your hold on him. “More, please. More.” He followed your request and added two fingers into your heat, curling them up to reach that spot inside of you, and he knew he reached it when a loud moan left your lips, causing him to smirk against you. He expertly pumped them in and out simultaneously with his tongue, bringing you closer to the edge. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Tony felt you clench around his fingers and pulled back, licking his lips, “Come for me, sweetheart.” You arched your back, eyes rolling back as you thrusted into his fingers. He leaned back down to flatten his tongue against your folds before sucking on your clit, the simulation of that made you come undone.

Tony pulled back and grinned at the breathless sight of you, chest heaving up and down with pants and eyes hazy. You watched as Tony licked his fingers clean, moaning at the taste of you, and you never wanted to jump onto someone so fast before in your life.

“Did I make it up to you?” Tony asked with an amused grin. He leaned down to place a kiss on your lips.

You nodded in response, still out of it, “Tony—”

“Mr. Stark, your order has arrived.” Jarvis’ voice announced, and you jumped in surprise.

Tony stared up at the ceiling for a second before chuckling; he trailed his gaze back down to you and smirked, “Lunch’s here, honey.”

412 notes · View notes

witchywithwhiskey · 1 year ago

Text

first and last

pairing: childhood best friend!steve rogers x female reader

summary: after more than a decade away from your home town—and your childhood best friend—you return. everything is exactly the same, but also, entirely different.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), fluff, angst, smut, drunken antics, some arguing, drunk masturbation (f) with an audience, semi-public, choking, dirty talk, praise kink, begging, boundaries, very light bdsm vibes, references to past sexual intimacy (piv sex, oral sex [f receiving]), nicknames (buttercup, baby), aftercare

word count: 8.8k

a/n: this is my entry in @the-slumberparty's Sundae Bar Challenge, and i've been working on it since june so i'm very excited to post it!!! i wanted to make a sundae i'd actually eat so i used the prompts Butterscotch (childhood friends) and Caramel (drunk/delirious/not in their right mind). it also might be a bit literal to have Steve working at an ice cream shop but whatever!!

i mentioned when i teased this fic that i'd thought about turning it into a much longer story/potentially saving it for a novel, but honestly i just don't know when or if i'll ever have time to do that. but these scenes don't necessarily follow right after each other, so if they feel disconnected, that's why. they're just the ones i wanted to write 😅

The sidewalk of Brambleberry Cove was warm from a full day under the August sun, the concrete gritty with sand beneath your bare feet as you walked the rest of the short distance to Seaside Scoops from your rental house a few blocks away.

The sun dipped low on the western horizon, casting long shadows over the coastal town like stretching fingers reaching for the Atlantic Ocean. You could hear the steady sound of the crashing waves over the near distant sand dunes, their rhythm a background to your walk.

It could’ve been a peaceful moment—you were back in your home town, surrounded by familiar sights and sounds and smells. But you were in a wretched mood, and all you could focus on was everything wrong with the world and your current place in it.

There was, of course, the throbbing pain in your big toe from when you’d stubbed it moments ago on the cursed, charming sidewalk, as well as the slight sting on the sides of your foot where your flip flop straps had torn. Your ruined shoes dangled from your fingers because Brambleberry Cove didn’t have a trash can on every street corner like the city you were accustomed to living in.

In addition to those grievances, the straps of your bathing suit—which you hadn’t worn in far too long and hadn’t realized had become too small—were digging into your shoulders and hips uncomfortably. And, though you’d only been walking for five minutes from the little bungalow you were renting, your thighs were already beginning to chafe beneath the simple dress you’d thrown on.

All told, you were not in the mood to appreciate the simple beauty of Brambleberry Cove. Instead of admiring the sun-bleached cottages that gave way to the small coastal shops lining main street, and letting yourself sink into the comfort of being back in your tiny beachside home town, you were fixated on everything wrong in your life—both in that moment and the larger scheme of things.

In your defense, though, there was a lot wrong in your life. There’d had to be to get you back to your home town after so long away.

There was the dream job you’d lost, the ex who’d left you for someone else, and the friends who’d all promised to be there for you, but then vanished when you actually needed help. The only people who’d come through for you were your parents, who’d had a friend willing to rent a little Brambleberry Cove bungalow to you for a fraction of its normal summer price since it was already August and they weren’t going to make much more money anyway.

You’d had to pack up and leave the city where you’d built your life for 15 years, and move back to your home town, which you hadn’t seen in nearly that long since your parents had moved out west shortly after you’d graduated high school. Being back home made you feel like you weren’t only taking a single step backward, but moving leaps and bounds in the wrong direction. It made you feel like a failure.

But you tried not to think about all that on your short walk to Seaside Scoops, instead focusing on the pain in your toe and the digging ache of your bathing suit.

By the time you saw the familiar neon sign for the ice cream shop, it felt like finding an oasis in the desert. You picked up your pace, ignoring the way your body protested, the soles of your feet no longer used to walking on the sandy sidewalk like you’d done countless times growing up in Brambleberry Cove.

You could see through the window that there was a short line in Seaside Scoops, and you hurriedly pushed through the door of the shop. Once inside, you breathed in the familiar scent of sugar and hot fudge and reveled in the feel of the air conditioner ghosting over your sun-warmed shoulders.

Surreptitiously, you shoved your ruined flip flops into the garbage just inside the door and got in line behind the couple with their two small children. You glanced around the shop, not really taking it in, and hoped whoever was working behind the counter was still lax on the ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service’ rule that had theoretically been in place since before you were born—but had never been enforced in practice.

Finally looking to the counter, wondering idly if you’d recognize who was working or if it’d be some local teen that had been a baby the last time you’d been to Brambleberry Cove, you were shocked to see who was working at Seaside Scoops. Your belly swooped like you were standing on a boat on the choppy sea, your heart racing when you recognized the man behind the counter. At one time, he’d been the boy you’d shared so much of your childhood with, so many of your summers with.

When you got a good look at him, you were almost surprised you recognized him so fast. He was no longer the scrawny teenager you’d left behind when you’d gone off to college and never looked back. He looked so different from the boy you’d known well enough you could recall his face in perfect detail, but, in so many ways, exactly the same.

On the whole, it was a shock to see the man Steve Rogers had become.

Sandy brown hair fell on either side of his handsome, suntanned face, swept back like he had a habit of running his hands through it countless times a day. A short, well-kept beard decorated his strong jaw, bracketing a set of soft pink lips that were curved in a devastating grin. His bright blue eyes sparkled beneath the fluorescent lights of the shop, and when he spoke to the family in front of you in line, his voice rumbled like the distant roar of the ocean.

Seeing Steve Rogers for the first time in over 15 years made something loosen in your chest, anxiety uncoiling from around your heart and shaking free for the first time in a long time. A sense of safety and comfort washed over you, and you had the sudden thought that this was how you were supposed to feel about coming home.

But you shoved that thought aside and continued your perusal of your childhood best friend, making note of all the ways he’d changed from the boy you’d known.

Thick, golden biceps were bare and bulging beneath the edge of his white t-shirt, and dense, brown hair covered corded forearms as Steve folded his arms on top of the ice cream case. He was tall—tall enough to lean over the case to talk to the kids with the couple in front of you, asking them about their favorite ice cream flavors and if they’d like to try anything new.

The kids, a boy and a girl, both stared up at him with wide eyes, shyness and wonder clear in their twin expressions. They looked to their parents for permission before shyly revealing what flavors they’d like to try. Steve gave a deep, hearty chuckle at their timidness, and complimented them on their choices, which seemed to make them both loosen up a bit.

Inexplicable heat flushed through your body at the sound of Steve’s deep laughter, and the easiness with which he interacted with the kids. You’d never been particularly good with children, mainly because you’d never had much of a chance to interact with any, and you’d never felt any particular desire to be around them. But seeing Steve looking like he did talking to those kids made your belly swoop again and something inside you pulse with a need you didn’t want to fully unpack.

Shoving those thoughts into a box in the back corner of your mind, you forced yourself to look away from your childhood friend and up at the menu that listed all the ice cream flavors. You’d been to Seaside Scoops hundreds of times in your life, if not thousands, and, at one time, you’d had the list memorized.

Hopefully you still had that knowledge tucked away somewhere in your brain, because you weren’t taking in anything you were reading as you not-so-patiently waited for Steve to finish up with the customers in front of you.

It felt like forever, and by the time the family took their cups and cones of ice cream toward the side door that opened up into an outdoor seating area, you’d already cycled through three rounds of the same argument with yourself about why you should leave Seaside Scoops without talking to Steve. You couldn’t imagine your first conversation in 15 years going well.

But you couldn’t leave without talking to him. Not when he was right there and it had been so long and you were dying to know everything that he’d done in the last 15 years since you saw him last.

Still, it took you a few extra seconds to gather the courage to lower your eyes from the menu board and finally look at your childhood friend. When you did, your gaze caught immediately on Steve’s, and your heart gave a little flip at the devastatingly charming smile on his impossibly handsome face.

“Hey there, buttercup,” Steve rumbled, his tone as friendly and familiar as it had always been. All of a sudden, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Hi, Steve,” you said, trying for the same casualness he’d achieved, but your voice sounded faint and faraway in your ears. The corners of your mouth flickered in a tremulous smile.

You couldn’t understand the surge of emotion filling your chest and rising in your throat, pricking at the backs of your eyes like you wanted to throw yourself into your oldest friend’s arms and sob about everything wrong in your life.

The same deluge of emotion had hit you when you’d stubbed your toe on your walk to Seaside Scoops and you’d had to stand there by yourself, sucking in deep breaths of salty Brambleberry Cove air, nails biting into the flesh of your palms to keep yourself from breaking down.

Just as you’d done then, you beat back the emotion, blinking your eyes rapidly to rid them of tears. Still, a thought needled you as you stood across the counter from Steve—the knowledge that if you did let yourself break down and cry, he wouldn’t hesitate to fold you into that broad chest of his, wrapping you up in his thick arms and holding you so securely, the world might not seem so grim anymore.

You chalked it up to nostalgia and the rough time you were having, forcing yourself to take a deep breath and paste on a bright smile. Casting your eyes around Seaside Scoops, you pretended to give the place a real look, though you didn’t really notice much as you continued to blink back tears.

“You work here now?” you asked lightly, looking at the new standee in the corner.

It was a cartoon shark holding up a sign advertising Seaside Scoops and their many ice cream flavors. But what caught your eye was that it looked a bit like the shark Steve had drawn for you when you’d gotten a bad grade sophomore year and wanted to cheer you up. It even had the same little sailor hat sitting perched on top of his head—which only made sense because sharks didn’t have blowholes, he’d told you at the time.

You’d smiled then, and you smiled again remembering it.

“Uhh,” Steve started, and you turned tear-free eyes back on your old friend, your gaze drawn to the way his bicep bulged against the sleeve of his t-shirt as he scuffed the back of his neck. There was a little bit of a sheepish tinge to his smile. “I actually own Scoops now,” he said in a rush, like he was confessing to something, though you couldn’t imagine what. “I bought it when Mr. Wallace retired down to Florida.”

“Oh,” was all you could think to say, glancing around the ice cream shop with a keener eye.

The shark standee wasn’t the only new thing in the place. Everything, from the tables and chairs to the menu board and counter, looked slightly newer than you remembered. Nothing was wildly different, which was why you hadn’t noticed it when you first looked around. Everything just looked better than it should if it had aged a decade since you’d last stepped into the shop.

Something about it made you think Seaside Scoops looked exactly like your memory of it—but the polished, perfect version in your head, instead of the place as it had been. Yellowed with age and a lack of upkeep. It was genuinely astounding what Steve had done with the place and it took you a few moments to find the right words, though they still felt pale in comparison to the bittersweet nostalgia in your heart.

“The place looks great,” you said with a half smile as you turned back to Steve. A small thread of pride wormed through your heart at seeing what your oldest friend had accomplished and your smile widened when he brightened under your praise. “I like the shark,” you said, hooking a thumb over your shoulder at the standee.

A bit of pink tinted Steve’s cheeks above his beard, and he cleared his throat.

“Is a dipped twist still your favorite?” he asked, clearly trying to change the subject and your smile dimmed just a little. The Steve you’d known had been shy about showing his art to anyone but you, and it seemed that you’d been gone long enough to be lumped in with everyone else.

You swallowed back a lump in your throat and nodded. “Yeah, that’s still my favorite,” you answered, more than a little surprised Steve remembered your order.

Sure, you’d gone to Seaside Scoops together countless times as kids. It had been your hangout spot for most of your childhood, and even into your teen years. You’d study together over a cup of cookie dough with sprinkles for Steve and a cone of vanilla and chocolate softserve dipped in chocolate sauce for you. But that was more than a decade ago.

Your heart gave a heavy squeeze when you remembered the night before you’d left Brambleberry Cove, the way Steve reminded you of the promise you’d made as children—that you’d always be friends. Your stomach twisted into knots as you were confronted with the reality that you hadn’t kept up your end of the deal. You’d left, and you’d allowed your oldest friend to become a stranger.

You wondered if Steve remembered the promise you’d made, the reminder he’d given you as a parting gift, or if he’d forgotten. You wondered if he’d ever want to be friends again.

Steve’s back was to you, his wrist flicking expertly beneath the softserve machine as he filled up a sugar cone with the twist of chocolate and vanilla. You forced yourself to push aside the memories of the past, blinking back more tears before Steve could catch them in your eyes.

You and Steve weren’t friends anymore, and you needed to accept that. It was unreasonable to hold him to a promise he’d made more than two decades ago, especially when you were the one who’d left and had barely tried to stay in touch between college classes and exploring your new city.

With a great amount of effort, you kept your mind blissfully blank as you let your gaze trail idly over Steve’s broad back, unable to stop yourself from noticing just how wide his shoulders were, or the way they moved beneath the soft, worn cotton of his t-shirt. He really did fill out the shirt well, his sides tapering down to a thin waist. And his ass looked particularly good in the curve-hugging denim of his jeans.

As Steve turned around, you raised your eyes quickly and arranged your expression into one of innocence. Steve paused, giving you a shrewd look like he would’ve done when you were teenagers and you were hiding something from him, but then he just shook his head and laughed under his breath, turning to the chocolate sauce where he’d dip your ice cream cone.

“So, what brings you back to Brambleberry Cove, buttercup?” Steve asked, his gaze focusing on dipping your ice cream just right, a look of determination on his face that was endlessly endearing.

You grimaced at the exact moment he glanced up at you, and he chuckled at the face you made. The sound was smooth as warm caramel and sent a new wave of heat rolling down your spine.

