McCinnamon ⭐️

He found that out the hard way.

You were drawn to your grotto each time the full moon was out, developing a particular habit of trying to escape the apartment, each time causing Clark the most distress to try and find a way to soothe you while also keeping you contained.

You also became a bit more loopy than average.

Clark likes to call it your moon drunk. You slurred your words saying the strangest, most endearing things to him. It was his favorite when you got like this. So chatty and clingy, just spilling everything that came to your mind.

But the most notable way the full moons affected you was the sudden insatiableness for him that you developed.

It was a fact that he learned after the third full moon with you, something he assumes was when you fully found yourself trusting your nature with him to reveal the full depths of how the full moon's energy affected you.

Usually just before the full moon reaches its apex, you become insistently needy, a fact that you always denied the next day.

At first, Clark was hesitant to indulge you, not wanting to seem like he was taking advantage of your nature, but you were so, so persistent.

And the one time he denied you, you became so pained and humiliated that you locked yourself in the bathroom, wailing and weeping pearls until Clark had to pry open the door and coax you into the bedroom just to stop the cries that were so loud and heartwrenching, he was sure the neighbors heard.

He knew not to deny you again after that incident.

In fact, he made sure to take careful consideration of the full moon nights, either getting off work early or taking the whole day off to help you through your needs.

So when Clark found out through work that there was a rare supermoon approaching, he made sure to call the day off at least a few weeks in advance to help ease you through the effects of however this full moon might affect you.

This would be the first supermoon the two of you experienced together after all.

The only other special full moons that the two of you experienced are the occasional blue moons, which Clark tends to find make you sadder than a typical full moon.

Clark turns over in bed, admiring your sleeping figure. He awoke before you today, not unusual for these types of days, where you tended to stay up all through the night. He took in your beautiful resting features, hoping that tonight would be a supermoon that brought you peace.

You started to stir, rustling around, until slowly peeling your eyes open. The sunlight seeping through the windows caught your attention first, realizing that you slept in later than usual. You rolled over to face Clark's side, smiling when you noticed he was already awake and watching you.

"Good morning love," he says, brushing your sleep-tussed hair out of your face.

"Good morning," you reply softly, nuzzling your nose into his neck, suddenly eager to take in his scent.

"How are you feeling?" Clark assessed while tucking you in closer, his eyes scanning over you. The full moon effects rarely started so early, but he could never be too sure, especially not with a rare one like tonight's. He would have to be extra attentive today.

"Good, today's going to be a good day. I can feel it."

"Oh yeah?" Clark smiles.

"Yeah." you nod assuredly.

"What else can you feel, hm?" Clark asks back, nuzzling back into you, placing soft kisses to your exposed neck and shoulder.

"I feel," you exhale softly as Clark sucks into the sensitive spot behind your ear and you pull his muscled body even closer atop you, you giggle softly before saying, "Your lips."

"Mhm," Clark mumbles against your skin, moving to kiss lower near your collarbone, "What else?"

You chuckle, squeezing his muscled arms, "And your perfect body on mine."

"And?" Clark sucks on your chest now, not quite reaching your soft breasts. Your fingers entangle into his messy soft curls, pulling his face flush against you.

"And your soft hair and skin."

Clark sighs against you, his warm breath sending a ripple down your spine.

"I think I can also feel you making me salmon for breakfast? Maybe on that strange bread with a hole you like?" You ask with that higher tone of voice that makes Clark fold every time.

It's his turn to let out a small laugh, and he pulls back to gaze into your eyes. "A bagel? Is that what my love is craving this morning?"

You nod against him, finally placing a kiss to his awaiting lips. Clark deepens it, chasing the kiss whilst rolling you flat on your back so he hovers over you. "Okay, I'll go make it for you."

"Extra salmon?"

"Of course."

Clark places a few more chaste pecks to your lips before getting up completely from bed. He smiles at the soft whine you let out at his absence.

Clark finds himself in the kitchen taking out all the necessary items for your salmon bagel. On days like these, he usually cooks for the both of you, bringing it back into your bedroom for breakfast in bed, followed by a lazy day and eventful night.

So he's a bit shocked when he feels your arms wrapped around him from behind just twenty minutes later. You snuggle into the hard planes of his back as he works to cut thin slices of fish for you.

He turns around in your arms, holding a small piece of fish in between the pads of his fingers, he brings it down to your lips, feeding it to you. You sigh contentedly.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"You feeling okay? You're usually never out of bed this fast."

"I know, but it's like I said. I can feel that today's going to be a great day. And I missed you. You were gone too long." You pout.

Clark kisses your pout, before turning around and finishing up your bagel. You follow him around as he makes coffee and your tea, washes the dishes, turns on the tv and finally settles into the couch together.

If his observations are correct, you're definitely more clingy than normal already. But it's not like he minds.

Clark was expecting this to happen.

And its like that for the rest of the day too. You are glued to his side, not even realizing that you haven't broken apart from him since those twenty minutes in the morning. He moves, you move. You shower him with kisses and cuddles, remaining tucked into his side all day and only get up to leave to pee.

Which happens a lot because you've also been strangely thirsty today.

Clark (and you) get up multiple times to refill a large cup of water for you to gulp down in seconds. He's never seen that from you before, but you see nothing wrong with it.

You just smile shyly and hand him the cup again twenty minutes after downing the other. "One more, please?"

It isn't until after your shower, right before sundown, does it seem like you start to feel any outward effects.

"Clark?" you start, approaching him with damp hair and fiddling fingers, quickly glancing out the window and back towards him.

"Yes?"

"I want to go. To my grotto."

Clark's lips curved. 

It's begun. And right on time, too.

"Not today, love. Another time." He meets your stance in the middle of the living room and places his large hands on your shoulders. He hopes you won’t give him too hard of a time on this. He hates telling you no.

"But I feel it, Clark. It's so strong, and it's calling me. I have to go. Right now."

You try to walk around him towards the front door, but Clark is quicker.

He stops you in your tracks with a gentle but firm hand to the waist. "I know, I know. But we've talked about this before. It's too dangerous tonight. It's a full moon, baby, and I don't want you to get hurt out there."

You glance out the window one more time, before facing him with large glassy eyes, and nodding your head in defeat.

"Okay."

Clark's brow shoots up.

That was it? No arguing back? No trying to make a run for it? This was so unlike you to give in so easy. He expected more fight this time around.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're right. I don't want to get hurt out there." You nod again, walking back towards your room to plop on the bed.

Clark follows behind, studying you carefully. The moon was still rising, at least another hour before its apex. He wasn't sure whether to accept this reaction from you as a win just yet.

He makes sure to watch you cautiously. The next hour passes in a haze of soft touches and murmured words.

You've migrated to the center of the bed, limbs sprawled out like a starfish, your head resting in Clark's lap as he sits against the headboard. His fingers card through your drying hair, the motion rhythmic and soothing. The tv plays some nature ocean documentary neither of you are paying attention to, the soft narration a distant hum in the background.

"Clark," you say, your voice carrying that telltale slur he's come to recognize, "Do you know how many stars there are?"

"I don't, love. Tell me."

"More than I can count on my fingers. And toes. And yours too."

Clark chuckles, his chest vibrating against your back. "That's a lot of stars."

"Mhm. But you know what's prettier than all of them?" You tilt your head back to look up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide. There's a soft pink flush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck.

"What's that?"

You reach up, fingers fumbling, trying to trace the line of his jaw but missing by a few inches. Clark catches your hand gently and presses it to his face, guiding it to where you were aiming. You giggle, the sound light and airy, and your thumb traces the strong line of his jaw.

"You. You're the prettiest. Prettier than stars. Prettier than pearls. Prettier than anything in the ocean."

Clark feels his heart squeeze at your words. He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "Thank you, that's a high compliment, coming from a mermaid."

"I'm not a mermaid right now," you say, your voice taking on a petulant edge. "See, no tail. I'm just yours."

"Always," he agrees softly.

You shift in his lap, suddenly restless. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it. "Do you remember the first time we met, Clark?"

"How could I forget?" He watches your face carefully, noticing how your pupils are beginning to expand even further, how your breathing is becoming just a little more shallow. 

"I was so lost," you start. "When I washed up on that shore, I thought they were going to sell me. Or worse. I thought I was going to die. I could feel the air leaving my body, and I was so scared, Clark. I was so scared."

Your eyes are bright now, a sheen of wetness gathering at the corners. "And then you came.. You held me so gently. You said it was going to be okay."

Clark's throat tightens. He remembers it vividly, finding you on that rocky shore, your beautiful tail glinting silver under the pale moonlight.

The way you'd flinched away from him, terrified, your sharp teeth bared. And how he'd spoken to you in the softest voice he could muster, the same voice he used with scared animals, with children, with anyone who needed to know they were safe.

"I thought you were a monster at first," you continue, your words tumbling out faster now, the moon's pull clearly taking hold. "So big. So tall. You were glowing in the light, and I thought, oh no, I've died and now a sea demon is coming to drag my soul to the depths."