“That bad, huh?” he asked, genuine interest in his tone.

Although there was a point in your life when you could’ve told Steve anything, and the urge to do so still lingered deep in your bones, you knew your relationship was different. You couldn’t dump all your problems on your childhood friend after not talking to him for 15 years. You didn’t even know if you were still friends anymore.

Plus, there was a small crowd gathering behind you as the late dinner rush started to filter into Seaside Scoops. Even if you’d wanted to tell Steve everything that had happened to you in the 15 years since you’d last seen him, it wasn’t the time.

So you just gave him a sad smile and accepted the ice cream cone from Steve’s hand, ignoring the butterflies and ticklish warmth that fluttered through your body at his touch. You gripped the sugar cone tight—but not too tight—so you didn’t fumble it.

“Yeah,” you whispered in answer to his question, leaving it at that. There was an awkward beat, and your eyes dropped to the ice cream that was already beginning to melt despite the air conditioning in the shop. Thankfully, you had an easy way to move past Steve’s questions.

You pulled some cash from the wristlet where you’d also stashed your phone and I.D., asking, “What do I owe you?” because you figured it must’ve been more expensive than what you remembered. And you didn’t want to risk looking up at the menu and catching Steve’s eye, not wanting any of the emotions or heat that seemed to flood you whenever you looked at him.

But a large, warm, golden hand closed over your fumbling fingers, startling you enough to look up into the sky blue eyes of your childhood friend. Your lips fell open in surprise as tingling warmth worked its way up your arm from your hand, wrapping around your heart and making it beat harder.

For a long moment, you simply stared at each other. Steve really had grown up and changed so much, the evidence in the weathered grooves of his forehead and the lines between his brows, but his eyes still looked the same—soft as clouds, warm as the summer sun.

“It’s on the house,” he murmured, his voice low and earnest, the thrum of some emotion you couldn’t identify laced through his words. “It was nice to see an old friend,” he said, giving your hand a squeeze before he pulled his away.

It wasn’t until Steve straightened up to his full height that you realized he’d been leaning over the counter, and your faces had been very close together. Heat crept into your cheeks at the realization that Steve had been in your personal space, and all you’d thought about was his eyes.

Shoving all the money in your hand into the tip jar, you muttered, “Thanks, Steve.” As you zipped up your wristlet, you noticed that some of your ice cream was in danger of dripping onto your hand.

Without thinking, you licked quickly around the edge of the sugar cone, a soft moan slipping free when the cool sweetness of the ice cream hit your brain.

Steve made a strangled sound that dragged your attention away from your treat, finding your childhood best friend looking away and coughing into his fist, a deeper pink flushing his cheeks. You quirked your eyebrow in confusion when he looked back at you, but his expression gave nothing away and you had to wonder if you’d imagined the noise. It had almost sounded…aroused.

Shaking that thought clear from your mind, you gave Steve a smile and began to step away from the counter so he could help the next customer.

Steve’s eyes lingered on you, and he offered you one last charming, friendly smile, raising his hand in a wave. “Don’t be a stranger, buttercup,” he rumbled, his low words managing to reach your ears over the chatter in the shop. He gave you a long look, emotion swirling in those familiar eyes of his, and your breath caught in your throat.

The intensity of his gaze and the warmth in his parting words hit you straight in the gut, and you stood stunned in front of the register while Steve turned and walked to the other end of the ice cream case to help the next people in line.

For a long moment, you couldn’t get over the way Steve had been able to read your mind, to pluck the thought that you were strangers to each other out of your brain and then tell you he didn’t want that to be the case. Your mind raced with questions. Did he still think of you as friends? Did he remember the promise you’d made all those years ago to always be friends? How did he know the exact right thing to say?

But then the rational side of your brain resurfaced from wherever your heart had momentarily buried it, and you remembered his farewell was a normal thing for people to say to each other. Especially people who hadn’t seen each other in a while and likely would again because they both lived in a very small town. That’s all it was, just a normal goodbye.

Not Steve Rogers somehow reading your mind because he knew you so well.

With those rationalities ringing in your head, you dashed out of Seaside Scoops and it wasn’t until your feet had carried you to the next block that you remembered your broken shoes and stubbed toe and chafed thighs.

But those problems didn’t seem quite so bad anymore. Not with the delicious ice cream cone in your hand, and the sunset casting Brambleberry Cove in gorgeous, golden light—and especially not with Steve’s warm, honeyed voice ringing in your head, calling you buttercup.

It had felt so normal to hear the nickname roll off Steve’s tongue that you hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t realized how long it had been since you’d last heard it. But, just as it had when you were younger, it filled your chest with a bright, golden warmth. You grinned to yourself as you strolled back to your little bungalow, licking up the melting ice cream as fast as you could.

Your mood was decidedly better, and you enjoyed the walk home, refusing to think too much about why exactly you felt lighter and happier and less miserable about being home in Brambleberry Cove than you had before going to Seaside Scoops. It was just the ice cream, obviously. There was no other reason.

“You’re staring.” Steve’s voice was low, the undercurrent of laughter in it almost mixing with the sounds of the distant waves. You could hear them through the open windows of his truck as he eased the vehicle down the winding road leading away from the docks on the north side of Brambleberry Cove.

His comment dragged you out of your drunken haze, and you took a deep breath to get your bearings. Your lungs filled with the salty nighttime air of the sea and the earthy leather interior of your childhood best friend’s truck, a small smile curling the corners of your lips and your eyes sliding closed. When you forced them back open, you realized he was right.

Huh, you really were staring at Steve.

Your head was swiveled to the side, your cheek pressed to the brown leather of the seat back, your eyes fixed on the profile of his face that was highlighted in the glossy silver of the moon and warmed by the golden light of the town’s street lamps.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to feel embarrassed or ashamed for staring at Steve, though. And it was at that moment you realized you were drunk.

It didn’t surprise you. After all, you were the one who’d thrown on some jean shorts and a cute top and then took yourself to Shanty’s, the only place in Brambleberry Cove to go if you were a local looking to avoid tourists.

You’d been happy to see Bucky Barnes, your other oldest friend after Steve, manning the bar. But you’d been much less happy with him when he’d insisted on calling Steve to take you home after you’d downed more than your fair share of liquor.

It was probably for the best, though. You were drunk and horny and if you weren’t careful, you would’ve gone home with Brock Rumlow. Just thinking about it made you grimace at yourself and your poor almost-decisions.

Focusing back on Steve, you couldn’t fault Bucky too much for calling your old friend to pick you up—not when it had ended with you able to watch his side profile while he kept his eyes on the road. It felt practically shameful to indulge yourself so much. That is, if you’d had any shame left, but you’d drowned it all in alcohol.

“You’re still staring, buttercup,” Steve rumbled, the humor clearer in his tone. The edges of his mouth were flickering beneath the silvery golden light of Brambleberry Cove at night and you knew he was trying to suppress a smile. It was fascinating to watch, but then Steve rubbed his hand across his mouth, scrubbing through his beard, and it broke you free of your drunken trance.

“I just can’t get over how different you look,” you huffed, raising your arms and flopping them back against the seat in your best approximation of a shrug. “And how exactly the same.”

Steve barked a laugh, the sharp sound bringing a smile instantly to your face. You’d never heard him laugh like that, and you couldn’t help but love that you were still discovering new things about him, even after knowing him all your life.

He glanced over at you, his expression bemused like he was sure you were drunker than he’d thought. You probably were, but that didn’t stop you from being right, and you tried to convey that in the brief moment he looked at you.

Steve’s gaze slid quickly down your body, not like he was checking you out—more like he was checking to make sure your seatbelt was still buckled and you weren’t in danger of doing anything ridiculous. You were only in danger of saying ridiculous things, at least, according to him apparently. He shook his head after he’d turned back to watching the road.

“You’re gonna have to explain that one to me, buttercup,” Steve said, a little bit of gruffness in his tone. He cleared his throat before he went on. “Usually when someone we went to high school with comes back, they tell me they never woulda recognized me.”

You gave an unladylike snort, drawing another surprised laugh out of Steve before he bit off the sound to let you speak.

“Well those people should have their eyes checked,” you muttered scornfully, pushing yourself up from where you’d been slumped against the warm leather seat. You twisted your body in your seat so you were facing Steve, your eyes tracing the lines of his face from across the cab. “You still have the same eyes,” you pointed out vehemently, as if Steve was arguing with you, even though he wasn’t. “And your nose still has that little bump in it, and your lips are still so soft and full…”

You trailed off, realizing far too late that you were saying your inside thoughts out loud. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you watched Steve as he processed what you’d said—the way his fingers scratched a little nervously at his beard, those twin lines forming between his brows. Your gazed traced every curve and line and divot in his face, examining his expression, wanting to memorize it and save it for the rest of your life.

“I don’t think any of those people noticed those things,” Steve murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the slight breeze drifting through the windows while he drove through town.

Your heart lurched at the implication of Steve’s words, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take them back, even if they were dangerously close to revealing something you hadn’t even had the courage to admit to yourself yet.

Instead, you focused on your anger at the hypothetical people who weren’t recognizing Steve just because he’d grown up, gotten tall, gotten buff, grown out his hair and his beard and looked altogether very different to the skinny teenager he’d been.

“If they didn’t see those things, they didn’t really see you,” you muttered to yourself, indignant on Steve’s behalf, but trying to keep it to yourself. Apparently, you weren’t good at moderating the volume of your voice, because Steve snorted at your remark.

“No, no one ever saw me as well as you did, buttercup,” Steve said, his voice low and warm, and your heart promptly rioted in your chest.

There was something so dizzyingly wonderful about hearing Steve say such intimate words to you in that deep, caramel voice of his, genuine affection shining through his tone. It took your breath away for a moment, and your brain short-circuited.

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell him…something. The thing you hadn’t admitted to yourself yet. But you were still you, and your brain tripped at the last moment, and instead you blurted, “Do you ever think about our first time?”

Steve choked on a snort, his eyes darting to you with honest surprise. You couldn’t blame him. You’d had no idea those words were gonna spill from your mouth until they were out, but you supposed they weren’t as bad as what you’d almost confessed, so you didn’t try to take them back or change the topic of conversation. You waited with bated breath for Steve’s response, and whether he remembered your night together when you were both 18.

When he saw you were anticipating his answer, he spluttered, “You mean when I came three seconds after getting inside you?”

You began to smile, because he remembered, but then Steve continued talking.

“Y’know, I told Bucky about that once,” he said, his eyes fixed so fully on the road that you got the impression he didn’t want to meet your gaze and your stomach plummeted. “I was drunk, and didn’t know if it really counted as sex. Bucky was no help, of course—he said he didn’t know either since it was so quick.”

Something new was swirling in your gut, and for long moments you could only sit there on the warm leather of the truck and stew in that hot, feral feeling. It must’ve showed on your face because, when Steve finally looked over at you after you’d been quiet for so long, the truck lurched forward, his foot pressing too hard to the gas.

“Don’t worry,” he rushed to say, guessing at what was upsetting you and guessing wrong. “I didn’t tell him it was with you.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snarled, the words bursting out of you with a ferocity you’d never used in your life, let alone when talking to Steve. But you were furious all of a sudden, and it wasn’t until the words were spilling from your mouth that you understood why you were so angry. “Don’t you dare try to take this away from me, Steven Grant Rogers.” Your voice was seething and barely recognizable, but you couldn’t stop. “You were my first, and it was perfect—because it was you.”

Steve glanced over at you, something like shock written across his face, but when he looked back at the road, his brows settled low over his eyes. The muscle in his jaw popped and you knew he was grinding his teeth together, taking his time to gather his thoughts before he spoke. It took him a long moment to respond.

“You deserved better.”

The noise of your scoff was loud, even to your ears, and you strained against the seatbelt still buckling you into the passenger seat as you leaned toward your childhood friend.

“You ate me out until I came three times, Steve!” you cried, holding up three fingers as if the adult man your friend had grown into somehow didn’t know how many three was. “No man has ever made me come so many times in one night as you did then.”

When Steve still didn’t look at you, just kept driving with his hands gripping the wheel and the muscle in his jaw popping, you huffed an exasperated sound and flopped back into your seat. Your back was to the leather as you crossed your arms over your chest and stared out at Brambleberry Cove through the open passenger side window.

The silence grew until it was suffocating, and you needed to break it. So you said the first thing that came to mind. Again.

“You’re who I think about when I touch myself, Steve.” Your words drifted from your side of the truck to the other, carried on the light breeze floating through the cab. “I think about you and that night, and it gets me off every single time.”

Steve made a strangled kind of sound, like a growl that was torn free from his throat against his will. Then he was quiet, and he was quiet for so long, you thought that was the only reaction you’d get to admitting the truth. Until…

“I think about you, too, buttercup.”

The confession hung in the air between you, settling heavily onto the leather bench seat in Steve’s truck, the air rushing in through the open windows buffetting around it.

You didn’t feel Steve’s admission sink into you. There was simply a before and an after. And in the after, you were moving. You were unbuckling your seatbelt and scooting across the seat toward Steve until your bare knee brushed against the denim of his jeans.

He shot a startled look in your direction—which, in a distant part of your brain, you registered as completely adorable—before quickly pulling over to the side of the road. He was just throwing the truck into park when you slid into his lap, straddling his thighs and pressing your chest to his.

“We should do it again,” you purred, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and leaning close. When Steve didn’t respond right away, just kept giving you that surprised look, you thought he might not have understood you, so you explained, “Have sex.”

Steve closed his eyes and a light tremor shuddered through his body as his hands settled respectfully on your waist, a few of his fingers brushing the skin where the edge of your tank top didn’t quite meet the waist of your shorts. Then, it was your turn to shudder, the feeling of his warm, calloused hands against your bare skin making heat flood between your thighs, your core warming and your body melting into your old friend’s hands.

“Please, Steve,” you whispered, tipping your head forward until your lips were a hairsbreadth from his, so close you could taste mint chocolate chip ice cream on his tongue and it took everything in you not to lick into his mouth desperately. Your voice was practically a whine as you went on, “Let’s see if we can do better this time.”

Steve’s hands shifted to your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough to almost hurt, and you thought he was going to give in. But then he swallowed audibly, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and he pushed you gently away, his head tilting back against the leather seat so your lips no longer teased him with an almost-kiss.

“You’re drunk, buttercup.”

Steve’s voice was a delicious rasp, and you couldn’t help but shiver at the sound of it even as the meaning of his words settled into your drunken mind. You pouted at your childhood friend, hoping the fact that he hadn’t pushed you off his lap entirely meant he wasn’t saying no.

“And horny,” you said, the words slipping from your lips on another whine. Of their own volition, your hips squirmed on your oldest friend’s lap, trying to get closer, trying to find some kind of friction to work against the aching heat pulsing between your thighs. But Steve’s firm grip held you in place. “Stevie.” His name was nothing but a pathetic whimper.

A low growl rumbled in Steve’s chest, and then one of his hands was abandoning your hip to cup your face, tilting it up so he could loom over you. The lines of his face were hard, stubborn, and the look in his eyes left no room for argument.

“You know I won’t touch you when you’re drunk,” he bit out, his voice soft, but as firm as his hold on your body.

A memory slammed into you—you and Steve planning your first time together. You’d made a deal at the start of high school that if neither of you lost your virginity through all four years, then before going off to college, you’d lose it together.

When the time came, you’d been a little nervous, even though it was Steve, and you’d joked that you could take some wine coolers to the beach and get it over with, just like all the other kids in your school. Even then, Steve had looked at you stubbornly, and said, without a shred of willingness to waver, that he wouldn’t touch you if you were drunk.

Back then, it had sent a shiver down your spine, and it had much the same effect more than a decade later in his truck. Your body trembled with arousal, and you pushed feebly against Steve’s hold—not really trying to break it, just enjoying the feeling that came from realizing how strong he was. Those biceps and corded forearms of his weren’t just for show.

“What about just the tip?” you murmured, the words tumbling past your lips before you could think better of them, knowing there was no use trying to argue with Steve when he’d made a decision. But you were clearly thinking with something other than your brain, because the words kept coming. “That’s not sex, just the tip—please, Steve.” You were begging shamelessly, but your shame and embarrassment were still nowhere to be found since you were still definitely drunk.

Steve’s jaw ticked so hard, you could’ve sworn you heard the muscle pop in the quiet of his truck as he ground his teeth together.

“Buttercup,” he growled, a warning in his tone. “That’s not happening.”

Your fists gathered in the front of Steve’s t-shirt and you yanked on it restlessly, not trying to do anything more than annoy him. “Whyyy,” you whined, drawing out the word until it was nearly a wail. Unslaked heat burned in your blood and, while you knew why he was refusing to have sex with you, in the moment, you couldn’t understand why your oldest friend was torturing you.

Steve’s hand slid down from your cheek to wrap around the front of your throat, and you stilled immediately, something about the possessive, dominant gesture making you calm. That was new, Steve hadn’t done anything like that when you’d first been together, but you liked it more than you would’ve expected. Your lips were still parted, your panting breaths gusting out of them, your heart racing, and you were finally calm and quiet.

Your oldest friend’s eyes roamed over you, taking in your reaction. At first he seemed surprised, but then a glint of something you’d never seen before sparked to life in the depths of his blue eyes. You watched his gaze drop to your mouth, and nearly whimpered at the way the corner of his lips flickered in the ghost of a smirk. But then he fixed his gaze back on yours, pinning you in place with that stubborn look in his eye, though it was slightly dimmed in favor of that new, hungry glimmer.

“I won’t fuck you only to wake up tomorrow and find out you regret it,” Steve said, enunciating all his words clearly despite the fact that his teeth were grinding together “That you only wanted it because you needed to scratch an itch.”

Your lungs dragged in a soundless gasp and you finally understood his reticence, even if you couldn’t imagine ever regretting doing anything with Steve. But when you opened your mouth to protest, Steve’s fingers squeezed the sides of your throat.

Your words died on your tongue, and your mouth went slack, your eyes going hazy with pleasure. You couldn’t have been more obvious that you liked the way Steve choked you if you tried. And he read your enjoyment easily from the expression on your face, that look of hunger sparking brighter in Steve’s eyes before he went on.

“When I fuck you again,” he growled, his words a promise. “I don’t want you drunk on anything but my cock.”

“Stevie,” you whined his nickname again, the name only you were allowed to call him, your lips forming into a pout. It hadn’t escaped your notice that he’d said ‘when’, and not ‘if’, about having sex with you again, but you didn’t want to push your luck. And besides, unslaked need was still burning brightly through your body, consuming most of your focus. “I need…something, please.” You let out a little whimper and squirmed in his lap again, unable to stop yourself.

Steve huffed a laugh, his thumb stroking down the side of your neck, over your thrumming pulsepoint, while the fingers of his other hand slipped half an inch into the waist of your shorts, only far enough to dig harder into your soft curves.

“I’m not going to touch you more than this, buttercup,” Steve began, his voice a low, delicious rumble that you swore you could feel in the clenching of your core. “But I didn’t say anything about stopping you from touching yourself.”

Your eyes widened in excitement, and you wasted no time in acting on the implication in Steve’s words. Holding his gaze, one of your hands slipped free from his shirt and trailed down your body. When you reached between your thighs, the backs of your fingers brushed against a thick bulge in the front of Steve’s jeans.

It twitched against your soft touch, and you gasped in delight, loving the proof that Steve’s body recognized you just as much as his mind.

But when you twisted your hand, intent on giving Steve’s bulge a friendly squeeze, his hand darted down from your hips to your wrist, his fingers circling around you and stilling your hand. “Buttercup,” he rumbled, another warning.

A shiver raced down your spine and you reveled in the way it made you feel to hear Steve say your nickname like that. It occurred to you that it was new—you’d never heard him say it quite like that before, with frustration and arousal flooding his tone.

You wanted to hear every flavor of your nickname on Steve’s tongue. You wanted to hear him whisper it like a prayer, and groan it into your lips while he kissed you. You wanted to hear Steve shout your nickname while he came with you.

But the look in Steve’s eyes was stubborn again, and you knew you’d have to wait to hear all the ways he could say your nickname.

“OK, Steve, ‘m sorry,” you mumbled, twisting your hand in his hold and pressing the tips of your fingers to the seam of your shorts, your hips jerking forward to seek more of the friction you offered yourself.

Steve’s hold loosened, but he didn’t let go of you entirely, like he didn’t trust you just yet. But you didn’t care, your fingers were pressing into your clit through the thin denim of your shorts, and you were rocking your hips to grind against them, your wetness soaking through your panties almost immediately.

The moment when your fingers found just the right spot, you sucked in a sharp breath, your spine arching and your hips pressing down hard against your hand. Your head tipped back, your eyes narrowing into slits as you held Steve’s gaze. You moaned while you rubbed tight circles against your clit through your shorts.

“I’m going to come embarrassingly fast,” you huffed in warning, your chest heaving already with labored breaths.

But Steve only smirked, a touch of smugness in the curve of his lips.

“Don’t worry, buttercup, I remember exactly how sensitive your sweet little clit is,” he rumbled, and you moaned loudly. His fingers flexed against your throat, digging in enough to quiet your sounds and making your eyes widen as your hips lurched in their rhythm. He chuckled at your reaction before continuing on.

“I remember sucking on your puffy little pearl, your thighs squeezing my head, my fingers buried deep in your tight, warm hole,” Steve purred, seemingly knowing exactly what to say to drive your pleasure higher. “I remember the exact way your pussy gripped my fingers when you came, like you wanted me deeper—deep enough that you could feel me in your belly.”

“God, Steve,” you groaned, your head falling back listlessly on your shoulders, too heavy to keep it up. But Steve’s fingers dug into the back of your neck, and you understood the wordless command immediately. You lifted your head and caught your oldest friend’s eye while you kept rubbing your clit, pushing yourself closer to coming apart in his lap.

“I remember how big your cock felt inside me,” you confessed, spurred on by Steve’s own filthy words. “I remember how long it took for you to sink your thick, fat cock into my tight pussy.” You paused only to take a quick, hitching breath. “I was already so close when you came, and I remember, I thought, maybe if you hadn’t been wearing a condom, maybe I would’ve come, too.”

The lines of Steve’s face shifted, hardening, his jaw ticking wildly and his eyes going molten fierce, like the blue at the center a campfire that burns too hot to sit near.

“Don’t fucking say that, buttercup,” Steve growled, his voice gravelly like he was chewing on seashells. “If I hadn’t been wearing a condom, I would’ve come so much faster—I never woulda made it all the way inside you. Woulda been coming with just my tip inside your warm, wet pussy, baby—woulda been too risky, buttercup.”

Your eyes wanted to fall closed as you moaned, but you didn’t let them. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from Steve, not with that furious and ferocious hunger in his eyes, his desire for you etched into every single line and curve of his face.

You were so close. You just needed a little more to push you over the edge.

“Fuck, Steve, I know I shouldn’t, but I love the thought of you coming inside me, filling me up, making me yours,” you confessed, the words bubbling up from the very depths of your soul. It was on the tip of your tongue again, that thing you hadn’t admitted to yourself. Instead of letting it free, you moaned, long and loud, your fingers rubbing faster against your clit and your hips grinding against your hand.

“Christ, baby,” Steve gritted through tightly clenched teeth. His fingers were digging into your hip again, diving further beneath the waist of your shorts, nearly skimming the edge of your panties. His other hand tightened around your throat and dragged you into him, until your face was right in front of his and he could watch every twitch and change in your expression as you pleasured yourself.

“Come on, baby,” he said, his voice urgent with need. “Come before I do something we’ll both regret.”

The hand that wasn’t wedged between your thighs pressed to the center of Steve’s chest, just above his heart, and a moment later, you felt his warm palm cover it. He was still holding your throat, his fingers digging into the sides hard enough that you knew he could feel your fluttering pulse beneath his touch. And you could feel his heart pounding beneath your palm, the rapid pace nearly matching the frantic one in your chest.

“Come, buttercup, come for me,” Steve commanded, his eyes holding yours. For a moment, it felt like he could see straight into your soul. It was a scorching intimacy you hadn’t felt since that night you’d first been with Steve, and you were helpless to it.

“Stevie,” you cried his name as your pleasure rose up and consumed you, sending you over the edge into a earth-quaking orgasm. Your body writhed in Steve’s lap, your hips grinding gracelessly against your hand as you collapsed forward, leaning into the grip of his hand around your throat. You sobbed your pleasure, the waves of your release wracking your body for long moments.

Eventually, the final swell ebbed and the last of your energy receded with it. Your damp forehead fell against Steve’s cool, dry one and you struggled to catch your breath. His hand slipped from the front of your throat around to the back of your neck and he smoothed it down your spine.

He held you close, whispering in your ear, “Such a good girl, buttercup, you did so good.”

Once you finally settled, Steve shifted, his beard grazing your lips as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Can I take you home now?” he asked.

You huffed a laugh and slumped against his chest, laying your head sleepily on his shoulder. “I don’t think I can move yet,” you said, slurring your words with tiredness. And drunkenness.

Steve chuckled, but made no attempt to move you. You only felt him lifting his arms around you, though his hands didn’t settle on your body.

“If you see Sam while you’re back in town, don’t tell him I did this,” Steve murmured in your ear. Then you felt the truck rumbling to life and getting back onto the road and you realized where your oldest friend’s hands were. He was driving you home, with you still sitting boneless in his lap.

When Steve arrived at your rental house, not too long after, he helped you down from his truck and looped an arm around your waist, getting you into the bungalow. Thankfully, you were sated from your release in his truck so you didn’t try to proposition him again, just dutifully did as he said, changing into your pajamas in your bedroom while he waited outside the closed door.

Then he let you lean against his broad chest while you brushed your teeth and washed your face, before guiding you back to your room and tucking you into bed. Last, he pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead that was so comforting, and made you feel so safe, your eyes fluttered closed and a soft smile curled your lips.

Before he could leave, your hand darted out and grabbed Steve’s wrist with surprising precision given your state and the fact that your eyes were closed. You dragged them open again, blinking away the bleariness until your childhood friend’s face came into focus.

“I don’t regret anything we’ve done together, Stevie,” you mumbled, the side of your mouth hitching up in a lopsided smile. “I’m glad you were my first.” You lost the battle with your eyes and they fell closed. You also, apparently, lost the fight against biting back your feelings, murmuring sleepily, “I want you to be my last.”

For a long moment, Steve was quiet. He seemed to wait until you were just on the edge of sleep before responding to your drunken confession.

“Tell me that again when you’re not drunk, and I’ll believe you, buttercup,” Steve murmured, ducking down to press a kiss to your hand, still wrapped loosely around his wrist, before carefully extricating himself.

You were snoring before Steve closed and locked the front door of your bungalow behind him. He walked down the short path to his truck, which sat at the curb, a subtle smile on his lips and a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fic #friends to lovers #steve rogers au #childhood best friend steve rogers #childhood best friend #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans smut #chris evans characters #witchywithwhiskeywork

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actuallybean · 3 months ago

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SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST

Last Updated: 8/6/2025

DEAN WINCHESTER

One-Shots

What Once Was Dean’s return stirs up everything Y/N buried long ago — a love lost, a family built in its place — and the heart-wrenching realization that some things were never meant to be. Inspired by What Once Was by Her's *Contains mentions of pregnancy and lots of angst

Please Please Please Dating Dean Winchester is all fun and fistfights until you’re begging him not to get arrested before breakfast. All you’re asking is please, please, please—don’t screw this up. Inspired by Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter *Contains lots of fluff

Don't Forget Me Dean Winchester died long before his heart stopped beating—the day she left him quiet and still. All that followed was a slow-motion fall into the shape of her absence. When he finally saw her again, it wasn’t goodbye. It was grace. Inspired by Did you know that there's a tunnel under Ocean Blvd by Lana Del Rey *Lots of angst, mention of death, depression, major character death (spoilers for season 15)

Series

Nothing at the moment!

Requests :)

Tangled In You* You were never supposed to use your power. But when Dean lies dying in your arms, you risk everything to save him—and in doing so, you reveal more than just magic. In the dark woods, healing turns into confession, and friendship burns into something far more dangerous. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, friends to lovers trope, reader has powers like Rapunzel, angst, descriptions of blood, near death experience

SAM WINCHESTER

One-Shots

Slut!* It wasn’t comfortable, it wasn’t calm—but falling for Sam had a pulse, and it beat louder every time you leaned into the chaos. Inspired by Slut! by Taylor Swift *Brief mentioning of sexual intercourse.

Knowing me, Knowing you Knowing him meant knowing how it would end. And loving him meant doing nothing to stop it.Inspired by Knowing me, Knowing you by Abba *Angst and contains spoilers for character death

Go Go Dancer* She dances for the devil in stilettos and rhinestones, but it’s Sam Winchester she undresses with her eyes. In a haze of cigarette smoke and slow songs, past sins get sticky, and love tastes like lipstick and regret. Inspired by "Go Go Dancer" by Lana Del Rey *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, choking, dom!Sam, rough sex, unproductive sex, possessiveness, toxic longing, soft degradation, emotional tension, club setting, jealousy.