"I was not glowing," Clark protests, but he's smiling.

"You were! You were—" You struggle to sit up, and Clark helps you, his hands firm on your waist as you turn to face him. You straddle his lap, your legs on either side of his hips, your face inches from his. "You were so beautiful. Like a prince from the stories the elders used to tell. The ones who come to rescue princesses from sea witches."

Clark's hands settle on your hips, steadying you as you sway slightly. "You thought I was a prince?"

"I thought you were an angel," you correct, your voice dropping to a whisper. "My angel."

Clark swallows hard. "I'm just a man, sweetheart."

"No," you insist stubbornly, shaking your head. "No, you're not. You're so much more. You're stronger than anyone. You're braver than anyone. You saved me. You saved my life. You gave me a home. You gave me everything." Your voice cracks, and a pearl slips free from your eye, rolling down your cheek.

"I love you so much, Clark. Do you know that? Do you know how much I love you?"

Clark catches the pearl with his thumb, brushing it away. "I know, baby. I know."

You press your forehead to his, your breath mingling with his. "I can't wait to surprise you tonight."

Clark's brow furrows. "Surprise me?"

But you're already moving on, your attention fluttering away like a butterfly. You lean back, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, and start babbling about something else entirely. "The moon is so bright today. I can feel it in my bones. It's singing. Can you hear it? It's singing to me. It sounds like whales. Do you like whales? I love whales. They're so big and gentle, like you—"

"Love," Clark interrupts gently, his hands tightening on your hips. "What did you mean by that? 'Surprise me.'"

You tilt your head, blinking slowly, your eyes unfocused. "Hmm? What did I say?"

"You said you can't wait to surprise me."

Your face splits into a wide, loopy grin. "Oh! Did I say that? I don't know. Sometimes I say things. It's the moon's fault." You nod sagely, as if this explains everything.

Clark's eyes search yours, a flicker of concern mixing with deep affection. He hopes you’re not planning on running away.

Before he can press further, your body does something strange. He feels it. A ripple of energy passes through you, a shiver that travels from your core outwards, and suddenly your eyes are clearing, the dreamy haze sharpening into something else entirely.

"Apex," you breathe, the word barely audible.

Clark glances at the window. The moon has risen high in the sky, a luminous silver disk so large and bright it seems to fill the entire frame. Moonlight streams through the glass, pooling across the floor in a shimmering puddle that edges towards the bed. A beam of pure silver light lands directly across you both, illuminating your face.

And Clark watches as you transform.

You gasp sharply, your hands flying to his chest, and he sees it. Your eyes. The soft color that he fell in love with, that he dreams about, that he's memorized in every detail—they've changed. Your irises have become something otherworldly, a luminescent silver that glows faintly in the moonlight. A shiver runs through you, and when you arch your back, your skin takes on an iridescent sheen, tiny scales catching the light like scattered diamonds along the curve of your spine, your shoulders, your cheeks.

"Clark," you whimper, and your voice is different. More desperate. "Clark. I need you. Oh, I need you."

"Baby—"

"Please. Please, I can't—" You're already moving, grinding down against his lap, and Clark feels the heat of you through both your clothes. "It hurts. It hurts so bad. I need you to help me. I need you inside me."

Clark cups your face, his thumb stroking your glowing cheek. "Slow down, sweetheart. Let's take our time—"

"No!" The word is a sharp sob, and your fingers dig into his shoulders, claws extending just slightly, not to hurt but to hold on. "No slow. No time. Clark, I need you now. Right now. I can't wait. I can't. It's too much."

"Okay, okay baby, let's just ease into it yeah—"

You ignore him, trying to lean down and capture his lips, but he leans back before you can make contact.

You feel your frustrations rise, and try not to let it get to you. Instead, you use your words, your slurred, loopy, words. 

“Did you know that when there's a supermoon, most mermaids enter their mating heat,” you whisper sensually into Clark's ear. 

Clark stiffens. No he did not know that. 

You nod, continuing on, “The supermoon makes it stronger. It makes us just want to fuck, and fuck and fuck. I need you. I need my mate. Please, please, please—"

Clark gasps at your vulgarity. He knows for a fact that you did not learn that word from him and he plans to address your language later.

But right now your hips are moving frantically, your body acting on instinct, and Clark can see the tears starting to stream down your face, each one a perfect pearl that falls onto his chest.

"Please don't deny me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please. I can't take it. I can't. I'll die, Clark. I want my mate."

Clark's jaw tightens. He's seen you desperate before, seen you in the throes of the full moon, but never like this. Never this frantic, this pained, this utterly undone.

He can hear your heart, can feel the fevered heat radiating from your skin, can smell the salt of your tears and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal.

He could try to soothe you. He could hold you, speak to you, try to calm you down. But he remembers what happened the last time he denied you. The wailing. The pearls. The broken sobs that nearly destroyed him.

And the words you just said: I'll die.

There's a chance it's the moon talking, the hysteria of the moment. But there's also a chance it's not. And Clark would never, ever risk that chance.

"Okay," he says softly, his voice like warm honey. "Okay, love. I've got you. I'm going to take care of you."

You sob in relief, your hands immediately going to his shirt, trying to pull it off. "Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, thank you—"

"Easy, sweetheart. Easy." Clark helps you, tugging his shirt off and tossing it aside, then working on yours. Your skin is glowing now, beautiful and ethereal, and when you're finally bare before him, his breath catches. The faint scales have spread further, delicate shimmering patterns along your collarbone, down your ribs, curving around your breasts. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Touch me," you beg, grabbing his hands and pressing them to your chest. "Touch me, Clark. I need you to touch me."

He does. He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you cry out, your back arching, your hips grinding down harder. He kneads the soft flesh gently, watching your face, gauging your reactions. You're oversensitive, he realizes. Every touch makes you jolt and moan.

"Please," you whimper. "More. I need more."

Clark flips you over gently, laying you flat on the bed. The moonlight streams down over your naked body, making you look like a goddess, like something born of starlight and saltwater. You whine at his absence, reaching for him, but he shushes you softly.

"I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere."

He trails his mouth down your body, pressing gentle kisses to your neck, your chest, the soft curve of your belly. You writhe beneath him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you.

"Let me taste you first," he murmurs. "Let me make you feel good."

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes, yes—"

Clark doesn't wait. He lowers his head and licks a broad stripe up your center, and you scream.

The taste of you is different tonight. Saltier. Sweeter. More potent. It’s delicious. 

He moans against you, his tongue diving deeper, lapping at your folds. You're so wet, so incredibly wet, and you're trembling, your whole body shaking beneath his mouth. He can feel your muscles fluttering, your arousal coating his tongue, and he drinks you in like he's been lost in a desert.

"Oh" you pant, tugging at his hair. "Yes, Clark, please—"

He slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. Your legs tighten around his head, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. He works you relentlessly, his tongue flicking over your clit, his fingers thrusting and stroking.

And then you shatter.

You cry out his name, your body seizing, your climax crashing through you. He feels you pulse around his fingers, feels the gush of liquid that floods his mouth—sweet and salty and so much of it. He drinks it down, moaning, his eyes closing as he savors every drop.

God you’ve never tasted this good before.

"Clark," you sob, still trembling.

He rises up over you, shedding his remaining clothes in a hurry. His cock is achingly hard, leaking precum, and when he sees the desperate, pleading look in your glowing eyes, he knows he can't wait any longer either.

"I'm going to give you what you need, baby," he says, his voice low and thick with desire. "I'm going to take care of you."

"Please," you whimper, spreading your legs wider. "Please, Clark. I'm ready. I'm so ready. I need to feel you inside me. I need my mate to breed me."

The words hit him like a freight train. He stares down at you stopping his movements, his heart hammering. "B-breed you?"

"Yes," you nod eagerly, glad that he’s understanding. "It’s a supermoon, Clark. The best time to make babies. Don’t you want me to have your babies?”

Clark inhales shakily. He knows that he has to be especially careful with his words to you right now. The wrong words could set you off completely. 

But this is so new. You’ve never discussed children before, gosh, he didn’t even know if it was possible for a mermaid and kryptonian to have kids.

There's a deep, primal part of him that roars to life at your words, a part he's always kept carefully controlled. But he pushes it down, forcing himself to stay gentle, to stay present, for you.

Besides, the longer he contemplated, the more squirmy you got underneath him. He decides not to overthink it, for both of your sakes. You’ll cross that bridge if when you get there.

“Oh, of course I do, love. I’d want nothing more. You’d be the most beautiful mama,” Clark agrees, finding that the words are more truthful than he’d like to admit right now.

You light up at his words, clearly turned on even more by his agreement, evident by the wetness seeping from your core. You reach up to cup his face, nodding quickly. "Please fill me up."

Clark doesn't need to hear more. He lines himself up, presses the tip of his cock to your entrance, and slides inside you.