Series

Bunker Fever* Busted ribs, a stubborn Winchester, and nowhere to go—being stuck in the bunker with Sam is starting to mess with your head in more ways than one. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI Part one | Part two Completed

Requests :)

Hollow Man Sam came back from Hell, but left his soul behind. She stayed, hoping love could reach what was missing—until he let Dean fall. Then all she had left was fury. *Contains lots of angst, Souless!Sam, established relationship, physical fighting (domestic)

CASTIEL

One-Shots

I Have a Dream In the midst of chaos, Castiel shows you glimpses of a dream of peace and love, leaving you to wonder if it’s a vision or just a fleeting hope. Inspired by I Have a Dream by Abba

Heaven on Earth* Eager to please, Castiel lets you teach him the art of going down on you—every soft moan and whispered praise shaping his angelic mouth into something sinful. *Contains sexual material: minors DNI, veryyyy smutty, foreplay (f!receiving)

Series

Cupid's Shuffle* Cupid’s arrow was supposed to patch things up with Sam, not point you straight at Castiel—and resisting it might just be harder than falling. *Contains sexual material, slow-burn, brief mentioning of a past relationship with Sam Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight Completed

Requests :)

Crack Me Open Castiel’s still learning the rules of human weirdness — and one unexpected crack might just break his calm for good. *Descriptions of back cracking, fluff, overprotective!Castiel, and early seasons!Castiel

MULTI PAIRINGS

One-Shots

Nothing at the moment!

Series

Truth Hurts* When a witch curses you to spill the truth and nothing but the truth, your biggest secret slips—you're hopelessly, shamelessly into both Winchesters. Good news? They’re just as into sharing as you are. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, threesome between brothers, no wincest Pairings: Sam Winchester x Reader x Dean Winchester Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven Completed

Last Woman Standing* An apocalyptic plague wipes out every woman on Earth — except you. Now locked in a bunker with Sam, Dean, and Castiel, they soon realize they’re all falling in love… and lust… with the last woman alive. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, polyamory, apocalyptic themes, emotional/psychological tension, possessiveness, protective dynamics, some angst, heavy sexual content in later parts, consensual but intense scenarios. Pairings: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Castiel x Reader (eventual polyamorous dynamic) Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six Completed

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thesvnandthemooon · 2 months ago

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𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

or: niko’s a heartthrob and natasha’s jealous of her own son

part of the short n’ sweet universe

a/n: this is your reminder that if you have requested something, i will end up writing it; but it might take a while

this is basically pure smut. id apologize but i know you guys like it so 😭 enjoy

summary: based on this request; natasha doesn’t mind niko charming every person on campus, but she’d rather keep you to herself

warnings: contains smut (penetration/p in v, brief handjob, oral/nat receiving), orgasm denial (i think?), slight exhibitionism, unprotected sex

word count: 11.2k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Natasha can handle not being the campus heartthrob anymore. She understands why — being covered in spit-up and pushing around a Bugaboo stroller on a weekly to daily basis isn't attractive to many people. That's more than fine, as she's not interested in being approached anymore. She has other things to focus on now.

Does she still enjoy occasionally being flirted with? Yes. She's only human. But it's not something she needs anymore, and it's certainly not something that happens often anymore.

Instead, the attention has shifted to someone else: Niko. Someone much smaller, who shares her features. Girls coo over his cheeks, professors offer to hold him during tests (which Natasha isn't a fan of). Even with crumbs smeared around his mouth and his baby curls a mess, he's able to make everyone on campus fall in love with him.

He's the charmer now. He inherited that from her, just like the reddish hair and lazy smirk he's got down to a baby science. A duck onesie never managed to stop him.

The lecture hall is cramped and silent by the time Natasha arrives. The professor, standing on the podium and discussing the importance of eco-friendly stadiums, doesn't even flinch. He's used to her being late, and truthfully, he doesn't mind.

Natasha, however, does mind. She's sweaty and exhausted from a sleepless night, but the baby strapped to her chest couldn't be more alert. Eyes wide open and one sock missing, he cranes his head to get a good look at everyone in the room. When a girl waves at him, he lets out a shriek that makes the entire room glance at him.

"Shush", she mumbles, rubbing his back. She sits down in her usual spot — all the way in the back on the very left — and starts unpacking. Her laptop, thermos, a teething ring, some tissues. Niko arches his back in an attempt to escape from the baby carrier. "Okay, no. We don't do that."

The girl that waved at him turns around. She tries to soothe him with a smile, and unfortunately, it seems to work. His mouth drops open and he lets out a cheery gurgle. But all Natasha does is wrap an arm around him and turn slightly to shield him.

"Alright", the professor says loudly, skipping to the next slide, "we've all welcomed our honorary student. Let's keep going, shall we? Please get into pairs of three or four and discuss this next question. You have 15 minutes."

Natasha groans quietly. Sitting in class is difficult enough when you have a hyperactive baby in tow. Working in teams only makes that worse. No matter what, they never get anything done as long as Niko is somewhat awake.

It's not different this time. The second she's joined by three other students, he's giggling and reaching out like he's getting paid to get away from her. She'd be offended, but it gives her the chance to actually think about the question for a moment.

She's in the middle of scribbling down some answers when the guy next to her leans in a bit. His hand comes closer, fingers almost touching Niko's, and her own hand darts up to grab his wrist.

"One rule", she says, not looking up from her laptop. "Don't touch the baby."

Fortunately, the guy lets it go. He leans back in his seat, arms crossed and the hood of his hoodie pulled over his eyes, and doesn't move a muscle until the professor tells them to stop and present their results. Natasha wants to slide under the foldable little table and hide, but the professor hears Niko screech. He nods encouragingly.

"Romanoff", he says. Thanks to the baby, she has the honor of being known by name. "What about you? What'd you guys come up with?"

An hour later, class is over. Natasha has no idea how she survived presenting her results in front of the entire class, but she did it. She's even sweatier now, thanks to Niko imitating a pterodactyl whenever someone tried to talk. Her head is pounding, her shirt is stained with more spit-up and coffee, and the only thing she's looking forward to is seeing you. Not to get rid of the baby, no — she just needs a kiss and attention from someone who isn't drooling constantly.

She spots you outside, by your car. You're in a short dress, reapplying lipstick and looking too good for a normal Thursday afternoon. Her footsteps speed up, so much so that Niko grunts in quiet protest. But she ignores him.

"Hey", she calls, making your head turn. You light up when you see them. "Wow, you're gorgeous. Any chance I could get your number?"

"Smooth", you say and push off the car. The engagement ring on your finger glistens in the sun. "How was class? Was he good?"

Natasha cracks a smile as you meet her halfway. Her cheeks are warm and pink, her eyes green and full of relief. It's unfortunate she can't just put Niko aside for a minute to get a moment alone with you.

"He was", she lies. She wouldn't call his little show 'being good', but she can't blame him. She isn't too fond of class, either. "Thanks for waiting, I-"

Before she can say anything else, Niko lets out a whine and starts squirming in her arms. In an instant, your attention shifts — you're no longer looking at her, no longer asking about her day. Instead, you're cooing and scooping the baby out of her arms. Natasha's used to this, of course. All it takes is a clumsy smile or a well timed huff and people are fussing over the baby.

She's used to it. She doesn't mind. What does bother her, though, is that you're no better.

"Poor baby", you mumble, bouncing him and rubbing his back. He lets out a pitiful noise, and Natasha narrows her eyes. Faker, she thinks. "Oh, you're hungry? Babe, did you not bring his bottle?"

"Of course I did", she protests. You're already unlocking the car and buckling Niko up in the back. Bent over a little, dress hiking up and exposing more of your thighs. She feels a familiar coil form in her stomach. "He drained the entire thing."

When you turn around again, she's already in the driver's seat. There's fussing coming from the back, which tells her she won't be getting some relief anytime soon. You'll probably get home and spend the entire afternoon coddling the baby.

She shouldn't complain about that. She loves Niko more than anything. But it's been weeks, and she's too horny to think straight. It's a miracle she isn't dragging you into the bushes behind the parking lot. They're not too uncomfortable — you both know that from experience.

You slide into the passenger seat, looking as sinful as ever. Your perfume fills the small space, your lipstick is flawless. Natasha subtly shifts in her seat to conceal her problem and then starts the car.

"Is he tired?", she asks. "He seems tired. He needs a nap, I think."

You nod, one elbow resting against the window and your head in your hand. Niko's a bad sleeper, unfortunately. He wasn't always — you used to be thrilled by how good of a sleeper your son was. Multiple naps a day, lasting hours. Rarely waking up at night (at least during the first few months). You were never fully rested, but you weren't exhausted.

You're exhausted now, though. Niko has a classic case of baby-FOMO. If he even hears the shoe cabinet open, he starts wailing like the end of the world is near. Somehow, your seven month old has learned to recognize the little signs that tell him you're about to leave.

"I'm putting him down for a nap after nursing", you say. "He's hungry. Do you have practice today?"

"Coach canceled", she says, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. She glances at you from the corner of her eye. "I have the afternoon off, you know. And so do you..."

"Yeah", you say absently. The implication went straight over your head. Natasha can't blame you, but she's growing more desperate. "That's good. I need to clean out the fridge, I think I saw something come to life in there."

Natasha exhales slowly. Behind you, Niko lets out another noise. She can see him kick his feet through the rear view mirror. She hasn't even tried anything with you yet and he's already determined to stop it.

"I'll clean out the fridge", she says confidently. "Tomorrow, while you're in class."

You turn your head and give her a doubting look. She helps around the apartment — of course she does. She's better at folding laundry than you are, she took over vacuuming, she cleans the windows. But she doesn't handle anything food-related apart from her protein concoctions.

"You've never done that", you say. "Sure you know how to?"

"Please", she says, turning the steering wheel. She parks the car in front of the apartment building and unbuckles. "How hard can it be? I'd rather you get some rest today."

You hum and get out of the car. Natasha pokes her head out of the window to watch you for a moment, then she gets out as well. The sun is warm on her bare arms, but the wind is messing with her hair. Someone down the street yells for their kid to stop running.

Niko is still hungry and grumpy. Though his tears have dried and his wailing has stopped, he's still looking at you like you committed a war crime.

"Greedy", Natasha says. She unlocks the door to the apartment and lets you in first.

"He's a baby", you retort, carrying him with one arm. "Give me a minute, alright?"

All she can do is stare as you disappear into the bedroom. The door doesn't fall shut, but it's only slightly ajar. Natasha curses silently at the loss of your presence, then she takes off her clothes and steps into the bathroom. If she has to wait, she'll at least make sure she's clean by the time the gremlin is asleep.

Ten minutes later, she reemerges from a cloud of steam. One hand towel-drying her hair, she dares peeking into the bedroom. The second her eyes land on the bed, she groans quietly.

You're both on the bed, but now you're asleep. Niko is still latched on, one hand fisting the fabric of the shirt you pushed up, and you're knocked out as well. Your arm is tucked under your head and the soft sounds escaping you let her know it's over. Niko has won once again.

. . .

Card games, pizza boxes, and adult animation playing on tv.

It's loud in Tony's house. Voices fill every room, which overlap with the music playing in the kitchen. What's happening here isn't a party, really. You're not sure whether you would've brought Niko if it was.

For once, your arms are empty. You're sprawled out on the couch, legs draped over Natasha's lap and a mocktail in your hand. You're laughing at something Wanda said, but you're still trying to keep an eye on Niko. He's being passed around like a very sweaty, very heavy football.

Natasha's focus is on something else, though. She doesn't even feel ashamed. Your legs are bare thanks to the dress barely reaching the middle of your thighs. You smell like a mixture of her and your own perfume. Your cheeks are as warm as the summer night is, and you keep stretching and sighing quietly.

Her shorts have been growing tighter for over an hour now. If it keeps going like this, she might explode. You reaching out to trail your fingertips along her bicep doesn't help, and she swallows another large gulp of beer.

She quietly wonders whether leaning forward a bit would help. The possibility of nutting right in her shorts, however, makes her reconsider that idea. Tony Stark's couch is gross enough as it is.

"He's so well-behaved", Wanda coos. She stole Niko from Daisy when she wasn't paying attention. "Can I keep him? You guys just make another."

"I'd give it a shot", Natasha mutters, shifting again. One wrong move and it's over for her.

You've noticed by now. You can feel her bulge press against the side of your knee, hard and unrelenting. You've been testing her limits quietly, by moving your legs a bit or — accidentally, of course — rubbing your leg right against it. So far, she's been doing well. It's surprising.

You'd love to drag her into any of the empty rooms. You've done it before, and it always ended well. But now, you have the aftermath of one of your sexcapades drooling all over Wanda's top.

"Ew", Daisy mumbles. Natasha rolls her eyes at her. "Hey, he looks sleepy."

"He is", Wanda whispers. You raise your eyebrows at the sight: your son, usually wanting to stick to you and Natasha like glue, has curled into Wanda's chest and closed his eyes. He yawns, which means he's still awake, but you can't deny he's about to knock out.

You look at Natasha. Natasha looks at you. Someone coughs.

"Five minutes", she mumbles, shrugging. Her hand runs up and down your thigh. "I can be quick."

"No kidding."

"Can't blame me", she mutters. A frown appears on her face. "Look at you."

Clint has already gotten up and hidden in the hallway. He's seen this before, way too many times, and he's sick of it. But you're both ignoring his presence — or rather, lack thereof — and getting up from the couch instead. You ignore everything else as well. The raised eyebrows and muffled laughter don't bother you as much.

You hurry up the stairs and down the hallway like you're running away from something. Natasha pushes open the first door she can reach and tugs you into the dark space, not even bothering to check where you're going. The door slams shut, you blindly feel the wall for a light switch, and suddenly you can see everything clearly.

"Nerd", you mumble, glancing around the room. A huge desk with a three computer screens and a glowing keyboard, dozens of high tech toys, a bunch of magazines about science and technology.

Natasha has one hand against the door already, resting right next to your head. She glances at Tony's tech room and shrugs. "What'd you expect?"

"It's not exactly sexy."

"Neither is your complaining", she retorts, turning back around. Her lips meet your jaw and her hand bunches up your dress a little. "I wanted to nut on the spot down there. You're a menace."

Your head lolls back against the door. When you feel her body against yours, boner and everything, you shove your hand into her boxers. She moans against your neck, nails sinking into your bare thigh. It's a warm enough night, her hormones are in overdrive, and if she doesn't get some relief soon, she might chase after it herself.