You both gasp. You're so tight, so warm, so welcoming. He sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, watching your face as he takes you. Your mouth falls open, your eyes rolling back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

"Gosh" you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back. "More, Clark. Give me all of you."

He does. He sinks to the hilt, buried deep inside you, and you both stay there for a moment, breathing heavily. You're clutching at him, your claws digging into his back, but he doesn't feel the pain. He feels your pulse, feels the rhythmic flutter of your walls around him, feels the moonlight on his skin.

"Oh," you breathe, your voice trembling. "Oh, it's so good. It's so good, Clark. You feel so good inside me. So big. So perfect."

"Yes baby," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel amazing. So wet for me. You’re dripping."

"I'm always wet for you," you pant, your hips starting to move. "Always. I'm always ready for you. I need you inside me. Always—"

Clark begins to move, slow and deep, thrusting into you with measured strokes. He wants to go faster, wants to pound into you, wants to satisfy that desperate, primal need he sees in your eyes.

But he also wants to savor this. To be gentle. To remind you that you're safe, that you're loved especially during this vulnerable time.

But you have other ideas.

"Harder," you beg, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "I need it harder, Clark. Faster. Please. I'm not going to break."

Clark obeys. He starts to thrust in earnest, his pace quickening, the bed creaking beneath you. You cry out, your head thrown back, your body arching into his. He drives into you deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you shatter again.

This time, you don't just tremble. You convulse, your walls clenching around him so tightly it almost hurts. 

And you gush. A torrent of liquid floods around his cock, soaking the sheets, soaking him. He moans loudly, thrusting through it, and he feels your liquid hit his chin, his chest, dripping down his stomach.

"Water," he breathes, suddenly understanding. "All that water you've been drinking—"

You smile sheepishly. “Surprise.”

“Oh love,” Clark groans, his cock hardening and twitching inside of you.

"Taste it,” you insist. “I made it just for you.”

Clark stares down at you, his heart pounding. Your eyes are glowing, your body shimmering, and you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He can't help himself. He lowers his head and starts licking the liquid off your skin, moaning at the taste. Sweet. Salty. Perfect.

"Oh my" you gasp, watching him. "Clark—"

"It tastes so good," he murmurs against your skin, his tongue lapping at the curve of your breast. "So good, baby. Thank you. I want more. I need more."

"Yes," you sob. "Make me come again. Make me come again and I’ll give you more. Every drop."

Clark obliges. Anything to get another taste of the sweet liquid you make.

He positions you on your hands and knees, the moonlight streaming down onto your back, illuminating the faint scales that shimmer along your spine. He slides back inside you, deeper now, reaching parts of you he couldn't before. You cry out, your body shaking, and he begins to thrust again, faster this time, his rhythm a little more desperate, snapping against you.

"You're so beautiful," he groans, his hands gripping your hips. "So perfect, baby. So perfect. I love you so much."

"I love you too," you sob, pushing back against him. "I love you so much. I'm so close—"

Clark drives into you, hard and deep, and you climax with a scream. You gush around him, flooding his cock, soaking him, but he doesn't stop yet. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release. He can feel it building, a pressure in his core, a white-hot heat that's almost too much.

"Fill me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Fill me up, please. I want it."

"Gosh baby—"

"Come inside me," you urge, your walls clenching around him. "Come in me, Clark. Fill me up. Make me yours. I want to feel you. I want to taste you. Please—"

That's all it takes. Clark groans, his hips stuttering, and he comes. He pours into you, thick and hot, filling you to the brim. You gasp, feeling it, and the euphoria is so strong you start crying in pleasure, more pearls falling from your eyes as you shake and tremble beneath him.

Clark holds you steady, riding out his orgasm, and when it's over, he collapses behind you pushing apart your legs and drinking up every last drop of your shared juices. 

He can’t get enough, the taste so addicting, he’s almost upset you’ve never squirted for him before.

"I love you," you whisper, your voice small and exhausted. "I love you so much, Clark."

"I love you too," he murmurs in between laps of your sopping cunt, "More than anything."

The night goes on just like that.

Clark loses track of time. He loses track of everything except you and your divine taste.

You're insatiable. Every time he thinks you're satisfied, your hands find him again, your mouth finds his, your body presses against his. He fucks you in every position—on your back, on your knees, on your side, in his lap, against the wall. He makes you come until you're hoarse, until your voice is gone, until you're shaking so hard you can't hold yourself up. He drinks every single gush of liquid that you produce, licking it from your skin, from his skin, from the soaked sheets.

And each time, you beg for him to do it again.

"More," you pant, straddling him, bouncing on his cock. "I know you want more Clark. Come, I’ll give you more—"

He comes inside you again and again, his seed mixing with your arousal, your liquid, your tears. You release again and again and again as well, leaving everything soaked. The bed, the floor, the walls. Everything is wet, glistening, and beautiful.

Clark's tongue finds you again. He's on his stomach between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs, his mouth buried in your folds. You're crying, trembling, your fingers tangled in his hair as he works you with his tongue and fingers.

"Clark," you sob, your hips bucking. You felt that this was it, all that you had left to give to him "Clark, I'm—"

You gush against his mouth one final time, letting go of the most release, and Clark drinks it all, moaning like he's tasting the finest nectar, not wasting a single drop. He doesn't stop until you're limp beneath him, your body finally still.

"Just one more" you whisper, barely audible. "Please—"

He doesn't need to be asked twice. He slides back into you, fills you, makes love to you one last time. He comes inside you, and you come with him, your body clenching around him, milking every last drop.

When it's finally over, you're both completely exhausted. Clark holds you in his arms, your back against his chest, your body tucked into his. The moonlight has started to fade, the apex passed, and your eyes are slowly returning to their soft brown.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs, kissing your hair.

"I'm perfect," you whisper. "That was... that was incredible."

"Was it what you needed?"

You turn in his arms, your eyes meeting his. There's something soft and vulnerable in your gaze. "Everything I needed. And more."

Clark smiles, pulling you closer, cuddling you to his chest. "Good."

You rest your eyes, feeling the moon’s effects finally easing down.

“Love?” Clark starts, and you have a feeling you know what he’s going to ask.

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t you…uh, you’ve nev—never done that before. You know…” He trails off not wanting to voice the actual words out loud.

You grin, hiding your face, “It only happens on supermoons. The energy just makes it easier for us.”

“Oh, I see.”

You turn around, crawling to lay on top of him, face to face, your voice dropping back into that seductive tone, “And we know that men like you get wayyy too obsessed with our taste.”

Clark simply hums in agreement. You were right, he was already obsessed and addicted, itching for more, as if he hadn't gotten enough already.

You continue, “So it’s better that it only happens rarely. Makes us less likely to get used for it.”

Clark's brow furrows, a flicker of hurt passing through his eyes. He cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I would never—"

"I know," you interrupt softly, pressing a finger to his lips. "I know you wouldn't. But there are others who would." Your voice drops, a shadow of old pain flickering across your features. "That's why I was so scared when I first met you. I thought you were like them. I thought you wanted me for... what I could give you."

Clark's arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against your hair. "I'm sorry anyone ever made you feel that way."

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his chest. "You don't have to be sorry. You're the one who showed me it could be different. You're the one who showed me what love really is." You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, a sleepy smile on your lips. 

"And now you're the only one who gets to taste me. Ever. Got it?"

Clark laughs softly, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Got it."

"Good." You settle back against him, your ear pressed to his heart. "I'm exhausted."

Clark hums in agreement, his hand finding its way to your hair, stroking gently. "Sleep, love. I've got you."

The next morning, Clark wakes up to you sleeping peacefully beside him, your hand resting on your belly. The sheets are in tatters. The room smells like salt and sex and love.

However, her current circumstances almost required her to isolate herself… Well not really, but it was if she wanted to avoid certain … reactions. 

y/n wanted to have a fun day. She just hadn’t thought too much about the repercussions. So now, here she was, locked in her room, laying on her bed. 

High as balls. 

The edible had kicked in about 10 minutes prior. It had taken her until then to become paranoid enough to realize the issue. Her housemates. Her housemate. her best friend, Bob.

She knew where her other housemates stood with alcohol, drugs, that stuff. Multiple of them couldn't even get drunk or high or otherwise affected by fun things. Like how the super soldiers had their enhanced metabolisms. Excluding Alexei, she didn’t quite understand how that worked but she had seen him drunk… quite a bit. 

As for Ava and Yelena, she was sure they could get inebriated. But she had never been there to witness it. Which was odd considering how long she had been around them….

And then there was Bob. She had no clue what Bob could or could not do. He had done a great job of staying away from any types of drugs or alcohol since he awakened in the vault. And she was proud of him, she really was.

He seemed so much happier than he was before. Well she didn’t know him before, but she guessed he probably wasn’t doing all that good. As of the moment, he still had a few issues to work through in therapy but he was better!