"Five minutes", you say, breathless. Blood has mounted in your cheeks. "He...he'll notice."

"Five", she agrees, but the way she's trying to take your dress off entirely says something different. "Don't have a condom."

You scoff. Baby number two may only be a couple strokes away, but that's never stopped you before. You jerk her off in her boxers instead, watching her face turn more panicked.

"No", she says. She awkwardly wriggles off her shorts and lets them pool around her ankles. "Fuck."

Your underwear has been discarded already. Natasha tugs your dress up enough to see you, and once she's gotten her fill of that, she parts your thighs and settles between them. The tip nudges your clit, then she sinks in deep.

It's been too long since you last had her like this. You're almost out of practice, her size seeming to rip you in half for a moment. But she doesn't move, which allows you adjust a bit, and a soft breath leaves you.

"Good?", she mutters, face buried against your neck. She's one word away from pounding into you like she wants to tear down the door, but hurting you isn't worth that.

"Better", you agree. You grasp at her back, nails leaving behind faint red lines. "Quick."

"Right, yes, sorry." She nods against your neck, peppering it with kisses that are supposed to be soothing. They're hurried instead, but they match the way she starts pulling out and thrusting back in.

Mouth, hips and heart all beat at the same tempo. You clutch her back muscles, rip into her skin, swear and curse under your breath. She throbs inside you, you feel every line and vein against your walls. She tilts her head and lightly sinks her teeth into your neck.

Another thrust. She feels her orgasm creep closer, even though you just started. But it's been way too long, and the pressure is building up inside her like fire in a sealed container. If she finishes too early, she'll just keep going. It's no big deal.

Your hips roll up to meet hers. You close your eyes and try not to curse again when she starts thumbing your clit.

"Babe, baby- too fast."

"You said five minutes", Natasha pleads. Her forehead is covered in beads of sweat, baby hairs sticking to it stubbornly. "Gotta be quick."

"Yes, but..."

The moment she fucks into you again, she hears something she doesn't want to hear. She once read that babies cry to prevent their parents from getting pregnant again — just a theory, nothing to be taken too seriously. But the way Niko managed to interrupt right as she was about to hit that sweet spot tells her otherwise.

Of course, you stop in your tracks when you hear his scream. Muffled, offended, probably fueled by sweat and a lack of sleep. Before she knows what's happening, you're pushing her away.

"Wait", she complains, terror filling her eyes. "Love, only ten more seconds."

"The baby", you say, hurried, and get into your underwear again. "What if he's sick? I told you he was too sweaty."

"He's a furnace", she says, touching your arm. "He's okay, I swear."

It's pointless. You're not listening anymore — instead, you're back in mom-mode. All it took was a wail from your spoiled infant son, who's now probably making your entire friend group panic.

"Shit", Natasha curses when you leave the room. She's still hard, still leaking, but there's no way she can stay up here and finish it herself. If she does, everyone will know. She has no choice but to pull her shorts back up again, awkwardly adjust her jersey so it's covering most of the bulge she's sporting, and then make her way downstairs.

Niko is already in your arms by the time she gets there. He's happy now, nursing like he hasn't been fed in a week. His hands grasp at your skin and his eyes are wide as he stares up at you.

You're completely infatuated. You've forgotten about what the tech room, about Natasha. You're cooing at the baby and wiping the leftover crocodile tears off his chubby cheeks.

"Seriously?", she mutters. Wanda gives her an amused look. "I'll kill you. Why'd you wake him?"

"Wake him?" Wanda frowns. "I didn't 'wake' him. He just noticed you were gone, I think."

"He's seven months old! He can't notice that."

Niko gives her a side eye when she sits down next to you. His fingers curl into your skin and he makes a smacking noise. You smile at the sound, but Natasha is sulking. Not only is the little gremlin fine, but he's thriving.

And you? Fully reset as well. Skin dewy, eyes glowing, the smile on your face telling her you're almost completely unaffected. Which hurts, considering you used to drag her away only to have a quick orgasm.

"I'm waking you up at 2am", she mutters, picking at her shorts. "We're seeking refuge. Which country has the lowest birth rate again?"

"Funny", you shoot back, barely glancing at her. Niko grunts and reaches up, his hand hitting your cheek. "Seven months old, by the way. You're beefing with a seven month old."

"He's a cockblock."

Around you, conversations are going back to normal. Your interrupted hookup isn't interesting anymore, even if Natasha is still sitting there like a horny soldier that got denied her last wish. She's got her arms crossed over her chest, still hard and blue balled.

She tells herself you'll continue this once Niko is asleep. But he's her son, and though she is proud of the fact that you birthed her tiny clone, it's still a bit annoying to see him act all smug. Cockblocked by her own bloodline, dethroned and defeated.

When she looks at him again, he raises his eyebrows in that clumsy little way he does. His hand is grasping at your cheek, he's mid-slurp, yet he's giving her that look.

Natasha knows what that look means. You both know because he made you find out before, back in a hotel room. You weren't careful while sneaking into the bathroom, and he made sure to voice his complaints in the only way he knows.

It's about to happen again. He's not falling asleep anytime soon. He's going to stay latched on, which means she can prepare for a very long, very hard night. Literally.

. . .

"Babe, did you see my socks?", Natasha calls from the bathroom.

It's 1 in the afternoon. You're at your makeshift vanity — a desk, complete with a table mirror and two pencil holders full of makeup —, getting ready for her basketball game. It's a mild spring day, and the sun is shining in through the windows.

You look at yourself in the mirror again. A navy polo shirt, paired with a white tennis skirt. You touch up your eyeliner and start looking for a lipstick shade that will match. Niko, sitting on your lap, gurgles when you pull out the acrylic organizer full of lipsticks.

"No", you call back, refraining from rolling your eyes. You let Niko 'gift' her new socks for her birthday one time and they immediately become her lucky charm. "You have other socks too, you know."

"These are special!"

This time, you do roll your eyes. You grab a pink shade of lipstick and open it with one hand. Niko reaches for it, his fingers stretched out and his mouth dropping open.

"Oh, you like this?", you mumble, smiling. You apply some and hum at your reflection. "Doesn't match though, does it?"

Niko doesn't care. He grunts and tries to lean forward to reach the acrylic organizer, but you tut and nudge it away from his uncoordinated hands. Ignoring the sound of protest he lets out, you wipe the lipstick away again and try a deeper shade of red.

The baby looks up at you and suddenly stops whining. Instead, he lets out a giggle and slaps his palm against your mouth.

"This one, honey?", you ask, grabbing his wrist and kissing his palm. You don't even notice how Natasha, hair damp and body only wrapped into a white towel, steps out of the bathroom again. "This one's better, yes?"

She stops in her tracks, eyes landing on you and the baby. You're giggling at him, brushing your fingers over his red curls and bouncing him on your lap. Then you lean in to kiss his cheek, and a red lipstick mark is left behind.

She crosses her arms. Usually, it's her thumb you use to blot your lips with. She loves the bit of color it leaves behind, whether she admits it or not. Apparently, those days are over. Niko's the one getting cuddles and kisses instead.

It takes you a moment, but you end up spotting her through the mirror. The second you turn around, she's on her way to the kitchen. Maybe she can pretend she was on her way there. Maybe it'll be believable. But you tilt your head, eyebrows raised knowingly, and she immediately clocks that won't be the case.

"Socks", she mumbles, scooping protein powder into her shaker. "They're gone. They were in the clean laundry when I saw them last time."

"You don't need them", you reply. You use a napkin to make sure the lipstick looks flawless, then you follow her into the kitchen. Niko stares at the shaker as Natasha rattles it to make all the clumps go away. "They're just socks."

"They're lucky socks."

"You say that about everything. Lucky kisses, lucky handshakes. Just admit you don't need those."

"They help me win", she says, taking a sip of her protein shake. "Also, I still haven't gotten my lucky kiss."

You sigh, but it's all for show. Stepping closer, you get on your tiptoes and lean in to press a kiss to her cheek. You could stop there, but instead, you leave one on the corner of her mouth as well. Then, her lips. She tastes like vanilla and artificial sweetener, but you're used to it, so you let her cup your cheek with one hand and deepen the kiss.

Her lips feel warm against yours. Teeth bump, noses brush. She smudges your lipstick and doesn't even care, because if you have to reapply it, she'll get to blot it and feel useful again. Only when she puts the protein shake aside to move her hand under your skirt and palm your ass, you pull away.

Natasha pouts, still groping your butt and feeling the cotton fabric of your underwear. You raise your eyebrows.

"The baby", you say. "Your game. We're leaving in twenty minutes."

"I only need five", she promises. Niko frowns at her, one hand clutching the neckline of your shirt. "He can stay in his playpen."

"You have a game!"

"Screw the game", she mumbles, pulling you closer again. The baby lets out an audible huff this time. "Look how cute he is. Another one wouldn't hurt, you know."

Much to her dismay, you let out a laugh. It's not that you disagree with the sentiment — Niko is cute, cuter than anything you've ever seen. You both love him more than life. But you're not going to go through nine month of sitting in lectures, pregnant and nauseous, again. You're not about to soothe a colicky baby in the middle of someone's presentation again, either.

One and done. That's the motto for now. Niko is exhausting enough.

"You're insane", you say, adjusting your hold on the baby. "Poor me. My fiancée has lost her mind."

"Yeah, well, I was joking", she retorts. She wasn't — her eyes are filled with the kind of offense that tells you she was hit right where it hurts. "He's more than enough."

"I know", you say. Niko tilts his head at her. All that's missing is him sticking out his tongue or flipping her off. He's her son, so she wouldn't be too surprised. "Now go get dressed. We're leaving soon."

By the time you arrive in front of the gym, Niko is asleep. Of course, he decided to knock out right when the timing isn't right. If you were at home, Natasha could pull you into the kitchen for some privacy. You're surrounded by her teammates instead, who have been waiting for her.

Natasha gets out of the car, and you follow close behind. Once the baby is in his stroller, you walk into the building.

Inside, everyone immediately gets to work. Warm-ups, team strategy, quick conversations over Gatorade and peanut butter sandwiches. Basketballs thud against the court or hit the rim with a loud clank. You ignore the people around you and walk to the bleachers, the stroller clicking quietly as it rolls over the floor.

Thankfully, Niko stays asleep even when someone gets yelled at for ruining a shot. He's red-cheeked and drooling, one sock slipping off and his hand clutching a stuffed elephant he got from one of Natasha's teammates. You fix his sock absently before pulling out your phone. You start looking for cars — your current one keeps breaking down — but something else catches your attention.

Natasha's in the middle of the court. With her hair in a low bun and her jersey showing off every inch of her biceps, you suddenly regret not taking things further back home. Even now that she's supposed to be listening to the coach, her eyes keep drifting over to you.

All she sees is you. What she should be thinking about is the game, or the fact she needs to make up for the fact that she only slept three hours last night. But mentally, she's still in the kitchen. Still trying to get you to leave the baby in another room and instead coddle her for a moment.

She loves that you attend all of her games, but most of the time, it's more distracting than it is helpful. When you sit there looking like that — hair pristine, legs crossed, lipstick still flawless — staying on the court is possibly the hardest part of the game.

The others know that, too. Which is why you get flirted with by randoms occasionally. She knows it's all a scheme to rile her up, but unfortunately, it works.

"Romanoff?"

Natasha's head whips around. Her coach doesn't look too impressed, with his eyebrows raised and his fingers drumming against the back of the clipboard he's holding.

"Yeah?", she says, clearing her throat. "Everything good?"

"We don't want to kick them out", he says slowly. "You'd throw a fit if we did. So don't make us do it, alright? I need you to be at the top of your game."

"I am", she lies. You, naked and all over her, pops into her head. At least one thing she's at the top of the game at. "It's just...Niko's not doing too well. Wanted to check if he's okay."

"Your spawn is asleep", Carol informs her. Natasha barely keeps herself from grabbing a basketball and chucking it at her head. "You're just horny."

The coach doesn't need to add anything else. He just tilts his head pointedly and she sighs.

"I'll be good", she promises, stepping back. "I swear. One lucky kiss and it's all peachy."

"Romanoff-"

"Just one!", she cuts him off. She's walking backwards, right toward the bleachers. "You'll be so proud of me, I swear. Let me just do this."

He sighs, but doesn't argue anymore. The second he's looking at someone else, she turns around and jumps over the barricade. You've noticed her approaching you by now, so you put the cup of iced decaf coffee you brought aside. Condensation slides down the side and pools on the bench beneath.

"Everything good?", you ask. She stops right in front of you, towering over you, so you tilt your head up.

"Perfect", she assures you. She cups your face and leans in, pressing her lips to yours like she's starving. You make a surprised noise, but quickly melt into it.

Your hands grasp the sides of her jersey. She steps even closer, so close you can smell her deodorant and body lotion. When you tilt your head to deepen the kiss and finally use some tongue, she feels a rush of heat that pools right in her lower half.

You raise your eyebrows and pull away. "You're going to play like that?"

Natasha glances at the very obvious tent in her shorts and groans. She shouldn't complain — this 'lucky kiss' was her idea. She got herself into this mess, and now, a gym full of basketball players is going to see her like this. A crowd of students as well, if she doesn't get herself under control soon.

"Dammit", she curses.

"Nice", you tease, cupping her through the thin fabric. Her cheeks flare up with heat. "All for me?"

"Babe", she hisses. She grabs your wrist, still gentle but also rock-hard and flustered. "Don't do that."

You wrap your fingers around it fully, looking up at her with feigned confusion. Slowly but with the pressure of someone who wants her to nut in her meshed shorts, you drag your hand down her length. Her knees nearly buckle.

"You're an idiot", you state, moving your hand back up. You squeeze slightly, and she barely keeps herself from whining. "Good luck making a single shot."

This time, she's a bit more firm. She pulls your hand away, which is good. But your hand applies pressure to the head, briefly but overpowering, and a whimper slips from her lips.

"Now you want to?", she complains, her voice raspy and hurried. "The game's about to begin!"

"Consider it motivation", you reply. You adjust your polo shirt a little, just enough to reveal more cleavage. It's not much, but breastfeeding has enhanced certain beloved features, and Natasha blanks. She'd love to say something, but all she manages is a long 'uhmmm.'

You smile faintly and pat her stomach with the back of your hand. She blinks a few times.

"The game", you remind her. She turns around and looks at the coach, who's staring her down. "Come on, you're about to get benched."

"Fuck", she curses. She jumps back down the bleachers, still hard and flustered but filled with the kind of determination only she possesses.