As one of his closest friends, he had confided in her about his past troubles: the childhood abuse, the car crash, the varied mental illness, the addiction. Why she had not thought of that last one when she was buying the edibles, thinking about taking them, and finally actually taking not 1 but 2. She didn’t know. 

Put simply, he could not see her right now. She wasn’t sure how he felt about marijuana, weed, edibles. But she was not going to be the reason he had a bad week, because it wouldn’t just be a bad day. Even she couldn’t pull him out of his lows. 

So she had resigned herself to staying cooped up in her room until she was sober. 

The problem? She was hungry, like really hungry. The kind of hunger that only manifests itself when you are high as balls. Like she was. 

‘Do I take a chance? Sneak in the kitchen as stealthy as a ninja? Not even turn the lights on. … no, I probably shouldn’t.’

It didn’t take long for her to find herself in the kitchen. Just as she had said she shouldn’t do. She was shuffling through the fridge, pushing different foods in different containers to each side. She knew she had some pasta left over! And she could dust it with a sprinkling (a shit ton) of shaky cheese. 

Just as she had laid her eyes upon it, sitting in the back corner of the fridge behind a see-through container holding a slab of meat, the light turned on. 

“Wha– y/n? What are you doing in the dark?” It was exactly the person she didn’t want to see. She froze. 

‘It's okay, I can do this. I can pretend to be sober.’ She thought. 

She turned to him. “Hi… Bob um…how are you doing?”

He didn’t even blink. “I’m good.” He moved towards the fridge. “Did you see a thing of soup in there? I can’t remember if I ate the last bit of that.” 

He stepped up standing next to her. “Um… no, I- I don’t think I did.”

“Aw, that was my last pre-made dinner option,” he pouted, beginning to look in the fridge. 

She let out a small laugh. He just looked at her in confusion for a second before turning back to the fridge. “I’m not sure what else there is to eat.” He shook his head in thought. “I mean I could make pasta, maybe ramen too if we have any of that.” 

She took a step back, and allowed him the full space to rummage around. Pulling her thoughts from the situation at hand, she thought of the food they had in the pantry.

There was pasta, ramen, mac n cheese, that pasta salad stuff Yelena enjoyed so much. Nothing sounded that enjoyable to her right now. Not that it was for her. She was going to eat her pasta with red sauce and just a sprinkle of cheese. 

“You could make yourself a sandwich.” She suggested, pressing her lips together in thought. Holding back a lot of inner dialogue. 

“Hmm I don’t know. Maybe grilled cheese? I doubt we have any sliced meat,” her eyes stayed fixated on him and his to the fridge. 

His eyes lit up. “Yes here it is. My soup!”

Proudly holding his soup out at her. It took her a moment to react. “Oh yay.” She thought he looked like an animal crossing character after they caught a fish. 

That made her laugh a bit again. This time he actually looked at her. “What's so funny?” His voice was genuine. 

She smiled at him. “Nothing, no– I’m just happy for you.” She gestured towards his hands. “You found the soup.” 

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “I’m happy I still had that, I didn’t know what else I was going to eat.” 

“Do we need to go grocery shopping?” she asked. 

He nodded again with a slight frown on his face. “Probaly, sorry.” 

She found herself fixated on how he squeezed his eyes shut for just a second, almost cringing at being the reason other people had to do something. “No worries, I was running low on bread.” 

The smile quickly came back to his face. “Oh, in that case, I should start a list!” he said, turning to grab a piece of paper.

She didn’t laugh that time. But she smiled. She was glad he was turned away. 

“Well,” she started. She had to get out of there. He was going to notice. “I just ate. So I'm gonna head back to my room.” She glanced out the door. ’I’m pretty tired.”

The frown was back on his face. “But I thought.” He looked at the sink. There weren’t any dishes in it. y/n wasn’t the type to clean them and put them away immediately. Especially when she was tired. 

He looked back at her questioningly. She just smiled at him. Taking a step towards the exit. “Oh.” He turned to pour his soup in a bowl. Then glanced back at her. ‘What about dessert?” 

She paused. She actually hadn’t even eaten dinner. She shouldn't have dessert. And she needed to get away from him.

“I make a mean mug cake,” he smiled at her. At that moment, her stomach growled. He let out a gentle laugh. 

The microwave beeped. “Soup!” Bob cheered. She giggled. He was too invested in his soup to notice. 

They stood in silence for a second, Bob blowing on his soup to cool it down. “So?” 

“What?”

“Mug cake.” 

“Oh, that.” He gave her a look. 

She wanted to refuse. But he looked at her so softly. “Sure.” She thought he was already happy but somehow he lit up. 

“Great! I can make that while my soup cools. It doesn’t take long.”

He walked over to the pantry and started to take out the ingredients. “Flour, sugar, cocoa powder…” he muttered quietly. ‘Wait, where’d we put the vanilla extract?”

“Oh I think it's in the cupboard above the fridge.” He looked at her confused.

“Why would it be there?” 

She thought for a moment, “cause Walker’s an idiot.” Bob chuckled.

It took only a few minutes for Bob to gather all the ingredients. And even less time for him to mix them together. He quickly was placing it in the microwave and setting the timer. 

“Okay 1 minute. You think you can stay awake that long?” He joked.

She nodded, her eyes following the mug through the glass as it spun in a circle. 

Bob kept his gaze on her. Watching how her eyes stayed focused as the clock counted down to zero and how she rubbed her face with her hand like she was trying to wake herself up. 

“Long day?”

She looked at him. “Huh”.

“Did you have a long day? You said you were tired.” 

“Yeah. Tired, I’m tired.” She repeated. 

His gaze remained on her. Then he nodded. Seconds later, the time beeped.  

He quickly opened the microwave door and grabbed the mug by the handle, turning towards her. “Here, but you should let it cool before you eat it.” He glanced down at the freezer. “I think we have some ice cream if you want some of that.”

Ice cream sounded good. And she knew for a fact that they had that silky vanilla ice cream that made her mouth water. 

“Ice cream” she said, nodding in affirmation. 

He made a move towards the fridge just as she did. “It’s okay I can get it, I’m closer.”

“Okay.” She nodded again. 

She was making a mistake. It was a tasty mistake, but it was still a mistake. 

“Here you go.” Bob placed the ice cream on the table in front of her. Then turned to fish through the cutlery to grab a sharper than usual spoon. He knew what ice cream she liked and what she liked to eat it with. Wasn’t he perfect? 

“y/n?” His words interrupted her thoughts. 

“Huh?” 

“You’re staring.” 

“Oh. My bad.” She grabbed the ice cream. Digging out a good sized chunk and dropping it in the mug with the mug cake. Placing the ice cream on the counter, she watched Bob take it and put it back into the freezer. “Well, I should probably go.” 

“What why?” He questioned. “You can’t sleep while you're eating. Might as well talk to me.”

She internally groaned. ‘“Yeah but I might fall asleep.”

He just smiled. “I wouldn’t mind.” Of course he wouldn’t. And he’d probably put her mug cake in the fridge so she could eat it later. A saint he was. 

“Well I guess… if you want me around so badly.” She attempted to tease. 

“I do.” Bob stated. “Want you around, I mean. You’re good company.” 

Her cheeks grew red. He had told her he was learning to say how he felt more often. Something his therapist had recommended to him. When he first told her that, she was happy for him, overjoyed that therapy seemed to be helping. But now? She hated his therapist with a burning passion. How dare you get him to say such nice things? She didn’t think she could take it, not usually and definitely not now. 

“You keep spacing out.” He was now standing in front of her. “Are you alright?” 

She didn’t know what to say so she kept quiet, staring at him. He stared back at her, the worry on his face growing with every second that passed. She averted her eyes, beginning to pick at her undeserved dessert. 

“You aren’t sick are you? Don’t tell me you caught that cold Alexei had.” He placed his palm on her forehead. She leaned into it. “Hmm. You’re not warm.”

“I’m not sick,” she finally voiced. He kept his gaze locked on her. 

“Then what’s wrong? You’re not acting like yourself.”

God dammit. Of course he would notice. She stood no chance against him, him and his mighty observation skills. “Bob.” 

“Yeah?” She pouted. He narrowed his eyes. 

“You know I love you, right?” That caught him off guard. 

“I- what, of course. I love you too.” The words sounded nice coming from him. He loves me, she thought. How lucky I am. 

“I may or may not have made a mistake,” she mumbled. He stared at her. “But I don’t want to tell you because it might upset you.” 

He looked confused, very confused. “What? Did you watch that one documentary you said we should watch together? You know that's okay. We can still watch it again.” He gently tried to soothe her.

“No that's not it.” she looked down at her sock clad feet. They were little kitty cats, with their little butts out. Bob had gotten them for her. She cherished them. She smiled. 

“y/n!” he called. 

“Shit!” She jumped. 

“You’re really starting to worry me. If something is wrong please tell me.” 

“Okay…” She had to give in. The sad way he was looking at her like she was hurting and he couldn’t help her. She’d do anything to make him smile.

She pushed her lips together. And tapped her pointer fingers against each other. “How… How do you feel about edibles?” she started. 

He paused. Oh god, she had done it now hadn’t she. She should have just kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to hurt him but not telling him was hurting him so she had to tell him. But now look where she had landed herself–

“Nothing particular,” he said. The words took a second to settle in. 

She gaped at him. “You sure?” He looked at her for a long moment.

"...Is that what's going on?" He let out a laugh. "I was wondering why you kept spacing out."

“This isn’t like a problem or anything?” she asked, playing with her fingers. 

“No.” He tilted his head. “You were worried about me… knowing?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know how you felt about this stuff and I realized that after I had already taken the edibles so there was no going back,” she rambled. “And then–” 

“Hey.” He interrupted her. “I said it's fine. I appreciate you thinking about me." He paused. “But… you don't have to hide from me. I can handle it.”

“Oh I'm so glad,” she said, and wrapped her arms around him. “I was really worried about where this conversation was going to go.”

He let himself melt into the hug. “Yeah and I was really worried that something was wrong.” He pulled away for a second to flick her on the forehead. “That’s for scaring me.”

“Sorry.” She thought for a second. “So it’s okay for me to be around you right now?”

“Yes,” he stated confidently. 

“Great. You wanna watch that documentary I suggested,” she said, the smile reappearing on her face. “I bet it’ll be fun as shit for me right now.” 

“Sure. But you have to get something to eat first. And no I don't mean the mug cake.” He took it from her hands and placed it on the counter. “That can wait a little while.”

She whined. “But but–” 

“No buts, I know you didn’t eat real food. You absolutely would not have cleaned your dish while high.” She huffed and nodded. 

Well at least she gets to have the pasta with shaky cheese now. That was a relief. The mug cake was not going to be enough for her in her current state. 

After heating up her pasta, and covering it in red sauce and a thick layer of parmesan cheese, y/n found herself on the couch beside Bob. He was in the process of pulling up that documentary she’d suggested. 

She took a deep breath and melted into the couch. Her favorite blankets surrounded her, her favorite person sat right next to her, and she was high as balls. 

The kind that sat in the kitchen after midnight. The kind that waited in the hallway outside your room.

The kind that lived inside the empty chair at briefings, inside the untouched mug in the cabinet, inside the gaps between jokes no one knew how to make anymore because you had been the one brave enough, stupid enough, necessary enough to say them.

John stood in front of the counter with both hands braced on the edge, staring at your mug like it had personally betrayed him.

White ceramic, a chipped handle, a faded little cartoon ghost on the front because you had bought it in October and decided it was "seasonally immortal."

He had told you that was not a thing. You had told him he lacked vision.

He would have given anything to hear you say something ridiculous again.

The mug sat there because nobody wanted to move it. Nobody wanted to admit that some objects became holy after someone died. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.

John reached for it, then stopped before his fingers could touch the handle. His chest tightened.

Coward.

The word came easily now. It had made a home in him.

Coward.

Because you had told him to wait. Because he hadn't listened. Because he had made the call. Because if he had not pushed through that door, if he had not been so sure, so damn certain that speed mattered more than caution, you would still be there.

You would still be leaning against the counter, drinking coffee you claimed tasted better from his mug because "emotional theft enhances flavor."

You would still be rolling your eyes at him.

Still be alive, still be his favorite problem.

John closed his eyes.

The mission came back whole, it always did.

The rain. The smoke. The red emergency lights flickering through the corridor. The compound walls sweating with heat from the charges buried somewhere deep inside the facility.

Your voice in his ear. "Walker, hold position."

He remembered gritting his teeth.

The intel had been bad. Worse than bad. Hostages moved. Enemy numbers doubled. The west corridor compromised. The extraction windows narrowing by the second.

He remembered hating the waiting. "Say again," he snapped.

"I said hold position," you repeated. "The west side is rigged. I saw trip lines near the stairwell. We need to reroute."

"There's no time."

"There's always time to not get blown up, John."

John... Not Walker, not Captain, John.

That should have stopped him.

But all he could think about was the hostage feed. The crying. The gunmen moving kids from one room to another. The seconds bleeding out while he stood there doing nothing.

"They're relocating the hostages," he said. "We push now."

"No," you said, sharp enough to cut through the static. "You don't know what's past that door."

"I know enough."

A pause.

Then your voice, quieter. "John, listen to me."

He heard you, that was the worst part. He heard you, and he ignored you. "On me," he ordered.

You cursed so viciously that even in the middle of a mission, he almost smiled.

Then he kicked the door in. The next few seconds became light.

White, orange, a sound so huge it became nothing at all.

John remembered being thrown backward. He remembered his shoulder slamming into concrete. He remembered the ringing in his ears, the taste of blood, the blur of smoke filling the corridor like something alive.

And then he remembered you.

Not beside him, not behind him. Ahead.

Because you had moved. Because you had seen what he hadn't.

Because while he was charging forward with all that stupid, righteous certainty, you crossed into the blast path and shoved one of the hostages away from the trip line.

A little girl with pink jacket, pigtails. Screaming without sound because John's hearing had gone wrong.

You saved her, of course you saved her. You were a pain in the ass like that. Always making the impossible choice and then acting like anyone else would have done the same.

John crawled toward you through smoke and debris, one arm dragging uselessly, shield scraping over shattered concrete.

He found blood first, too much of it. Then your glove. Then your hand.

"Hey," he rasped.

Your fingers twitched once.

"Hey, no. No, no, don't do that. Don't you dare."

Your head turned slightly.

There was dust in your lashes. Blood at your hairline. Your suit torn open at your side where shrapnel had punched through armor and found flesh.

But your eyes found him, they always did.

Then the ceiling collapsed.

That was where the memory always became unbearable.

The second explosion hit before the medics could reach you. Before John could lift you. Before anyone could drag you clear.

The world buckled.

Smoke swallowed the corridor.

Bucky's metal arm locked around John's chest from behind and yanked him back with brutal force.

John fought him.

He screamed your name until his throat tore raw. He saw one last glimpse of you through the smoke.

Your hand, your face, your mouth moving.

Then nothing.

No body, no signal, no heartbeat.

Nothing but fire, rubble, and the horrible certainty that he had watched the world take you from him.

The recovery team searched for hours, then days.

They found pieces of your gear. A cracked comm, blood on concrete, part of your jacket burned black at the edge.

But not you.

Eventually, the official report changed from missing to presumed dead.

Presumed.

John hated that word.

It was too soft. Too bureaucratic, too cowardly.

It let people say dead without choking on it. It let them fold a flag and give speeches and say brave things while refusing to admit that there had been nothing left to bring home.

So they mourned you.

The team held a service.

Bucky spoke. Bob stood silent with his jaw locked. Yelena left halfway through and came back with red eyes and a bottle she never opened. Alexei cried openly and loudly and without shame. Ava did not say anything, but she stayed beside your empty chair long after everyone else left.

John did not speak.

What could he have said?

I loved her. I killed her. I would trade every good thing I have ever done to hear her call me an idiot one more time. None of that belonged at a memorial. So he stood there in a suit that felt like punishment and stared at your photo until his vision blurred.

Now, weeks later, he stood in the kitchen with your mug in front of him and grief sitting heavy in his ribs.

He finally reached for it. His fingers closed around the chipped handle.

For a moment, he just held it. Then his hand shook, the mug slipped. It hit the tile and shattered. The sound cracked through the kitchen like a gunshot.

John froze.

For one wild second, his body waited for you. Waited for your voice from the hallway.

"Dramatic much?"

Nothing came.

Only the hum of the refrigerator. Only his own breathing, too loud, too uneven.

John sank to the floor before he realized his knees had given out.

The broken pieces surrounded him like wreckage from a smaller explosion.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

The words landed nowhere.

"I'm sorry."

He picked up one shard with trembling fingers. The ceramic bit into his palm, he didn't let go.

Pain was honest. Pain didn't tell him it was time to move on. Pain didn't put a hand on his shoulder and say you would want him to be happy.

People kept saying that. He hated them for it.

Maybe you would want that. Maybe you would call him an emotionally constipated flagpole and tell him to stop haunting the kitchen.

But wanting him happy did not make you less gone.

The elevator opened down the hall.

John didn't move.

Bucky appeared in the doorway a moment later.

For a long while, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, "You're bleeding."

John looked down at his hand. Blood curled between his fingers, bright against the white shard. "Yeah."

Bucky stepped into the kitchen, slow and careful. "She'd be pissed about the mug."

John's throat closed. "Yeah."

"She'd be more pissed that you're using it to cut yourself open."

"I'm not."

Bucky gave him a look.

It was the exact kind of look you used to give him.

Flat, annoyed, unimpressed by his nonsense.

John almost told him to stop. Instead, he looked away.

Bucky crouched and held out his hand.

John gripped the shard tighter. "Don't."

"John."