Back down on the court, she tries to practice a few moves before the game starts. The bleachers fill up until an actual audience is watching the teams warm up. Finally, they get into position.

Natasha looks up at you again, still flushed and nervous. You wink at her, but don't get anything in return. Instead, she tries to focus on the game.

Tipoff happens. She barely reacts in time, her mind still spinning and her body still thrumming. You watch her fumble with the ball, watch her miss a shot. It's only been a couple minutes since the game has started, but the coach already looks like he's about to bench her.

Sloppy — that's the best word to describe her current performance. She's stuck replaying the kitchen scene from earlier, which doesn't help with the boner she's sporting. At this point, half the gym has noticed. You resist the urge to take a picture.

Natasha almost doesn't catch the ball when Carol passes it to her. The blonde's eyes widen.

"Jesus. You're embarrassing me, Romanoff."

"Fuck off", she hisses. Turning around, she tries to find a way to tuck herself into the waistband of her shorts and maybe make her problem go away. But she has an audience, so all she can do is let her shoulders drop and exhale quietly.

Only when the second quarter begins does she find her footing. Niko is wide awake by now, sitting on your lap and suckling on his fist like tiny royalty. Natasha manages a clean three-pointer and the entire gym starts roaring. She was disappointing them at first, but it seems like she's getting some brownie points now.

By the time halftime rolls around, she's gotten rid of her hard-on and the fantasies in her head. For the first time in months, she ignores your presence on the bleachers — instead, she sprints into the locker room and leans over the sink. The water feels cold when she splashes her face with it, which helps more than she'd imagined.

As she dries her hands and face with a paper towel, her phone buzzes. She doesn't know why she looks at it; a gut feeling tells her to let it go and return to the court. But she fishes it out of her locker anyway, and she foolishly opens the message you sent.

Natasha doesn't mind you sending her nudes. In fact, she encourages it. But in this very moment, she wishes you didn't have access to a camera.

Smudged lipstick. No bra, no shirt. Only a pair of her boxers cover some of your skin. Eyes that stare up into the camera, which is slightly blurry from the heat.

You didn't take this now, obviously. It was clearly taken in bed. You did wait for the perfect moment to send to her, though — and oh, did you succeed.

Natasha stares at the picture like she hasn't seen you naked in a decade. She's so distracted she doesn't hear the door to the locker room open at first, but when she does, she nearly tosses her phone into the trash can. Face glowing red, she blinks at the coach.

"Romanoff", he says, narrowing his eyes. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah", she stammers. She tries to subtly adjust her shorts. "Everything alright?"

"We're continuing in five", he reminds her. "You're making people talk, by the way, so try and...calm down a bit, okay?"

She nods hastily, still tugging at her shorts like they're going to make the issue go away magically. That's not the case, obviously, so she groans before tucking herself into her waistband again. Before she steps out onto the court again, she reaches for her phone. You get the text message right as you're about to feed Niko some puréed carrot.

Natasha: you're evil — 4.30pm

Natasha: genuinely — 4.30pm

Natasha: i want you

to make up for this. — 4.31pm

You don't bother texting back, as you can already see her reemerge from the lockers. Your eyes meet, you smile, and she rolls her eyes and gets back into position. Niko gurgles at the sight of her, spitting carrot all over his new onesie.

For some reason, all of this is enough to make her lock in. She plays like she's possessed, swishes the ball through the net like she's getting paid for every point she makes. She gets fouled, too — she hits the ground hard, and the sound echoes through the gym.

You jump up like you're ready to sue, which makes Niko whine. But she's on her feet again, looking like nothing ever happened.

The game ends with the final buzzer. Her team wins by 17 points, which is a reason to celebrate. Everyone is cheering, yelling, tossing popcorn and jumping up and down the bleachers. The teams shake hands, but Natasha decides not to partake in that this time. Instead, she's sprinting toward the bleachers.

You meet her at the barricade. She's dripping with sweat, her jersey already in her hands. She swaps it for the baby.

"Good game", you tease, putting on her jersey. She kisses Niko's cheek. "I'm proud of you."

"Uh-huh?" She nods and bounces the baby. "That's good. I was struggling for a bit."

"I know."

Natasha hums and glances at you. She nods at her teammates, who are still celebrating. Someone is dumping a water dispenser over the coach's head.

"I'll be back in a minute", she promises. She's still holding Niko as she starts walking back to the court. You tilt your head. "I swear. He needs a high five too, you know."

"Sure", you say. You're used to this. Every now and then, Natasha will carry Niko onto court like he's the team's new mascot. Which, by now, he kind of is. Everyone on campus knows him.

Natasha has a plan, though. The moment everyone got to touch his sweaty little fist, she hands him to the person she trusts most before running back to the bleachers.

You raise your eyebrows at her, but she doesn't reply. She just grabs your hand and pulls you up.

"Where's-"

"He's fine", she quickly says. Don't drop, don't lose, don't break — that's what she told Clint as she gave him Niko. If there's one person she trusts with her son, it's her best friend.

You frown as she tugs you down the stairs. Natasha is strict about giving Niko to anyone, friend or not. Even your family members have gone through background checks.

"You're desperate."

Natasha scoffs, edging past groups of people and stepping over empty bottles. She's heading straight for the locker room.

She doesn't say anything, though. Because she is desperate. Because she spent half of her basketball game with a hard-on in her shorts and palms that wouldn't stop sweating. Because it's been weeks, literally, and she's sick of getting off in the shower by herself.

"You're not?", she retorts. She pulls you into the showers with her and shuts the curtain hastily.

Before you really know what's happening, your back is pressed against the tiled wall. Cold, still wet from the showers that were taken earlier. Natasha's hands push under your shirt and roam your upper body, her mouth on your neck already.

You moan. You can't help it. You're worried about Niko being left alone with a bunch of basketball players, but your brain is foggy already. Natasha nudges the handle on the shower faucet, and water starts raining down on you.

"Missed you", she mumbles, mouth hot and urgent against your skin. Her fingers find your bra and quickly unclasp it. "Missed this."

"Nat, the-"

She lifts her head enough to shut you up with her lips. Her hands knead and squeeze flesh on their descent, all the way down to your skirt. Your clothes are clinging to you, water is dripping down her jaw. Your moans are barely covered by the sound of water running.

Shorts off, skirt hiked up. Her fingers slide into you easily, and she grabs your thigh to hoist it up. She finally sinks into you and sees stars.

"Fuck", she mumbles, voice muffled by your neck.

"Oh", you breathe, agreeing. Your hips roll up against hers, and she nudges deeper. Her tip prods against a spot deep inside of you. It makes her moan.

You're both slippery, and her hands keep sliding down your skin whenever she doesn't pay attention. It happens too often, but there's not much she can do about it. She'd rather focus on the feeling of you clenching around her, and grinding against her. You moan and her brain short-circuits.

She smells like deodorant and sweat. Her curls are drenched. Your head lolls back, against the tiles, and hers drops forward. Kisses cover every inch of exposed skin, warm and wet.

You meet every thrust with a roll of your hips. In the showers, it's as foggy as it is inside your brain. You're focusing on Natasha, on her fucking into you like this is the last time she'll ever get to do this. She lifts your shirt enough to reach your breasts — thanks to Niko still nursing, her access to them hasn't been sufficient.

The second she starts peppering them with kisses, the haze in your head clears up a little. You still feel her inside of you, deep and relentless, her hands grasping at your sides and her lips around your nipple. But suddenly, you're not as immersed in it anymore. You lift your head, eyes clearer now, and bite back a breathless moan.

"Nat, where- where's the baby?"

Natasha curses, still buried deep inside of you. You're hot and tight and she really doesn't want to pause this to respond. Your mom-brain has awoken again, it seems.

Your nails rake down her back when she pulls out so only the head is inside. She presses open-mouthed kisses against your breast and thrusts back into you. She has your thigh pressed snugly against her side, and her fingers grip your skin for stability.

"He's fine", she finally murmurs. One hand moves to your ass, palming it. "I'm close."

"Yeah, I know", you pant. You can feel her twitch against your walls already. "But Niko..."

She groans against your breast. If you don't stop talking about the baby, she might never finish. She's so close, so close it hurts, but you're stubborn and overly cautious. Usually she is, too. There's no way she'd just leave Niko with anyone. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

"One more minute", she grunts, face buried in your chest. She has to try and speed run her orgasm. Her own fault for building up her stamina like this. "Promise he's okay."

"Natasha, the baby."

And again, you're talking about Niko. She knows she's having some kind of effect on you — you're flushed and breathless, trying your hardest not to be too loud. Despite you being in the locker room, the walls aren't entirely soundproof. If someone walks past the door, they'll hear you.

She's starting to wonder whether she's doing something wrong. There has to be a reason why you can't focus on her for a few minutes, after all.

"Babe", she moans, eyes squeezing shut, "you're distracting us."

You pause, if only briefly. She's so deep inside of you she doesn't even have to move, really — all she does is grind deeper, hitting spots that make tingles shoot down your spine. You almost feel bad for your mom-brain kicking in again.

"What if they- oh", you moan. Your eyes slip shut. "What if they drop him?"

Natasha laughs against your skin, then moans. Her thumb finds your clit, and she circles it.

"They won't."

You'd love to believe her, but the internal tug-of-war continues. You're somewhere between the deep, aching pleasure she's causing you, and the nagging worry that's keeping you from coming on the spot. Your body is begging for it at this point — you can feel the orgasm creep closer with every sloppy thrust.

"What if he-" Another moan. You meet her hips with your own. "Shit, right there."

Natasha has been leaving hickeys all over your chest. Your breast, collarbone, shoulder. She throbs inside you and cums, finally, unloading herself in you and filling you up until it drips down your thighs.

Her thrusts slow down, then stop entirely. You're both soaking wet and out of breath. Soft pants echo from the discolored tiles.

She nuzzles your chest with her face and you, fingers raking through dripping wet red hair, pause. You blink, then slowly push her off you. She wants to grab you and turn you around, pin you against the wall so she can continue from behind. However, she knows that won't happen.

"Niko", you say, staring at her. She seems to shrink a bit. "You left our infant son alone with a bunch of- bunch of jocks! Are you stupid?"

"I promise he's okay", she says, still roaming your body with her hands. "He loves them, they love him. He's fine."

You scoff and bat her hands away. She gives you a sheepish look.

"'Fine'", you mock. You turn off the water and step out of the shower, clothes soaking wet. "He probably thinks we abandoned him!"

"No, he-" She falters and grabs a towel to wrap it around you. You let her — begrudgingly. "I bet he's relieved to get a break from us."

You shoot her a glare that shuts her right up. Part of you feels smug, watching that happen. Natasha's still scared by you. She's six feet of muscle and confidence, but you manage to make her go quiet with just one look.

You dry your arms and face with the towel as you step out of the locker room. Natasha hurries to keep up, the wet soles of her shoes squeaking on the vinyl floor. You leave water puddles in your path.

The second you step into the gym, Clint looks up. To your surprise, he doesn't seem panicked — he doesn't look happy either, though. And neither does Niko. You start running when a pout forms on his face.

"Oh, my poor baby", you coo, scooping him up. He lets out a whine. "I'm so sorry, my love. This was mama's fault."

Natasha exchanges a look with Clint. She's used to taking the blame by now, no matter what happened. Truthfully, sometimes nothing has to happen for her to take some kind of blame.

"See?", she says. "He's fine."

Niko and you both turn your heads at the exact same moment. The look of judgement is identical as well. Natasha wasn't sure whether a baby could be passive aggressive before, but Niko just answered that question.

"He looks disgusted."

"He is", you retort, bouncing him. He frowns at Natasha, then looks at you and switches up. A wide smile, exposing gums and a single tooth. He grabs the necklace you're wearing and clutches the charm in his chubby fist. "Oh, my angel."

Clint glances at Natasha. "When's the last time she coddled you like this?"

No reply. Instead, she picks up a half empty bottle and chucks it at his head. He jumps to the side just in time, laughing. He knows he's stirring the pot, and he's enjoying every second of it. It's his duty as Niko's godfather.

Natasha, however, isn't too amused. She doesn't like to admit that she's jealous. Of a baby, too. Her own son, her DNA, her own flesh and blood. He got his charm from her — the smile, the green eyes. Red curls and head tilts. He knows how to make others fall in love with him.

Unfortunately, he's using that to divert all attention from her as well. You only have eyes for him.

You're still not looking at her. You're turned to the wall, your shirt lifted enough to be able to feed him. Natasha barely stops herself from rolling her eyes. Just minutes ago, that was all hers.

"A baby", Clint reminds her, using that same voice you always use. "Grown adult, by the way."

He might have a point. Natasha will keep trying, though. She'll get your attention eventually. You're not going to keep neglecting her forever, after all.

. . .

For once, the room is silent. No baby snoring, no white noise playing. No rain, either, and no sounds of traffic thanks to the windows being closed. All Natasha hears is ragged breathing and the sound of slick mouths meeting over and over again.

Her hand slowly creeps up your back. Fingertips graze the clasp of your bra, and she manages to undo it despite you being a distraction. The pressure around your chest loosens, and the bra leaves behind pressure marks. Red lines, faint and wrapping around your torso like vines.

Not even the baby monitor on the nightstand fazes her. She's completely focused on you.

"Slow down", you murmur. You wrap your arm around her neck and pull her closer, so close that she's chest to chest with you. "Why're you in a hurry?"

She shakes her head and doesn't answer. Instead, she tugs the bra straps off your shoulders. More skin is exposed, slightly paler than the rest of you, and she leans in to pepper it with kisses. All hers at last. Nobody to interrupt.

Your back arches when her hand sneaks between your legs. You're only wearing shorts, so it's easy for her to push past the thin piece of fabric. Calloused fingers run through your folds and you try to rut your hips against her hand.

"Thought you told me to slow down", she mumbles, voice muffled against your chest. "Who's impatient now?"

You can't speak anymore. She's got you pinned to the bed, all sweaty and covered in kisses. She's full of lipstick as well — the red color is smudged all over her collarbones, arms, stomach. Not even her thighs were safe.

It's your turn. She's kissing all over you now, smelling sun lotion and perfume. A hint of something sweet, too. Maybe milk.

She traces the marks on your back as she nuzzles into your chest. You're still grinding your whole soul into her fingers, and honestly, she's living for it. No sharing. No baby who knows how to pick the worst moments. Just you and her, trying to stay quiet as to not wake the sleeping infant in the nursery.

There's no way for her to speak through the mouthful of breast she's apparently trying to swallow, but there's no need for it, either. All she has to do is curl her fingers and listen to your gasp.