"I said don't."

Bucky's expression hardened. "You think she'd want this?"

John's head snapped up. "She's not here to want anything."

The words came out vicious, they landed worse.

Bucky said nothing.

John's chest heaved. "She's not here," he repeated, quieter now, like saying it again might finally make it feel real. "Because of me."

Bucky's eyes dropped for a second. Then he took a breath. "You made the wrong call."

John went still.

No one said it like that. Not Yelena, not the officials, not the reports. They called it difficult. Chaotic. A compromised situation. Unreliable intel. Tactical pressure.

Bucky said it plainly.

John almost hated him for it, almost thanked him.

"You made the wrong call," Bucky said again. "But she made the choice after."

John shook his head. "No."

"She saw the kid."

"Because I put us there."

"She moved because that's who she was."

"Stop."

"She saved that girl."

"Stop."

"She loved you."

John broke.

His face twisted, and the sob came out ugly. Torn from somewhere beneath the armor. He folded forward, one bloody hand pressed to the floor, the other still clutching the broken piece of your mug.

"She told me to wait," he choked. "She said my name, Buck. She said John, listen to me, and I didn't. I didn't listen."

Bucky lowered himself to sit across from him on the kitchen floor. For once, he did not try to fix anything. Maybe he knew there was no fixing this.

John stared at the tile through blurred eyes.

"She should be here," he whispered. "She should be here making fun of me for this."

"She would definitely make fun of you for this."

A broken laugh slipped out of John before he could stop it.

It hurt, everything hurt.

Bucky reached out again. This time, John let him take the shard. The moment it left his hand, he felt emptier.

Bucky set it aside and pulled a towel from the counter, wrapping it around John's bleeding palm.

They sat there in silence in the wreckage of your mug.

But you were not dead.

John didn't know that. The team did not know that.

The world had filed you away as a name on a report, a photograph beside a folded flag, a chair no one touched at briefings because grief had made it sacred and cruel.

Presumed dead.

That was what the official report said.

It sounded so clean, so neat, so bloodless.

It didn't say that you had woken up in a hospital three towns over with broken ribs, shrapnel in your side, and no memory of how you got there.

It didn't say that some stranger had found you near a drainage ditch after the explosion threw you farther than anyone thought possible, barely alive beneath rainwater and mud.

It didn't say that you had spent days unconscious under a name that was not yours because your gear had been burned, your comm destroyed, your ID lost somewhere in the rubble John still saw every time he closed his eyes.

It didn't say that when you finally remembered, when the fog in your skull lifted enough to give you one name, you woke up trying to rip an IV from your arm.

John.

The nurses thought you were delirious, you probably were.

Pain made the world strange. Medication made it stranger. Your body had become a map of bruises, stitches, and bandages. Breathing hurt. Laughing hurt. Existing hurt.

But rage?

Rage worked just fine.

Rage got you through the physical therapy. Rage made you grit your teeth when your legs shook beneath you. Rage sat beside your hospital bed every night, wearing John Walker's face and that stubborn, stupid expression he got whenever he thought he was right.

You had told him to hold position. You could still hear your own voice over comms.

"John, listen to me."

And he hadn't. That son of a bitch hadn't.

So when they finally discharged you, when the doctor told you to rest, avoid stress, and absolutely not do anything strenuous, you nodded with the calm, sweet expression of a woman planning a felony.

Then you signed the paperwork, walked out of the hospital in borrowed clothes, and took the first cab to the tower.

Every mile made your ribs ache. Every bump in the road sent pain flickering through your side.

You ignored all of it.

By the time the tower came into view, tall and silver against the bruised evening sky, your hands were clenched so tightly in your lap that your nails had left crescent moons in your palms.

You were going to yell at him, that was the plan.

You were going to march right into John Walker's room and tell him exactly what you thought of his reckless, arrogant, hero-complex nonsense. You were going to call him every name you had saved up in the hospital. You were going to make sure the next time he heard your voice in his ear telling him to wait, it echoed so loud through his thick skull that he obeyed out of pure survival instinct.

You limped through the front entrance with your jaw set.

The security system chirped once.

Then went silent.

The elevator opened. You stepped inside and pressed the button to John Walker's floor.

You leaned against the elevator wall as it rose, one hand pressed to your ribs. The reflection in the doors looked awful. Pale. Tired. Too thin. A bruise still yellowing along your cheekbone. Hair pulled back messily because lifting your arms too high hurt.

You looked like a ghost. Good, let him be haunted properly.

The doors opened. You walked straight down the hall.

You didn't stop when you passed the common room. Didn't stop when you heard voices somewhere in the distance. Didn't stop when the hallway cameras shifted to follow you, no doubt sending alerts to every tablet and phone in the building.

Let them panic, you had one destination.

John's door was closed.

You didn't knock, you shoved it open.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed.

For a second, neither of you moved.

John looked worse than you expected.

That was the first thing that hit you, sharp enough to cut through your anger.

He looked hollow.

His hair was a mess, like he had spent too many nights dragging his hands through it. His shirt was wrinkled. His jaw dark with stubble. There were shadows beneath his eyes so deep they looked carved in.

He was holding something in his hand.

A piece of ceramic. White, chipped, familiar... your mug, your stupid ghost mug.

John stared at you.

The ceramic slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.

He didn't blink, didn't breathe.

His face emptied first, then shattered.

You lifted one finger, ready to begin the speech you had rehearsed for weeks. "You," you said, voice rough, "absolute idiot."

John stood too fast.

For one terrible second, he only stared at you like his mind refused to believe what his eyes were seeing.

Then his mouth moved but no sound came out.

You took one limping step into the room. "That's right. I'm alive. Barely, no thanks to you, because when I say hold position, Walker, I usually mean it for a reason, you reckless, flag-wearing disaster of a man."

He still didn't speak.

Your throat tightened despite yourself. "Do you have any idea how pissed I am at you?"

John made a broken sound.

Not a word, not your name, just pain.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The anger inside you faltered.

John Walker, proud, stubborn John Walker, sank to the floor in front of you like his body had simply given up holding the weight of him.

His arms wrapped around your waist carefully at first, then tighter when you didn't vanish. He buried his face against your stomach, low enough to avoid your bandaged ribs, and clung to you like the world had opened beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he choked.

Your breath caught. "John."

"I'm sorry." His voice broke completely. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The words spilled out of him, frantic and ragged, each one pressed into you like a bruise. His shoulders shook. His hands fisted in the back of your borrowed shirt like he was terrified someone would come drag you away again.

You forgot every insult. Every speech. Every sharp, furious thing you had carried all the way there. Because John was on his knees in front of you, crying like something inside him had finally split open.

You lifted your hands, unsteady at first, then slid them into his hair. "Hey," you whispered.

He shook his head against you. "I killed you."

"No."

"I did. I made the call. You told me not to and I did it anyway."

"John."

"I watched you disappear. I watched that ceiling come down and I couldn't get to you. I couldn't get to you." His grip tightened. "I looked for you."

The words were small. Destroyed.

"I know."

"No, I looked. I kept looking. They told me there was nothing left, but I kept looking."

Something inside your chest twisted so hard it nearly stole your breath. You stroked his hair with trembling fingers. "I know."

"I'm sorry."

"You already said that."

"I'll keep saying it."

"Of course you will. You're dramatic."

A sound punched out of him, half sob, half laugh.

You smiled despite the ache in your face. "There he is," you whispered.

John lifted his head then. His eyes were red, wrecked. He looked at you like looking hurt. Like you were too much miracle for one body to survive. His hands moved from your waist to your hips, then back again, careful, reverent, afraid. "You're real," he said.

You swallowed. "Unfortunately for you, yes."

His laugh broke again, then his face crumpled. He pressed his forehead gently against your stomach. "I thought I lost you."

You closed your eyes. "I know."

"You were gone."

"I was not gone."

"You were gone to me."

That landed.

Your fingers stilled in his hair.

The anger had gotten you here. It had kept your spine straight. It had given you a purpose sharp enough to cut through the pain.

But this?

This ruined you.

John had buried you without a body. He had mourned a ghost with your face. He had lived in a world where your last words to him were swallowed by smoke and blood.

You bent slowly, wincing as your ribs protested, and cupped his face between your hands. "Look at me."

He did.

You brushed your thumbs beneath his eyes. "I'm here."

His breath shuddered.

"I'm here," you said again. "I'm hurt. I'm angry. I'm absolutely going to yell at you properly when I can do it without needing pain medication afterward."

A weak, broken smile flickered across his mouth.

"But I'm here, John."

His eyes searched yours, desperate and disbelieving.

Then he said it. Low and raw. Like the words had been dragged from the deepest part of him.

"I love you."

Everything went still. The room, the air, your pulse.

John looked terrified the second it left his mouth, but he didn't take it back.

"I love you," he said again, voice rougher now. "I should have told you before. I should've told you when you were stealing my coffee and making my life hell and acting like you weren't the best thing in it."

Your lips parted. "John."

"I love you," he whispered. "And I'm sorry I made you leave this world thinking I didn't say it."

You stared at him. Then your anger gave out completely.

Not vanished, you were still going to yell later.

When he had slept. When you had slept. When the world stopped swaying beneath you.

But right now, the only thing left was the way he looked at you. Like you were sunrise after weeks underground.

You slid your hands down to his jaw.

"You really are a dumbass," you whisper.

John lets out a broken breath against your hands. "I know."

"I was going to tell you too."

His eyes shut like the words hurt worse than the shrapnel ever did.

Your thumbs brush over his cheeks, damp from tears he has stopped trying to hide.

"I love you, John."

The sound that leaves him is ruined. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Something caught in the wreckage between the two.

He surges up from his knees, careful even in desperation, his hands catching your waist like he is terrified of holding too tight and more terrified of letting go.

His forehead presses to yours. "You're real," he says again, voice shaking.

"Unfortunately for you."

His mouth trembles. "Can I kiss you?"

The question nearly undoes you.

After everything. After the blast. After the hospital. After clawing your way back from a grave everyone else had already mourned.

Now he asks.

You slide your fingers into his hair and tug just enough to make his breath hitch. "John."

His eyes lock on yours.

"Kiss me before I change my mind and start yelling."

He does.

At first, it's barely a kiss.

His mouth touches yours softly, almost fearfully, like he thinks too much pressure might prove you are a dream. He breathes you in. Shivers. Pulls back only far enough to look at you again.

You can see the disbelief still sitting behind his eyes. You can see the guilt too.

Heavy. Rotting. Rooted deep.

You kiss him harder.

That snaps something in him.

John makes a rough sound and pulls you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other settling carefully at your waist, avoiding the bandages beneath your shirt. His mouth opens over yours, hot and desperate, and the first real taste of him sends a sharp, aching need through your whole body.

You have been in hospital beds for weeks.

Touched by doctors. Nurses. Machines. Needles. Cold hands and colder instruments.

This is different.

This is John's hand trembling against your skin. John's mouth moving like prayer and punishment. John, alive and warm and breaking apart because you came back.

You grip his shirt and drag him toward the bed.

He follows immediately, then catches himself.

"Wait," he rasps.

You glare up at him. "If you say my ribs, I swear to God."

"Your ribs."

"John."

"You were discharged from a hospital today."

"And you were discharged from common sense years ago, yet here we are."

A laugh cracks through his grief, raw and startled.

It lights something in your chest.

Then his face softens, and the hunger in his eyes turns careful again. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I know you."

That silences him.

Your fingers loosen in his shirt, smoothing over his chest instead. "I need this," you whisper. "I need you. Not because I'm confused. Not because I'm fragile. Not because I don't know what I'm asking for."

His jaw tightens.

You step closer until your body brushes his.

"I spent weeks feeling like I was stitched together wrong. Like half of me got left in that hallway. I need to feel alive, John. I need to feel like I came back to something."

His eyes shine again. "You came back to me."

Your heart clenches. "Then stop looking at me like I'm already gone."

That lands.

His hands rise slowly to your face. "You're here."

"I'm here."

"You'll tell me if it hurts."

"Everything hurts."

His expression twists.

You catch his wrist. "But not you."

John's eyes drop to your mouth.

The air changes, thickens.

Grief doesn't leave the room. It only moves over, making space for something hotter, something shaking and hungry and alive.

"Tell me to stop," he says, voice low.

"I will."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"Say it."

You swallow. "If I tell you to stop, you stop."

"Immediately."

"Immediately."

His thumb drags along your bottom lip.

"And if I ask you to keep going?"

His eyes darken. "Then I keep going."

Your pulse kicks. "Good."

This time when he kisses you, he doesn't hold back as much.

He still keeps one hand gentle at your side, but the other slides into your hair, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper. His tongue strokes against yours, slow at first, then hungrier when you moan into his mouth.

The sound wrecks him.

You feel it in the way his body jerks against yours. In the way his fingers flex at your waist. In the way he pulls back just enough to curse under his breath.

"I thought I'd never hear that."

You tug him down by the collar. "Then earn another one."

His eyes flash.

There he is. Under all that grief. Under all that guilt, your John. Stubborn. Hungry. Devoted enough to ruin you.

He helps you sit on the edge of the bed, moving like every inch of you matters. Then he kneels again, but this time it doesn't look like collapse.

This time, it looks like worship.

Your breath catches as his hands slide up your thighs.

Slow and careful.

He watches your face the entire time, searching for pain, hesitation, anything that might make him stop.

You give him none.

"John," you whisper.

His hands still. "Tell me."

You look down at him, at the broad shoulders between your knees, at the red-rimmed eyes, at the mouth you have missed so badly you could scream from it.

"Take these off."

His breath leaves him hard. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants and pauses.

You nod.

Only then does he ease them down, careful over your hips, your thighs, your knees, until they fall to the floor.

His gaze drops.

The room goes quiet except for his breathing.

You are not wearing anything underneath. You had not exactly planned this. Or maybe some part of you had.

John's hands tighten on your thighs, not enough to hurt, just enough for you to feel the effort it takes him to stay in control.

"Jesus," he whispers.

Heat blooms low in your stomach. "Still real?"

His eyes lift to yours. "Too real."

He leans in and presses his mouth to the inside of your knee. The kiss is soft. Then another, higher. Another, warmer.

Your fingers twist in the sheets. "John."

"I know," he murmurs.

Another kiss, higher still. "I've got you."

Your breath shudders. "That line is less comforting when you're between my legs."

His mouth curves against your skin. "Good."

Then he kisses the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and slow, and your teasing vanishes.

He takes his time, painfully so.

He kisses up one thigh, then the other, avoiding bruises with a care that almost makes you ache worse. His hands spread you gently for him, thumbs stroking small circles into your skin.

When his mouth finally touches you, your whole body jolts.

He freezes instantly. "Pain?"

You shake your head, breath already uneven. "No."

His eyes hold yours from between your thighs. "Good?"

Your fingers slide into his hair. "Very."

Something in his face loosens. Then his mouth is on you again.

This time, he doesn't stop.

His tongue moves slowly at first, learning you, tasting you, dragging a moan from deep in your throat. The sound seems to feed him. His hands grip your thighs more firmly, keeping you open as he licks through you with a focus that makes your head tip back.

You bite your lip hard.

John notices. "Don't," he says against you, voice rough.

Your eyes flutter open. "What?"

"Don't swallow it." His mouth brushes your inner thigh. "I spent weeks thinking I'd never hear you again. Don't you dare hide from me now."

The words hit low and hot.

You let the next moan spill out.

His eyes go dark.

Then he groans like it does something to him and pulls you closer to his mouth.

Your back arches, then immediately protests. You hiss, and John stops at once, lifting his head.

"Easy," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to steady your hip. "Lean back on your elbows. Slow."

You want to argue but you also want his mouth back, so you obey.

Carefully, you brace yourself against the mattress, and John watches every movement until he's sure you're all right.

"Bossy," you breathe.

His mouth finds your thigh again. "You love it."

"I love you. There's a difference."

He goes still.

For a second, the heat fades into something painfully tender. Then he turns his head and kisses your palm where it rests against his cheek. "I love you," he says.

Before you can answer, his mouth returns to you.

The tenderness doesn't leave. It becomes part of the hunger.

His tongue strokes over your clit with slow, devastating pressure, then dips lower, tasting how wet you are for him. You gasp his name. His fingers dig into your thigh. He does it again, and again, until your legs start to tremble around his shoulders.

"John," you pant.

He hums against you. The vibration makes you curse.

You feel his smile.

"Don't get smug."

He lifts his eyes.

Too late.

Then he slides one hand from your thigh and presses a finger carefully inside you.

Your mouth falls open.

He watches you like you are the only thing left in the world. "Okay?"

You nod quickly.

"Words, sweetheart."

The name rolls through you. "Yes."

His finger moves slowly, curling in a way that makes your grip tighten in his hair. He groans at the pull, eyes fluttering for half a second before he steadies himself and adds his mouth again.

It's too much. Not in the way the hospital was too much. Not in the way pain was too much. This is too much in a way that makes you feel whole.

His mouth on you. His finger inside you. His free hand holding your thigh open while he draws pleasure from your body with the kind of patience he never has anywhere else.

Your orgasm builds slowly, then all at once. A wave cresting too high.

Your breath breaks. "John, I'm close."

He doesn't speed up, doesn't get rougher. He keeps the same steady rhythm, like he knows exactly what you need and refuses to let panic or desperation take it from you.

"That's it," he murmurs against you. "I've got you. Let me feel you."

Your body clenches around his finger. The first pulse of release tears through you so hard your vision blurs.

You cry out, hand fisting in his hair, and John groans like your pleasure hurts him in the best possible way. He keeps his mouth on you through it, softer now, coaxing every last tremor until you push weakly at his shoulder.