Things are going good. She's knuckles-deep inside you, she's hard and close to ruining her shorts, and if she plays her cards right, she'll finish inside you instead of on her own hand.

Another thrust of her fingers. You're swollen around her by now, your sensitivity skyrocketing with each pump. You seem immersed enough for Natasha to believe that nothing will distract you — eyes half-lidded, moans shaky and erratic. You keep clenching around her.

You're getting closer. Natasha's free hand starts fumbling with her shorts, trying to free herself. Then, the baby monitor releases a cry of complaint.

Immediately, you're sitting up and scrambling to grab the little device. You can see Niko on the screen, sitting in his crib and screaming like a banshee. You let out a curse, and Natasha realizes protesting is pointless. You won't be able to focus until the baby is happy again.

You get out of bed before she can properly pull her fingers from you. The door opens and you disappear down the hallway, heading straight for Niko's nursery. Natasha sighs and slumps into the messy sheets. Even from all the way over here, she can hear your voice as you soothe the baby.

It takes a while. Five minutes, then ten. Twenty. Eventually, she's had enough. She scoots out of bed and makes her way to the nursery.

She hears your voice and stops in the doorway. You're in the middle of the room, carrying Niko and humming something. He's not having it — one hand curled into your bare shoulder, he lets out an undignified huff. Tears are drying on his chubby cheeks.

"What happened?", she finally asks, still sulking a bit.

"I don't know. Maybe a bad dream, or maybe something woke him up. Did you hear the cars outside earlier?"

Earlier — back when she was knuckles-deep inside you, when you were moaning into her ear. Soaked fingers and swollen lips. Of course she didn't hear the damn cars.

"No", she says, glancing at Niko. He raises his eyebrows in the clumsy way he does. "Want me to take over?"

Natasha knows what she's doing. For some reason, it takes him way longer to fall asleep when you're there. When it's just her, he gets sleepy way faster. If she's lucky, he'll be out cold in ten minutes.

You give her a hesitant look and cradle him a bit closer. He lets out a wail and kicks his socked feet.

"I don't know", you say. You get an unimpressed look in response. "I just want to make sure he's okay."

"He is okay", she says, walking up to you. "He's thriving. Look at him."

"He cried."

So will I, Natasha thinks. She's still bitter. She scoops him from your arms, anyways. The way he nestles into her makes her forget about her little grudge, if only briefly. He's her baby, after all. No matter how many times he interrupts, no matter how much attention he steals from her.

"See?", she says, rubbing his back. He blinks slowly. "He's good. Better than good. Doing better than I am."

You hesitate again, then cave. You could use a break, and they need to bond a little, anyway. It's been a rough few weeks.

You kiss both their cheeks before leaving. The door shuts quietly, and the second Niko realizes you're gone, he turns to Natasha. A frown appears on his face and he slaps his hands against her chest. She sighs, but the corners of her mouth tug into a smile.

"Alright, mister", she mumbles, walking to the rocking chair in the corner. She opens the window before sitting down. "Just you and me now. You happy? I doubt it."

No response — obviously. She leans over to grab the folded blanket on the dresser, which she drapes over the baby. He's yawning already. The air coming in through the window is definitely helping her with putting him to sleep.

She studies his face in the soft lighting of his nightlight. Definitely her own features, but much sweeter. There's very little he got from you, which is a shame.

"This isn't fair, you know", she mumbles. She starts moving the rocking chair a little. "You look like me. You're replacing me, aren't you? She already likes you better."

He coos, his suckling on the pacifier getting a bit quicker. Sleepy eyes blink and stare up at her, then close again. Natasha smiles and brushes a red lock out of his face.

"It's my turn", she says. "You need to sleep through the night, sir. Do you know how long it's been since I had mommy all to myself? Way too long. But you wouldn't know, would you?"

His eyes stay closed for half a minute, which is almost long enough to make her believe he's passed out. But then he opens them again with a start, one arm flailing as he attempts to sit up. She shushes him and pats his back.

"No, no, you're sleeping. You've got her wrapped around your finger, you little bastard. If you stay up, it's over for me."

Somehow, that does the trick. Niko yawns, his pacifier almost falling out of his mouth, then closes his eyes again. He snuggles into her chest and lets out a tired little huff. Relief floods her, and she lets out a sigh.

"Mhm, that's right", she mumbles. "She's neglecting me, kid. All because of you. You better stay asleep."

She stays seated for another ten minutes, just to make sure he's actually asleep. Once his breathing has evened out and he isn't moving too much anymore, she carefully gets up and balances the sleeping baby in her arms. The most difficult part is the transfer to his crib — a lot could go wrong here. But she lowers him down onto the mattress slowly, removes the blanket, shushes him when he stirs. She even manages to put his wearable blanket back on.

As she closes the door to the nursery, you adjust the fabric that's hugging your body now. Skin tight, short, definitely bought before you had Niko. Maybe that's not a bad thing, though — the dress accentuates every curve nicely. It looks even better paired with the lipstick you're wearing.

Natasha has no clue you heard every word. The baby monitor was still on, and even if it didn't film her since the camera is right above the crib, you could still hear her talk. You heard every complaint, and though they mostly seemed like jokes, you couldn't help but feel bad. She adores Niko, you know that. Yet, she's pouty and a bit annoyed that her nights have changed so drastically.

You can't blame her. She sees you gush over someone else now. What you're doing is basically dote on a smaller, cuter version of her.

The door opens and you turn around. Natasha looks up and pauses. She wasn't expecting you to be out of bed, or even awake. She definitely wasn't expecting you to be wearing that, either.

There's no way she can say anything. Her mouth dries up and her body stays frozen in place. All she can do is stare.

"You okay?", you ask softly. You tilt your head and step closer. "What's with the look on your face?"

Natasha clears her throat. "That's my favorite dress", she mumbles, voice cracking. "Summer break."

A smile tugs at your lips. You remember that day. Strolling through Rome with your family, looking at cute little shops and eating ice cream. Bending over to pick up a coin you dropped. The dress rode up a tiny bit, but just enough to make her tug you into some alleyway.

"Almost got us arrested", you add. You're not going to tell her that you heard her whine to Niko. You grab her hand instead and pull it to your waist. "Still want your turn?"

She scoffs, her fingers pressing into your side. She draws you closer, dips her head to press a kiss to your exposed shoulder. Her fingers twitch, restless and impatient to put them to use.

"Don't even have to ask", she mutters, still sulking but slightly soothed. "I've waited long enough, I think."

"I know", you whisper. You put your finger under her chin to tilt her head up. She chases after the brief kiss you place on her lips, but you're already walking her backwards. "Come on, sit down. Don't move a muscle."

Natasha doesn't argue. She doesn't want to, either. She sits down, hands resting on the mattress and eyes glued to you. There's one good thing about being touch-deprived, and that is getting hard way quicker. Not that it ever took her long, anyway.

You put your hands on her shoulders to push her back against the headrest. The dress makes it a little harder to move, but you manage to sit on her lap anyway. Lifting your hand, you brush loose strands of hair behind her ear.

"You deserve more", you say quietly, tilting your head. She repeats the gesture without noticing. "More attention, more time, more everything. We both do. I know it's hard with the baby, but if we're too busy, we need to try and make time."

Natasha shakes her head. "No, I just...I sometimes miss the way things were."

"Mhm?" You lean in and place a kiss on her cheek. "Just us two, huh?"

"Yeah", she admits. Her hand runs up and down your side, to your back, smoothing along the curve of your ass. "It was different."

"I know", you mumble. Your finger hooks into the necklace she's wearing. "You want my attention back."

Natasha scoffs, her hand lightly patting your side. She shrugs, but the mask of indifference she's putting on wouldn't even fool your son. You can see right through her — she's jealous, she's starved, she's been patient. She has no expectations, but that doesn't mean she can't miss it.

"I like having your attention", she eventually admits, eyebrows furrowed. Her hand grips your side. "I know why you're distracted, but it sucks sometimes."

You hum and cup her face. She closes her eyes when you start peppering slow kisses all over it. You expand the area you're targeting and continue along her jaw, down her neck. You're determined to kiss the scowl on her face away.

"Don't be mad, mama", you mumble, nuzzling her neck. Your hand reaches between you, slipping into her boxers. "I'm here now, aren't I? You got my attention."

Psychological warfare — that's the first thing that enters Natasha's mind. The second thing is how good your hand feels as you start jerking her off, slowly but firmly. Her hips almost buck.

"Not mad", she says, trying not to close her eyes. She's getting out of breath more and more with each movement of your hand. You squeeze gently and she curses. "Fuck- I missed you."

"I'm right here", you promise. You kiss her on the mouth, hand still moving inside her boxers. "I'm not going anywhere. You're still the one."

Every stroke of your hand makes the pressure grow more. She throbs hotly, squirming underneath you and trying to keep herself from nutting two minutes into the handjob. It probably won't end at that, but it'd be embarrassing.

You let go without warning her first. Before she can complain, you're tugging down her shorts and scooting off her lap. Her eyes widen a bit when you position yourself between her legs.

"Oh", she moans, raking her fingers through your hair. "That's, uhm..."

"Don't talk", you coo. "Let me take care of you tonight. You've done enough."

Natasha nods, breathless and blushing. She tips her head back so it rests against the wall, her hand still buried in your hair. You're right — she has done enough. She's the one who initiated a large majority of sexual intimacy over the past few months. It's your turn.

You kiss her thigh, leaving a red lipstick mark behind. Another one follows, then you kiss up her shaft. You taste precum before taking her into your mouth. You can't see her, but the noise that leaves her tells you enough.

Slender fingers grip your hair. She hears you gag, feels the silky heat of your mouth, and nearly loses it. If this is what happens when she waits a bit longer than she's used to, she'll do it over and over again.

White heat shoots through her body. She told herself she'd hold back, but your tongue runs through the slit, you twist your hand around the base, and suddenly she has no choice anymore. You taste her on your tongue and down your throat. When you look up again, your mouth is smudged with a mixture of cum and lipstick.

"See?", you say, already stroking her from base to tip again. The overstimulation makes her whine. "All yours. Don't forget that."

"No", she agrees, eyes squeezed shut. "Never forgetting it."

"Good." You lean in and kiss her, still jerking her off. "Now tell me: what do you want, baby?"

There're a million things she wants, and they all involve you. But that's impossible, so she settles for the one thing she's been seeking out for weeks at this point. She needs to be inside you, and she needs to come inside you, too.

Hands on her shoulders and eyes on hers. No words, just rapid breathing and quiet noises coming from the back of your throats. You don't worry about protection too much. Nothing's happened so far. The universe wouldn't be cruel enough to punish you for finally having time for intimacy again, after all. Or that's what Natasha tells herself.

You let her finish inside, and it's magical. What's almost just as magical is lying down afterwards and not hearing a sound. Instead, silence. The traffic outside, the overlapping of your breaths inside. She buries her face in your chest and listens to your heartbeat slow down to a normal pace again.

"He's asleep."

"Yeah", you agree, running your hand through her hair. "It's quiet."

Natasha hums and kisses the side of your breast. It hasn't been long since you got Niko used to sleeping in his own room. No more crib right next to your bed — instead, he spends almost every night in his nursery.

She looks up and you immediately know she's about to say something stupid. She knows it's stupid, too. She says it anyway.

"I kinda miss him", she says. "Can I go get him?"

You raise your eyebrows at her, but don't reply. There's no need to, as she can pretty much read your mind at this point. She shrugs sheepishly.

"You're thinking it, too."

"Thinking that I want to wake my peacefully sleeping baby?" You scoff and swat at her shoulder. "No. Are you insane?"

"Come on", she pleads.

"No", you repeat, frowning. "I got you to myself for ten minutes and you want to ruin it? No. Seriously."

Natasha sighs, but caves. She slumps into you again, body half draped over yours. Her hand runs up and down your thigh, thumb tracing the faint stretch marks there. She's happy about it, though. It tells her you feel something similar to what she felt.

"Funny", she mumbles. "Are you jealous now?"

For that, she almost gets banished to the nursery with Niko.

#short n sweet #short n sweet au #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #wlw #lesbian #marvel mcu #marvel #wlw smut #smut #fluff #moon’s fics

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limerlove · 17 days ago

Note

hi rayray:) can i have 15 and with any character you like!

eighteen+, minors dni. content warning: wc under 1k. rockstar!abby + popstar!reader, public sex, voyeriusm, fingers. dialogue prompt: “scream my name while you cum” + “touch yourself, i want to watch” (abby)

#rayraynote — this is eons late and i apologize! i have no sense of time and my tumblr drafts get combed through every few months. but here's a smutty drabble.

she's ego-filled, maniac tendencies dripping from her well-manicured fingertips, but abby anderson truly knows how to fuck. for most, it's a death sentence waiting to happen. each time, she grows more fond of the all the ways you used to tell her no. sacred sin spills like a treasured scripture, fresh ink drying on the scroll.

purpose for salvation — she gives a new meaning for the revelations. a god among it's creation to save the proclaimed self-righteous but the sinners are just as fallen as the saved. begging for a second chance. an overflow of mercy to be redeemed and you’d rather be drowned in the blood of a wolf than to follow the mindless sheep.

a woman who is taken, unavailable — fucking a rockstar who hits on her at a rundown, middle of nowhere bar you hadn’t even bothered to remember the name of. blonde-headed and tall. someone beautiful, hot and the muscular drummer who happened to know to bring the edge. the rhythm onestage spilling in your lower lips, splitting you however she pleases.

debauchery twisted when her lips kiss yours for the first time. the first fuck haunts you more than you wish it did. and the love you keep under lock and key for her threatens to unravel each time. the only thing holding it together was some semblance of love you had for your girlfriend.

it’s what keeps you away for four months, trying to be good, you tell yourself when you picture oceanic eyes and a field of freckles making home behind your mind each time you come. a memory of how wonderful she made you feel, it keeps you awake but crushes you in the wake of her absence.

one you dissolved your conscious of but you still miss her. and it brings you here, back in her arms — outside her favorite bar, tucked in the midnight shadows of the alley she hides you in.

“pretty popstar you are. where’s your pretty starlet actress girlfriend now?” you clench your jaw, the muscle spasms yet you make no effort to stop her double-digit efforts. “maybe the rumors are true.”

degradation sinks in, a thirsty vampire begging to feed, and the pain they bring is a temporary inconvenience. she might as well be. abby knows how to suck you dry but she chooses to leave you alive.

only enough to punish you.

“would you just shut up the fuck up and fuck me?” the words slip before the opportunity arises to catch them. the silence deafens.

“i know you didn’t just say that to me.” abby tuts, her fingers gliding along your bare stomach, the fabric brushed into your ribcage. “here i am, being generous and fucking my good girl, and you tell me to shut the fuck up.”

there’s contemplation resting behind sorrowful eyes but there’s a rightfully-placed pride. to a certain degree, she likes when you push your luck, as long as you don’t push too far.

“baby—”

“nuh uh, we’re past that.” abby drops her lips branch your ear and whispers, “for that, i’m not touching you. in fact, touch yourself. i want to watch.”

even though ever fiber of your body wants to defy her, leave her in the alley begging and waiting for you — that’s not how this works. it’s her call you answer. it’s you who wants to be fucked with her pretty thick fingers and the power of her hips pinning your cunt with hers. without fail, you’ll come running each time.

from the false belief of this being the last time dies when she won’t touch you. abby knows it’s what you need. every ounce of her and not having fingertips glide along your petal of folds, lips that blossom for her, is a justifiable death sentence.

without giving it a second thought, you sink your fingers in her cunt, moaning as she applies pressure to your hips — a fail safe mercy. her touch sinks in the dips of your skin, coaxing you into her mayhem.

“good girl. now put another inside, princess. you know i always make you come with three.” abby teases, her pierced-tongue glides along the your hollowed throat, nipping at your collarbone. the hued-bruising that may or may not appear if she continues to suck.

“i miss your fingers, it doesn’t feel as good.”

“you should have thought about that before you mouthed off.” abby claims your mouth, you’re her property and she’ll remind you if she has to. "now you'll just have to focus on the sound of my voice...whispering your ear telling you exactly how to fuck your pussy. the one that will forever belong to me."

"fuck, it's yours. always yours."

the immediate compliance rings true, she basks in your submission and woefully angles her head enough to push down the fabric, perky-nipples pebbled while her tongue glides over the sweet surface. abby bathes them in attention, her fingers pinching the lone breast not recieving the privilege of her mouth.

with each glide of her tongue you’re brought closer to the edge. all self-control lost and you drown in the salvation of her touch, begging for the lips tucked between your thighs to spill white snow in the heat of a blazing summer.

“then show me. scream my name while you cum.”

#for my abby gays #i’ve been slacking #sorry !!!!#abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x fem!reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson smut #abby x reader #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson tlou2 #wlw x reader #abby x you #abby x y/n

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gildedsilk · 2 months ago

Text

Extra Hot Wings ๑

• Kang Taehyun x Reader | Wc: 2K+ | Smut, car sex | MINORS DNI ༻

𝜗𝜚 Gildie's Note ៹ can you tell I’m hungry ? Anyways I love me some Taehyun 😍

༺ Masterlist

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed quietly above as you stood next to Taehyun at the front counter of the wings place, both of you lazily scanning the glowing menu board. The guy behind the register looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but Taehyun greeted him with a little grin anyway.

“Can we do the twelve-piece? Half lemon pepper, half extra hot?” he asked, glancing down at you with a slight smirk. “And fries, right?”

You nodded, leaning a little into his arm. “And celery. Don’t forget my celery.”

Taehyun chuckled, already handing over his card. “Of course, how could I forget the sacred celery?”

The cashier muttered something about a 15-minute wait, handing over the receipt. Taehyun grabbed it and nudged you gently with his elbow. “Let’s go sit in the car. It’s freezing in here.”

The walk to his car was quiet, the night air crisp and still. You tugged your jacket tighter as Taehyun clicked the car open and slid into the driver’s seat, reaching across to unlock your door. The inside was warm, smelled faintly of pine from an old air freshener, and the windows fogged slightly as you settled in.

Neither of you started the car. The radio stayed off. It was just quiet — not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt like a shared secret.

You curled your legs up on the seat, facing him slightly. “Fifteen minutes isn’t that bad.”

“Fifteen minutes with you?” he said, voice low and teasing. “Could be worse.”

You scoffed softly but smiled, cheeks warming. “That line was awful.”

“I’m not a poet,” he said with a grin. “Cut me some slack.”

Taehyun leaned his head back against the headrest, turning slightly toward you. His eyes met yours — not intense, just soft. Familiar. He looked comfortable, like he was exactly where he wanted to be.

You watched his hand on the gearshift, fingers drumming lightly. It was ridiculous how something so casual could feel that magnetic.

“You ever think about how weird it is that we ended up together?” you murmured, tracing little invisible shapes on your thigh.

He glanced at you. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Just… this time last year, you were the quiet guy who always wore headphones and sat in the back of econ. Now you’re the guy I sneak out with for wings at 11 p.m.”

Taehyun’s expression softened even more, and he turned his full attention to you. “Yeah. I remember seeing you before I knew you. Thought you were intimidating.”

You laughed under your breath. “Me?”

He nodded. “You looked like you had everything figured out. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even figure out which door led to the right lecture hall.”

The heat between you built slowly, gently — not in your skin, but in the air. Something unspoken passing like a current.

He reached across the center console and took your hand, fingers brushing your wrist like he was memorizing the shape of it.

“You make me feel…” he paused, words catching on something quiet and real. “Safe. I don’t think I’ve told you that.”

Your heart fluttered at the honesty in his tone. You squeezed his hand.

“I feel that too,” you whispered.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then he leaned in, slow and steady — like he was giving you every second to stop him, but you didn’t want to.

His lips met yours, soft and warm, and everything else disappeared. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was something else entirely — something careful and aching and full of all the things you’d never said out loud.

You broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads resting together.

“I don’t want the wings to be ready yet,” he murmured.

You smiled against his mouth. “They can take their time.”

Taehyun’s thumb brushed your cheek as his eyes lingered on you, lips barely parted, breath still warm from the kiss.

Then came the shift — subtle but unmistakable.

His voice dropped a note, laced with something heavier, quieter.

“So… fifteen minutes, hm?”

You tilted your head, catching the glint in his eyes — no longer just soft and sweet. There was want in them now, clear and unfiltered. It poured off of him in waves, like heat off the hood of a car under summer sun.

You swallowed.

“What are you thinking?” you asked, voice just above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned in again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand found the curve of your jaw and held it there as his mouth brushed yours — once, twice — before deepening the kiss.

This time, there was nothing hesitant about it.

It wasn’t rough, but it was hungry. Your lips parted for him instinctively, and he slipped a hand behind your neck, drawing you in closer. You shifted toward him, the console pressing against your side, but you didn’t care — your world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the soft scrape of his teeth, the way his breath caught just a little when your hand slid under the hem of his sweatshirt to touch bare skin.

His tongue met yours with a slow roll, not rushed but with purpose, like he was savoring every second. You could feel his fingers flex at the back of your neck, pulling you in like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

“God,” he muttered between kisses, voice hoarse. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You smiled into him, your heart racing, hands roaming up his chest. “Pretty sure I have a clue.”

He laughed quietly, almost breathless, and then kissed you again, harder this time. The kind of kiss that stole your breath and gave it back all at once. The kind that curled heat low in your stomach.

The windows began to fog.

Your body shifted instinctively, one leg drawn up slightly on the seat as your hips angled toward him, seeking more friction, more contact. He took the cue, pulling you over the console with a quiet grunt, guiding you into his lap.

It was awkward and cramped, but neither of you cared. His hands found your waist as you straddled him, knees sinking into the leather seat. You could feel him under you — hard and real — and the shock of it sent a bolt of electricity through your spine.

Your lips were swollen, breath ragged. He looked up at you like he wanted to memorize everything — your flushed cheeks, the way your chest rose and fell, the way your eyes flicked down to his lips and back.

He cupped your face again, gentler this time, resting his forehead against yours.

“Still have a few minutes,” he said, voice low and thick with restraint. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

Instead, your hands slid up under his sweatshirt fully now, fingertips mapping the lines of his torso, nails dragging slightly — just enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

You leaned in again, this time whispering against his jaw. “I want you. Right now.”

His grip tightened at your waist.

“Fuck,” he murmured, lips finding your throat now, kissing a trail just under your jaw. “Okay. Come here.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and what you saw nearly undid you.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and slightly parted. His chest rose and fell under you, faster now, and his fingers flexed at your sides like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“Taehyun,” you whispered, fingertips brushing the back of his neck,

His eyes searched yours, and his voice dipped to a low murmur.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitched — not just from the words, but from the way he said them. Like he meant every single syllable. Like this wasn’t about rushing toward something physical, but something personal. Something intimate.

You nodded, and that was all he needed.

His hands slid under your sweatshirt slowly, fingers tracing the warm skin at your lower back as if savoring every inch. His mouth found yours again, but this time his other hand moved — to your thigh, then up, dragging the hem of your skirt with it in small, measured movements.

The air inside the car grew hotter, thicker.

You could feel the tension between your bodies humming, pressure building in every shared breath and half-moan. Your hands roamed beneath his sweatshirt, feeling the defined lines of his stomach, the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

His hand finally found your panties, pulling them to the side without hesitation, groaning softly as he felt how wet you were.

“Tae, please…” You whine, gripping his hair hard enough to make him glance up at you.

“Shhh…” He gives you a quick kiss to soothe you, and looks back down. He uses one hand to keep your skirt bunched up, and the other to rub your wet pussy.

You whimpered when his fingers stroked up and down your slit, parting you and finding your entrance.

Taehyun glanced up, checking the dark lot for any signs of life. But you whined his name again, snapping him back to you.

“Taehyun, please…” You whine, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He smirks a bit, and slides his fingers into you, making your thighs tense. He slowly slides them out… then in… then out then in again.

You scoff softly and rock your hips, fucking yourself on his fingers.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a quickie? Don’t tease me…” You huff.

Taehyun chuckled softly, watching you for a moment before matching your rhythm, curling his fingers just right. You moaned, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

He pulled his fingers free, not caring that they were slick. He reaches on the side of his seat and uses the lever to lean it back a bit.

While he does that, you’re already taking his dick out for him. His dark grey sweats and black boxers tugged down to his knees as you give him a few strokes.

Taehyun hisses, watching you with his hands on your hips.

He guides you up to hover over him, and lines himself up with your tight hole. You sink down slowly, with a little gasp as he stretches you out.

“Fuck…” his head falls back, but immediately lifts so he can look at you again. “So pretty.”

His mouth had found your neck again, kissing you slower this time — lips, tongue, even the occasional scrape of teeth, like he wanted to leave something behind.

A reminder.

You gasped when his teeth grazed just below your ear, your hips rolling forward instinctively. The sound that escaped his throat was somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

“Keep doing that,” he murmured into your skin, voice thick. “Please.”

You felt everything.

His hands. His breathing. His want.

And most of all — the way he looked at you. Like he’d never wanted anything more.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice raw now. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You shook your head, voice soft but steady. “I want you, Taehyun. Right here.”

That’s all he needed. He started lifting you up and down, slamming you onto his cock while his hips thrust up to meet you.

“Fuck, Tae!!” You hold onto his shoulders, moaning as quietly as you can.

Slap-slap-slap—your skin smacked against his, your slick making it easy for him to drive into you.

He pants, his hands on your ass to lift you and bring you back down. “Holy shit…” he bites his lip hard enough to break skin, his eyes rolling back at the tightness around his cock.

“Feels so good, Tae…” your hands pressed to his chest as you bounced with him, making him whimper.

“Y/N… pretty girl… ah…” he shakes his head as if he’s trying to use nothing but willpower to not cum right now.

You moan into his ear, and lick the shell of it before biting it gently.

His hips stutter and he gives you a half-glare, thumb dropping to your clit, rubbing fast little circles. “Fucking… brat- ah…”

You shiver at his touch, already feeling sensitive from his touch. You speed up your bounces, whining his name.

“Close, baby?”

“Yes…!”

“Me too…” Taehyun is panting with you, his hands starting to shake.

You leaned forward, face in the crook of his neck. He felt your legs trembling, your strength fading, so he took over, thrusting up fast, his balls slapping your skin as you cried out.

“Taehyun!!!” The coil in your lower half snaps, snd you tremble in his arms, moaning, spent.

Taehyun’s high follows right after yours, as he buries himself deep inside you while moaning, high pitched and somewhat embarrassing for him. And he fills you with his hot sticky cum.

The world stilled.

For a moment, neither of you moved — your head resting on his shoulder, both of you tangled and warm in the aftermath, heartbeats slowing together. His arm stayed wrapped around your back, hand splayed between your shoulder blades like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

The car windows were completely fogged now, tiny beads of condensation trailing lazily down the glass. The air inside was heavy with heat, the kind of silence that hums with something sacred.

Then—

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

The sudden chime of Taehyun’s phone shattered the stillness like a pebble through glass.

You both jumped slightly, your body reacting before your mind caught up. The alarm kept buzzing, loud and obnoxious against the quiet you’d both built. Taehyun groaned, reaching blindly over your body to grab his phone off the dash.

He silenced it with a swipe, blinking down at the screen.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said, breath still uneven, lips curved in a dazed smile. “Right on time.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, letting out a breathy laugh. “I forgot we were even waiting for food.”

“Same,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss into your hair. “That… was not how I thought the night would go.”

You leaned back just enough to look at him — his hair messy, skin flushed, lips a little bitten. He looked completely undone, and yet somehow more himself than ever.

“Regret it?” you asked softly, fingertips brushing down his chest.

Taehyun scoffed, nose wrinkling playfully. “You’re kidding, right?”

You grinned, kissing him once — slow, but this time tender.

He held you there for another moment, both of you reluctant to move. Then he shifted beneath you with a dramatic sigh, glancing down at his wrinkled sweatshirt and your still-riding-up skirt.

“As much as I want to stay in this moment forever,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “our wings are gonna get cold.”

You groaned, reaching for your hoodie and trying to smooth out your clothes as best you could. “Great. Now we have to walk in there like we didn’t just—”

“Wreck each other?” he finished, biting back a laugh as he adjusted his seatbelt.

You shot him a look. “That’s one way to put it.”

He winked.

“Don’t worry,” he said, leaning over to press a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re still the most put-together girl I know.”

You gave him a flat look, trying not to smile. “Shut up and go get the wings.”

He opened the door, stepping out into the cool night air, and immediately hissed. “Wow. Okay. Temperature drop. Reality is rude.”

You stayed in the passenger seat, watching him jog up to the wing spot, hands stuffed in his pockets, hoodie slightly misaligned from your grip earlier. Your heart did a strange, full kind of flutter in your chest.

Even from across the parking lot, you could tell: he was still grinning.

And honestly?

So were you.

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