"Too much."

He stops immediately.

He kisses your thigh once. Then your hip. Then rests his forehead there, breathing hard.

You look down at him, dazed.

His mouth is wet, his eyes are wrecked. You almost come again just looking at him.

"Come here," you whisper.

He rises carefully, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a way that should not be as obscene as it is.

You catch his shirt. "Off."

For once, he doesn't argue. He pulls it over his head and drops it somewhere behind him.

Your hands go to his chest immediately.

Warm skin, hard muscle, the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Alive.

John bends over you, but keeps his weight off your body, one arm braced beside your head.

You kiss him and taste yourself on his tongue.

He shudders.

You slide your hand down his stomach. His muscles jump beneath your touch.

"You're shaking," you whisper.

"So are you."

"I have an excuse."

His mouth brushes yours. "So do I."

Your fingers reach the waistband of his sweats.

He catches your wrist. Not stopping you, checking.

You look up at him. "I want you."

His face tightens with restraint. "You have me."

"No." You push your hand beneath the fabric and wrap your fingers around him. "I want you like this."

John's head drops forward with a groan.

He is hard and hot in your hand, already leaking at the tip. The sound he makes when your thumb brushes over him sends satisfaction curling through you.

For once, he is the one unraveling. Good, he deserves to suffer a little.

"You were really going to come in here and yell at me?" he asks, voice rough.

"I still am."

His hips twitch into your hand. "While doing this?"

"Multitasking."

A breathless laugh leaves him, it turns into a groan when you stroke him again.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"You missed me."

His eyes snap open, the playfulness disappears. "Yes."

One word raw enough to bruise.

Your hand stills.

John lowers his forehead to yours. "I missed you every second."

Your throat tightens.

His voice drops. "I missed you in the kitchen. In briefings. In the hallway. In bed. I missed you so badly I couldn't breathe."

You kiss him because you cannot survive hearing more.

He kisses you back hard.

Then his sweats are gone, shoved down with impatient hands, and he's there between your thighs, bare and shaking, his cock heavy against your stomach as he holds himself above you.

He looks down at your body.

At the bandages. At the bruises. At the places the mission marked you.

His jaw works.

You catch his face. "Do not leave me alone in this bed because you feel guilty."

His eyes flick to yours.

"You hear me?"

He nods once.

"Use your words, Walker."

His breath shudders. "I hear you."

"Good."

You guide him closer.

He reaches down, wraps a hand around himself, and drags the head of his cock through your wetness. The contact sends a spark through you so sharp your nails dig into his shoulder.

He stops.

You glare. "I swear, if you ask me if I'm okay every three seconds, I'm putting my pants back on."

His mouth twitches. "You're terrifying."

"And alive."

His eyes soften. "And alive."

Then he presses forward slowly. So slowly you almost whine from it.

The stretch steals the breath from your lungs. Your body opens around him inch by inch, tender from injury, sensitive from weeks without touch, aching with need so fierce it borders on pain.

John's arms tremble with the effort of holding still.

"Breathe," he whispers.

You inhale shakily.

He pushes deeper.

Your mouth falls open.

His face twists with pleasure and restraint, forehead dropping to yours as he slides fully inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. There's only the heat of him buried deep, the tremor in your legs, the broken sound of his breathing against your mouth.

"You feel," he starts, then stops.

You clench around him deliberately.

His eyes squeeze shut. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

His hips jerk once.

You gasp.

His hand grips the sheet beside your head. "Don't tease me when I'm trying not to fuck you through the mattress."

Heat floods you. "Well," you whisper, "don't do that. Mattress loses. My ribs lose. Everybody loses."

A strangled laugh leaves him.

You brush your mouth over his.

"But you can move."

His eyes search yours one last time.

You nod.

John pulls back slowly, then pushes in again.

Your eyes flutter shut.

The rhythm he finds is careful at first. Deep. Controlled. His hips rolling into yours with enough pressure to make pleasure pool low in your belly, but not enough to jar your ribs. One hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting it just slightly, changing the angle until he hits a spot that makes you cry out.

"John."

"I know. I know, sweetheart."

He does it again.

Your fingers clutch at his back.

Every thrust sends heat through you. Every breath is him. His skin against yours. His mouth at your jaw. His voice murmuring filthy, tender things into your ear like he cannot decide whether to worship you or lose control completely.

"You're so wet for me," he whispers, voice wrecked. "So warm. God, I thought I lost this. Thought I lost you."

You turn your face into his neck and bite softly at his shoulder.

He groans.

"I'm here."

His hips stutter.

"Say it again."

"I'm here."

Another thrust, deeper.

Your nails score down his back.

"I'm here, John."

His control slips only a little. Enough that the next thrust punches a moan out of you.

He freezes.

You grab his ass and pull him back in. "Don't stop."

His eyes burn down into yours.

You pull him down and kiss him, messy and open and desperate.

The pace changes.

Still careful, still mindful of your body, but hungrier now. He fucks you like he's trying to convince himself with every stroke that you're real. That your pulse is beating under his mouth. That your body is warm beneath him. That the grave he built for you in his head was empty all along.

Pleasure builds again, faster this time.

Your body is already sensitive, clenching around him with every slow drag of his cock. John feels it. His mouth drops to your throat, kissing, panting, whispering your name like he might never run out of ways to say it.

His hand slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit.

You gasp. "John."

"I've got you."

His fingers move in slow circles, matching the rhythm of his hips. Your body tightens around him, pleasure coiling hard and bright.

"I'm close," you whisper.

His forehead presses to yours. "Look at me."

You force your eyes open.

He's right there. Blue eyes dark. Face flushed. Mouth parted. Completely undone.

"I love you," he says.

Your orgasm hits before you can answer.

It rolls through you hot and deep, stealing the sound from your throat before giving it back as a broken cry. Your body clenches around him, pulsing, shaking, dragging him closer to the edge with every wave.

John curses, hips stuttering. "Fuck, sweetheart."

He buries his face in your neck, trying to hold on, trying to make it last, but you wrap your legs around him as much as your body allows and whisper against his ear. "Come for me."

He breaks.

His body goes rigid above yours, then he comes with a rough, helpless groan, thrusting deep once, twice, shuddering hard as he spills inside you. His hand clamps around yours on the sheets, fingers lacing tight, like even now some part of him is afraid you might disappear.

You hold him through it. He trembles against you, breath ragged, face hidden in the curve of your neck.

For a long moment, there's no sound but both of you breathing.

Then John starts to pull away. You tighten your arms around him.

"Don't."

"I'm too heavy."

"You're barely on me."

"Your ribs."

"You are not allowed to say that word again tonight."

He huffs a weak laugh against your skin.

Still, he shifts carefully onto his side, taking you with him so you're tucked against his chest without pressure on your injuries. He stays inside you for another slow, intimate moment, reluctant to leave even that closeness behind.

When he finally slips out, you feel the loss of him immediately.

John reaches for the blanket and pulls it over both of you.

Then he just looks at you, soft, destroyed. His fingers trace the edge of your jaw. "You're really here."

You close your eyes. "If you say that too many times, I'm going to start charging you."

"I'll pay."

"Of course you will. Military pension and poor impulse control."

His smile flickers. Then fades into something tender enough to hurt. "I love you."

You open your eyes again. "I love you too."

His thumb brushes beneath your eye.

You didn't realize you were crying until he touches the tear.

"Hey," he whispers.

"I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar."

"So are you."

His mouth twitches.

You press your palm to his chest, feeling his heart beneath it.

"I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

"I'm yelling tomorrow."

"I know."

"And next time I tell you to hold position?"

His expression sobers. He covers your hand with his. "I hold position."

You study him.

No arrogance now, no defensive edge. Just John, stripped bare by grief and love and the impossible fact of you.

"Good."

He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, soft and lingering.

Outside the room, somewhere down the hall, alarms finally start going off.

Voices rise.

Someone shouts your name.

John tenses.

You groan. "Don't let them in yet."

His arm tightens around you, protective and warm. "No chance."

A fist pounds against the door. Bucky's voice cuts through the wood.

"Walker!"

You sigh against John's chest.

"He sounds upset."

John presses his mouth into your hair. "He can wait."

Another pound.

"Open the damn door!"

You lift your head just enough to call out, voice hoarse, "I'm alive, injured, naked, and deeply annoyed. Come back later."

Silence.

Then Yelena from somewhere behind Bucky.

"I told you she would be mad."

John starts laughing.

Not the broken or hollow kind. Real laughter, warm against your hair, shaking carefully through both of you.

You close your eyes and let the sound settle over you.

Tomorrow, there will be explanations. Tomorrow, there will be yelling, medical checks, tears, questions, and probably Bucky threatening John on principle.

But tonight, John's hand rests over your heartbeat. Tonight, you are sore and exhausted and alive in his bed. Tonight, he knows it.

You came back ready to haunt him. Instead, you came home.